Chapter 26
I had stayed hidden most of the day so no one could see me approach the old gray stone church. The sun had just set as I peered through the window. I watched Father Brown get up from his old uncomfortable office chair to head to the rural mailbox outside his little parish church. He later told me he still couldn’t figure out why they had to move the mailboxes to the street, or why his body hurt so much when he went there or more precisely when he went anywhere. Maybe it’s those old football injuries from years ago at Notre Dame. If it wasn’t for the priesthood, Brown would’ve gone pro but his calling seemed a little higher than the gridiron. He was recruited and he thought about it. Fred looked on it as a temptation. For a man in his late seventies, besides the aches and pains, he was still in good shape. At times even robust. His hulking body appeared humorous behind the lectern on Sundays but it worked to his advantage when it came to handling the neighborhood teens at the sports outreach.
Brown opened the door and moved down the stairs to the sidewalk. He was daring that night and crossed the street without looking both ways. He stepped from the curb and eased across the street. His shadow moved more quickly than he did, as the light source shifted from one street light to the next. There was no sound of cars to disturb a person’s weary thoughts. Father Fred mumbled that there was never any traffic and sometimes very little even on Sunday. He’d been sent to reestablish the parish in a changing community. Father Brown’s warmth, vitality and wisdom made for good relationships. Couple that with his intense spiritual sensitivity and churches grew healthy under his pastoral care. St. Luke’s needed to grow healthy again. The Italians and Irish, who once made up the congregation, had since moved to the north hill of the city or out to the townships. The center of town had changed. The old stores were burning down and being replaced by empty parking lots. Not only did the people move to the outlying areas but so did their money.
Fred Brown was deep in thought as he snapped open the half crushed box and reached for his mail. He pulled four envelopes from the receptacle and thumbed through them. He mumbled how surprised he was that all four were in such good shape. Usually the postal system destroyed at least one quarter of his mail. “Just for principle,” he mumbled. The third letter was from the Vatican. Brown inserted his finger inside the glued flap and began to rip the envelope open when I suddenly touched his shoulder. He spun around quickly like a cat, an old one but still a cat.
“Father Brown?” I asked.
"What? Yes?” Brown knew my face but he couldn’t believe I was here on this street. For a moment he studied me in the poor lighting with his weary eyes. “Oh my goodness, it’s Matt MacDonald. It is you, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you in years. Not since the last time I visited your Mom, just before she died.” Brown grabbed me quickly and gave my tired body a bone-crushing bear hug. The old priest hadn’t lost a bit of his strength. “What brings you here? And how in the world did you find me in New Castle, Pennsylvania?”
“Actually, you’re the one that told me. When we met last, you said they were transferring you here. Anyway, its good to see you, Father Brown.” My mind felt relieved that Brown hadn’t heard anything at that time about the situation I was in.
The old priest stepped back and gazed at my disheveled form from foot to head. He noticed the bag next to my feet, the pack on my back and the exhausted look on my face. “You’re in trouble aren’t you? And you look like you haven’t slept for a couple days. What’s happening, Matt?”
“Can we go inside and talk?”
“Sure.” Fred picked up the bag and the two of us walked across the empty street. “Let’s go into my study and talk for a bit. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
I declined as we entered the building and walked to the room off the altar used as Brown’s study. As we walked, I looked around. I wondered what he knew and didn’t know. “Nice old building, Father Fred. How do you like it here?”
“This is sort of semi-retirement for me. The parish is small but it’s a great old building. They don’t build them like this anymore. I feel like I’m in some old, medieval castle. It has nooks, crannies, secret passages and a small, very manageable parish for an old priest. But I’m sure this isn’t an official visit to talk about my present pastoral situation. Unless of course, you have some kind of personal in with the new Pope-in-waiting.” I grimaced as we entered Brown’s study. Fred dropped my bag as I collapsed in a large, soft chair against the wall across from the door. Fred sat behind his big desk and looked again at me. It had been about five years since we’d seen each other. The last he heard, I was in Europe working as a biologist and doing especially well. Brown slouched in the worn, blue leather chair across from me. “What’s the problem, Matt? Is this a police thing? Are you running from them?”
“No, it’s much bigger than that," I said as my mouth stretched in a wide yawn. My drooping eyes looked at Brown. I knew that I had to tell him but the lack of sleep over the last few days seemed more oppressive to me than the two priests that were out to eliminate my existence. “I’ll need lots of time to explain it to you. Right now, I haven’t slept in a few days and I could use a bed. I’ll be glad to tell you everything in the morning. I want you to know that I need some help and you are one of the few friends I have left. And right now, I trust very few people,” I drawled out the words in exhausted phrases.
Fred Brown’s heart was the only thing larger than his hulking body. He stood up and grabbed the bag again and said, “Then let me take you to your room, sir.” I started to laugh.
