Read The Only Good Priest Online
Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
The Only Good Priest (4 page)
“Not yet,” I said.
We talked about Sebastian's mental state. More serene than ever was the consensus; nothing else different.
“Did he have a lover?” Scott asked.
“He took his commitment to celibacy very seriously,” Bartholomew
said. He joined his hands together. “He always took time to chat with me after each Mass. He visited me each week. I live alone. I don't go out much. But every Wednesday he came and spent a half hour. I appreciated it. He told me he hadn't had a relationship since before he became a priest.” General hesitant nods at this.
said. He joined his hands together. “He always took time to chat with me after each Mass. He visited me each week. I live alone. I don't go out much. But every Wednesday he came and spent a half hour. I appreciated it. He told me he hadn't had a relationship since before he became a priest.” General hesitant nods at this.
“He was gay?” Scott asked.
“Of course,” Neil said.
Prentice spoke up. “I do know he met some guy every Sunday night at Roscoe's. I don't know if he was a lover or not, but I saw them once in the back on the couch looking secretive.”
Roscoe's was one of the more popular gay bars in the city. Beyond seeing them, and drawing a possibly erroneous conclusion about their behavior, Prentice knew no more. It was something to check out later.
Other than these people, Father Sebastian had no close friends in the group. He met with them. Never had a fight with them, or with any member of Faith Chicago. They'd never heard him exchange a harsh word with anyone.
For the last ten minutes, stray group members had begun filling the space near the door, standing uncertainly, occasionally gawking at us.
The rest of our questions earned no further information. A few minutes later, as the others began moving away, I said to Monica, “We'll have to talk to your source in the chancery.”
She looked disconcerted. “I'll try to arrange it, but I don't think he'll agree to see you.”
The board of directors moved to their routines, places, and customs with the gathering crowd. I heard a few whispers of “Isn't that Scott what's-his-name?” as Neil led us down the stairs. We examined the storage closet, sacristy, office. We saw vestments, chalices, prayer books, crosses, and winebottles, all cluttered, jumbled, and cheerless, especially after a week of cops and Christians mucking about.
Back upstairs we grabbed our coats and were ready to leave. I reminded Neil about his wanting to talk privately.
Neil searched our eyes and glanced behind him at the rapidly filling chairs. “Fuck this church shit. Let's get out.”
We walked up Clark to Belmont and over to Ann Sather's Restaurant. Tonight it was a little less crowded than usual, and we managed to find a quiet corner where Scott could be pretty much out of the sight line of possible fans.
When Scott's no-hitters in games five and seven of the World Series brought the championship to Chicago for the first time in decades, it became difficult for him to be in public without being mobbed. We've been forced to leave restaurant meals unfinished because of the adoring hordes. One oddity is that we're more likely to be forced out of exclusive dining spots by obnoxious patrons than from popular neighborhood restaurants.
After we sat down, Neil started to prattle, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“Neil, I'd give up this whole shitload of trouble right now except for Jerry's being involved. I care a great deal about him. Your group did not impress me.”
He began to speak. I stopped him again.
“Do you have any idea of what you're asking?” I repeated the string of possible scenarios, then added. “The guy's a saint. Nobody wants him dead. Everybody's sad he's gone. Priscilla's a creep, but my impression is she'd act like a fool any time and being a fool isn't a sign of murderous intentions. One pretty priest in the suburbs might have his ass in a sling for reasons I can't begin to fathom. It's bullshit.”
“Will you listen to me?” Neil asked indignantly.
I nodded.
“You can't give up. I had suspicions before this about the chancery. Now, this suburban priestâwhat's his name, Clarenceâconfirms it. Something's up. Besides”âfor one of the rare times since I'd known him he looked uncomfortable and evasiveâ“the whole truth hasn't come out.”
We placed our order. I eyed Neil suspiciously. “What truth?” I asked.
“Let me tell this my own way,” he said.
I shrugged.
He began with gossip about the people we'd just met.
“You've heard of Monica Verlaine by reputation, of course. Her wealth and power go far beyond her gay newspapers. She owns real estate galore in this town. She has a stock portfolio that rivals mine.”
