Hannah continued, “Some boy keeps calling the voice mail. He screams, “The water’s running! Please stop!””
Father Luke paused.
Hannah said very softly, “I think a criminal is on the loose here.”
He nodded. “Watch and wait. Waiting is difficult but answers will come to us.”
Then they heard footsteps coming up the side stairs. How long had this person been here? Had he heard? Or was it a spirit? Then the door swung open. His hair looking askew, Father Peter walked in, with an immense grin on his face. “I am so full of thanksgiving. I just came in to pray.”
Quickly Hannah and Luke looked at each other. Luke sank back: could it be thanksgiving for over-hearing Luke confide in a woman about his personal fears?
Luke stood and briefly turning to Hannah said, “Will you stay for the mass and have a cup of tea after?”
She smiled, but quickly declined. “Not tonight. I’ll see you on Saturday at our luncheon for the homeless.” With a slight emphasis on the first word, she ended, “Wait for me then, Father.”
Later at the Saturday evening mass, dressed in his purple chasuble, Luke looked out at the usual suspects. These churches in Washington, DC changed membership with every change in the president’s administration. Yet tonight he saw a few that he recognized. The lovely woman Annette in the elegant hat. The officer, General Knight, who had taken responsibility for the parish records. And then, Luke saw him. That tall Vatican priest Leo, loaned now to the diocese, sitting in the back of his St. Charles parish.
The liturgy continued. Luke placed his hand over the bread. “He said the blessing, broke the bread, gave it to his disciples.” Then Luke held the host high. “Take this all of you and eat of it for this is my body, which will be given up for you.” Then hands shaking, he took the chalice, “Take this all of you and drink from it for this is the chalice of my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sin. Do this in memory of me.”
And then as Luke reached for the chalice, his hand hit it. As if in slow motion, he watched the gold chalice fall to its side and the wine splashed out in a circle of spreading blood swarming all over the pure white linen. Fiery red holiness crying out “Holy! Holy! Holy!” Or maybe, Luke thought, this blood announces, the end of innocence.
Following the service, Luke stood outside the main door greeting the waiting line of parishioners. Leo walked up and with complete eye contact announced himself. “You know I’m working for Bishop Cahill,” Leo said, enunciating each word. This seemed as effective to Luke as starting a new Inquisition and he stared in return.
Leo continued, “I work in all the churches now. We are starting several new confirmation classes and hope to restructure the diocesan confirmation program. We want to keep the young confirmands active and involved.” He walked rapidly away without acknowledging Luke’s startled eyes.
The ghost’s warning had struck home.
Jerry continued his solitary journey. Why would Ignatius use wolves as a symbol? Jerry thought of everything he knew about them. They lived in packs and they were incredibly committed one to another. To be part of the pack was to have a family and belong. To be part of the pack was to experience a shared structure of relationships that endured. To be part of the pack was to have the benefit of knowing that they look out for each other.
Jerry stared out his window. “Maybe that is what I want.” He smiled. “I want what wolves have. A pack bringing strength, comfort, and adventure. I want to run and be part of the pack.”
Early the next morning, Luke heard a soft knock on his personal door. His shiny black hair attractively combed, an alert Father Jerry stood there.
“Can we talk, Luke?”
All of Luke’s usual excuses flooded into his mind but then he pushed them aside. He slowly opened the door. “Come in. Please?”
Jerry’s face softened. He said, “Yes.” Then he lifted up his arm to show Luke a white bag he carefully bore. “My cinnamon rolls, Luke. I know you like them. I also made my St. Bruno cream.”
Luke stared. One of Jerry’s specialties, this rare concoction consisted of a pudding made from sugar, eggs, and cream, then laced with strong coffee, becoming truly an adult delight. He heard echoing through his mind phrases from Jerry: “The eleventh-century Saint Bruno knew the rigors of monastic life and made this life sweeter with the goodness of custard.” Luke poured the hot dessert-like beverage. “Please, Jerry, do sit by the window. I have had this room forever and the morning sun is delightful.”
After Jerry offered the rolls on china plates, Luke found himself actually enjoying this. Could this be why they had those required group interactions? “Maybe we could do pizza next time,” he said.
Then Jerry sat back. “I want to talk about your changed mass schedule, Luke. I know how unfair it is. It is amazing you carry on the way you do.”
Luke’s mouth fell open and then he swallowed and answered in a soft voice. “Thank you, Jerry. This has been very difficult.”
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