Brown snickered out, “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know, it might be that I’m so tired, but you reminded me of Lurch in that old Addams Family TV show.” I felt myself growing more tired as I relaxed. It was good to be with Father Brown, the priest that taught me about ethics, caring, and God. I felt like I had gotten so far from the God that Fred had so carefully and lovingly explained to me. To be back in Father Brown’s presence, reminded me of the basics of the faith that the old priest had taught. I felt safe—at least for now.
“Let me get you upstairs to a room,” Brown was standing and smiling. I pulled my body out of the chair. I really didn’t need a bed. The chair was soft enough after all the hours of hiding and running. I got up and moved toward the study door.
Fred grabbed me by the arm and said, “No, not that way. There is a back staircase from my study up to the bedrooms. Remember, I said this place is like an old castle. It was a way for priests to move from their private quarters upstairs to the offices downstairs in a mysterious way. This kept those little, old, superstitious ladies guessing about their priest's near divinity.” Brown walked over to the panel behind the soft chair, pressed a latch near the molding and pushed back on the panel. We entered a small dimly lit hallway. Fred Brown had to slouch to walk through the low ceilinged passage. One bare, low-watt bulb lit the area to the stair. Once we turned the corner, another bulb at the top of the stairs cast its yellowing glow along the shadowed steps. Father Brown was right about the building seeming medieval. As he reached the top of the stairs, Brown hit another latch that opened the panel into the hallway. Before we stepped through, Fred stopped, turned to me and said, “Wait a second. I’ve got to show you this. When the old church was built, the architect put in this closet over here to store valuable relics and items. When I moved in I found it by accident.”
“And inside was the body of one of the Apostles?” I quipped.
“No, nothing that exciting. I found some old altarware. They were solid gold. I hate to say it but I sold them and that’s how we built the basketball courts out there for the neighborhood kids to play on.” Fred smiled about that. That act went hand-in-hand with Father Brown's value system. He was a man of God and a man of the people. Then we walked into the hallway to the bedrooms. I fell on the bed the moment we walked in without taking off my clothes. In seconds I was asleep. Brown grabbed the blanket laying on the dresser and covered me. In those last moments before I hit a deep, long-needed sleep, I heard Brown wonder out loud, “What in the world are you into, Matt?” Tomorrow, I would tell him. It could wait.
The old priest headed back down the stairway and into his study and Brown noticed his unopened letters on the desk and the overnight express from the Vatican. Later he told me he had hoped it wasn’t some ridiculous change that would upset his small congregation any further. His age made change hard but his desire to be obedient to the authorities above him made it difficult not to uphold what was required of him especially in a time of such turmoil in the Vatican. He pulled the letter from the envelope and scanned down the page.
"Dear Father Brown,
Somewhere in your past ministry, you have made contact with one, Matthew MacDonald. Mr. MacDonald has lived for several years in Zurich, Switzerland and worked for the Amrich Corporation. He was also subcontracted by the Vatican to assist in the Messiah project. We have, in recent days, lost contact with Mr. MacDonald and fear that he is being persuaded by a radical underground militia to compromise his Catholic beliefs in order to take part in a wicked plot against our Holy Catholic Church. He may be insane.
If, for some reason, Matthew MacDonald should contact you for aid in his flight or his plot, please inform the Bishop of your Archdiocese immediately. It is our desire to help Matthew find the psychiatric and spiritual aid he needs before he is arrested by international police forces. Please help Matthew by helping us. Thank you.
In Your Service,
Archbishop John Russo
Vatican City
Brown was shocked. He read the letter again. “So this explains Matt’s situation. I can’t believe it though. What should I do? I need to call. I need to help Matt.” Brown raised the phone to his ear and punched in the number of the Bishop.
“Hello, this is Father Fred Brown at St. Luke’s in New Castle. May I speak with the Bishop please?”
The voice on the other end rudely answered, “And what makes you think he’s taking calls this late at night? Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning?”
Fred attempted to keep a poised and pleasant voice over his angry attitude, “I was instructed by the Vatican to call the Bishop if I came into contact with a Matthew MacDonald. He has shown up at my parish and I am following the directives of the Vatican. I’ve done what I’m supposed to do. May I speak with him now?”
The voice on the other end retorted, “I’ll give him the message. Good-bye.” The line went dead.
Frustrated and confused, Brown stood up and turned off the light to his study and moved through the hidden passage to his bedroom. He wondered what he should do next. He needed to hear my story but that wouldn’t be until the morning. Had he done the right thing in calling? After knowing me and all my family for so many years, it just didn’t seem logical that one of the brightest young men he had ever known could have fallen into something so evil in his middle age. He sat over his journal at his bedroom desk struggling for the words to express his inner turmoil with those hard questions