Neil's riches started from a nearly bankrupt waste disposal company left to him by a sugar daddy years before, when dark-haired, slender, muscular Neil Spirakos commanded the highest price of any call boy in the city. He'd proved frugal in savings, clever in management, and smart in investment.
I raised an eyebrow about his knowledge. “Monica tells you a lot.”
“No. I have the same accountant. He tells me a great deal. He remembers the old days fondly. I still supply him with cute young things as his need arises.”
Neil explained that Priscilla Kapustaglova worked for Monica as managing editor of her local paper, the
Gay Tribune
. Priscilla kept the file on lesbian and gay political correctness in the city, reaching almost a gurulike status with the easily impressed.
Neil thought Priscilla must have an ambivalent view of Monica. Probably envious of her money, jealous of her power, but so far desperate enough for a job to keep relatively quiet. Seems Priscilla had no newspaper training but only a year of junior college in Nowhere, Iowa.
Gay Tribune
. Priscilla kept the file on lesbian and gay political correctness in the city, reaching almost a gurulike status with the easily impressed.
Neil thought Priscilla must have an ambivalent view of Monica. Probably envious of her money, jealous of her power, but so far desperate enough for a job to keep relatively quiet. Seems Priscilla had no newspaper training but only a year of junior college in Nowhere, Iowa.
“That was a fairly pussy-cat performance for Priscilla earlier,” Neil said.
“Why elect her head of Faith?” I asked.
“The woman can organize efficiently with a minimum of bullshit. She'll work harder than any ten people.”
I nodded that I understood. I'd worked with far too many gay organizations with the same problem. Two of the fatal flaws of many of these groups were total inefficiency and a tolerance for useless bullshit unrivaled by any but the largest cattle herd on earth. After the passage of the gay civil rights bill in Chicago, I decided it wasn't worth putting up with all the bullshit, so I became less active.
Priscilla had worked for Monica for two years. A number of years before that, Priscilla had shaved her head in protest over lesbians being excluded from power positions in Chicago's gay community. Now there was Monica in what Neil suspected in a position that Priscilla thought was hers by right. Priscilla had struggled for gay and lesbian rights in Chicago from the day she arrived from Iowa fifteen years before. Monica established headquarters here two years ago and coopted all power and attention. At first Priscilla jumped on the bandwagon, thinking that lesbian power had arrived. Unwilling to admit she'd confused satisfying her ego with attaining power, and facing thirty, never having held a job longer than five months, she now rattled about the
Gay Tribune
office, monitoring whatever it was that politically correct people waste their time monitoring. Neil said Priscilla had been involved in a failed lesbian newspaper just before Monica stepped in with her money. He suspected a bailout or buy-out. He'd heard rumors of personal and corporate bankruptcy on Priscilla's part.
Gay Tribune
office, monitoring whatever it was that politically correct people waste their time monitoring. Neil said Priscilla had been involved in a failed lesbian newspaper just before Monica stepped in with her money. He suspected a bailout or buy-out. He'd heard rumors of personal and corporate bankruptcy on Priscilla's part.
Neil said, “She's mixed up in that group, Lesbian Radicals from Hell.”
“That can't be their real name,” I said.
“No. It's the usual officious crap of humorless radicals. Maybe it's Lesbians for Freedom in the Face of Oppression by Evil Non-Women. Who remembers?”
Neil began dunking one of the cinnamon rolls in his coffee. He took a bite, then continued. “I hate her. I knew Priscilla had another meeting today. It should have gone on until we were done. I hoped she wouldn't show up at all. Her performance today was really rather mild. Of course, Monica does step in, but that doesn't always work.”
Neil seemed somewhat in awe of Monica, although I suspected this might be simply envy at her riches. According to Neil, both women had liked Father Sebastian. Priscilla viewed him as the closest thing to a politically correct male she knew, and it tickled her fancy to find him in the paternal Roman Catholic Church. And the priest had responded to Monica's dignity. Neil guessed they shared an upper-class background. He couldn't picture either woman with the slightest motive for murdering Sebastian.
Father Larkin constantly worried that his work with the Faith group would get him in trouble with the Cardinal. After the Cardinal threw the Faith group out of the Catholic Church, they usually had had to go outside the diocese to get priests to serve the community. Sebastian stuck with the group and didn't worry about it. They'd imported Larkin from Milwaukee; Neil often wished he'd go back and stay there. The man pontificated at the drop of a moral issue. He thought Sebastian had tolerated the man, but could report no animosity.
“Why import priests?” Scott asked.
Neil sighed but paused before he spoke, swallowing, I suspected, most of a dumb jock crack. “Don't you read the papers?” He knew Scott'd graduated from the University of Arizona with a degree in engineering, but Neil had a college prestige streak in him. Less than an Ivy League certificate and
you were suspect. My M.A. in English from the University of Chicago was barely acceptable.
you were suspect. My M.A. in English from the University of Chicago was barely acceptable.
“I don't pay much attention to the gay Catholic stuff myself,” I said.
“You have no excuse,” Neil said.
“I promise if I ever get to pick teams, I'll chose you first,” Scott said. This crack, I suspected, got to the heart of some very basic resentments. Neil had been a willowy wimp in his teen years. From what he'd told me I knew the slights of his youth still rankled.
Forestalling an eruption of hostilities, I got Neil involved in explaining. In late 1986 something called the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith sent out a letter supposedly approved by the Pope and signed by a Cardinal Ratzinger. Neil turned an ugly shade of purple, his voice steadily rising, fist banging the table, as he explained each point. “The homophobic bastards declared gays intrinsically evil and homosexuality an objective disorder, and they blamed us for our troubles because we stood up for our rights.”
“Who cares what the Catholic Church thinks?” Scott asked.
Neil stared at Scott open-mouthed. “Some people think God is important in their lives.”
“Yeah, but the Catholic Church? Who can take a church seriously that declares some man to be infallible. He's just some guy.”
“The Pope is not just some guy. And he's only infallible in faith and morals,” Neil corrected.
“I don't care if he's only infallible in balls and strikes. He's just a guy,” Scott reiterated.
“I wouldn't expect you to understand.” Pity for a poor, ignorant jock dripped from Neil's voice.
“I'm not the one going to hell for my sexuality,” Scott retorted.
Touché, I thought, but I didn't want to hear them bicker. I wanted data. “What happened after the letter?” I asked.
Neil told the story. Bishops around the country started
throwing gay groups out of their churches. In spring 1988, events came to a head in Chicago. The gay Catholics held meetingsâchaotic was Neil's mildest term for them. Tears and recriminations, shouts and threats, compromises and desperate attempts at reconciliation all proved futile. Out they had to go. The Faith group splintered in three. The largest, retaining the Faith name, kept most of the leadership and moved to the old dance studio. They kept close ties to the national organization, which declaredâprobably heretically, Neil thoughtâthat being gay was okay. The other groups named themselves Hope and Charity.
throwing gay groups out of their churches. In spring 1988, events came to a head in Chicago. The gay Catholics held meetingsâchaotic was Neil's mildest term for them. Tears and recriminations, shouts and threats, compromises and desperate attempts at reconciliation all proved futile. Out they had to go. The Faith group splintered in three. The largest, retaining the Faith name, kept most of the leadership and moved to the old dance studio. They kept close ties to the national organization, which declaredâprobably heretically, Neil thoughtâthat being gay was okay. The other groups named themselves Hope and Charity.
The Hope group, as far as Neil knew, was still trying to work within the current church structure. The Charity group, smallest of the splinters, had something to do with the Council of Trent and Latin masses. Neil didn't know any more about them beyond that. Personally, he was glad the two groups split off. The people remaining in the Faith group now had a much easier time moving on their political agenda.
He went on. “We even got the chancery to send over their big-deal troubleshooter, Bishop John Smith, to a meeting. I think he came because he and Sebastian were old friends from seminary days. Did no good. Smith was a total arrogant snot, and you know it takes a lot for me to accuse someone of that vice.”
“During these meetings,” I asked, “did Father Sebastian take sides, lead any fights, make any enemies?”
Neil paused and thought. “Not that I remember. No.” He said that Sebastian had sat back, tried to help each speaker clarify his thoughts or express himself, tried to get people to listen to one another.
“What kind of trouble could he get in from the Cardinal by staying with you guys?” I asked.
“Hard to tell. If the Cardinal learned about it, he could get suspended from priestly duties.” Neil shrugged. “Sebastian never seemed to worry about it.”
“Are all priests gay?” Scott asked.
“All the ones I know are,” Neil said. “It's an extremely closeted homophobic society. The most closeted ones being the most homophobic.” Neil harrumphed and returned to describing his fellow board members.
Bartholomew was exactly as he seemed: a lonely old man terrified of offending anyone, especially Priscilla. Neil hadn't known of the weekly visits from Sebastian, yet found this typical of the priest's kindliness.
Clayton, a new board member, little known to Neil, was given to non sequiturs and drooling over sports heroes.
Prentice we all knew. “I think you should get behind his flighty queen exterior. That boy knows secrets, I can feel it. I didn't know Sebastian met someone secretly.”
“I thought you knew all the dirt in town,” I said.
“Not like I used to. Plus he's a bartender. They have a network all their own. Besides, I know he went downstairs after Mass before Sebastian died.”
“You haven't said anything?”
“No. I saw him only because I was down there too.” Now he looked sheepish. A first in our relationship.
I demanded an explanation.
“Every Sunday I went to confession after Mass.”
I gaped at him.
He drew himself to full queenly erectness in his chair, almost knocking over the tray of desserts the waitress was offering him. He chose his dessert, a double helping of chocolate cream pie, looked at us, looked at it, and proceeded to devour it before he spoke. “I will not be called to account even by you, Tom Mason, dear friend that you are, and I know you don't really want to know my lists of sins, unfortunately far fewer than they once were.” The point was that he'd gone down, confessed, and left a smiling Sebastian. On his way back up the stairs, Neil had passed Prentice going down. He hadn't noticed Prentice return.
I asked why he hadn't mentioned this before. Too ashamed to tell in front of the group, he claimed. That sounded lame to me
after knowing him all these years. He answered by reiterating that he knew of no reason any of them had to kill Father Sebastian, including Prentice. He didn't want to make public accusations in a group still emotionally upset by all the recent changes and divisions.
after knowing him all these years. He answered by reiterating that he knew of no reason any of them had to kill Father Sebastian, including Prentice. He didn't want to make public accusations in a group still emotionally upset by all the recent changes and divisions.
“Did Sebastian ever talk about this Father Clarence guy?” I asked.
“Nope. He seldom talked about himself, much less anyone else.”
I repeated that I wanted to talk to Monica's source in the chancery. If we could break through the church silence, I was sure we'd find out what, if anything, had happened in the basement of that dance studio. He said he'd try his best.
Before leaving, Neil told us Prentice had the nine-to-two shift that night at Bruce's Halfway There Bar. We might stop in and talk to him about his trip downstairs.
We decided to drop the car at Scott's and walk to Bruce's, a couple of blocks down North Avenue just past Wells Street in a building that looked as if it'd been put up the day after the Chicago Fire. On the way, Scott asked about Catholics and confession. I explained as best I could for someone raised in a vaguely Protestant home, but who'd grown up in a heavily Catholic suburb. He shook his head. Reared Southern Baptist and knowing few Catholics as he grew up, he found it foreign.
“I don't see Neil doing something like that,” Scott said.
“Belief makes people do weird things, I guess,” was my only comment.
Bruce's Halfway There Bar is a very discreet, high-class bar. It used to be the only gay bar Scott would go to, for fear of being exposed as gay. Now he'd enter any of them, as long as he didn't have to put up with obnoxious gay fans who wanted to know the secret sex lives of all major league baseball players. I've never asked. I'm only interested in
our
sex life.
our
sex life.
It was a quiet Sunday night, with all of six patrons, four of them seated at least three stools apart at the long bar that ran the length of the left-hand wall as you walked in. Two sat in the
front booth discreetly holding hands under the table, knees touching, sixty years old apiece if a day, eyes only for each other, very much in love, it looked to me.
front booth discreetly holding hands under the table, knees touching, sixty years old apiece if a day, eyes only for each other, very much in love, it looked to me.
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