On the drive to my Saturday afternoon at Jim's I made a conscious decision to lie to him if he ever asked me if I had seen Kathy again. It would be the first lie I would ever have told him and I knew I'd feel like shit but it was better than the alternative. And I wasn't exactly sure what that alternative would be though I believed it would run anywhere from Jim calling Kathy to him firing me. As it turned out he didn't bring up her name, at least that day. We did though have a conversation that I found comforting and thought provoking though somewhat troubling. In front of a Met game in his den, remote control on mute, we talked about life after Scully Sales. For it had become a foregone conclusion of Jim's that the days for the old man's company were numbered and that it could happen at any time. Jim and I were sitting in the two big, brown soft leather reclining chairs he had set up across the room from his giant projection television set. We had cigars, we had Buds, we pretty much had it all.
"The right offer, almost any offer and I think he's ready to dump it, just say fuck it all. And fuck a lot of people who'll have a rough time finding anything. But as I've said before, I'll get an offer, shit I get offers all the time; and wherever I go you're coming."
"I know, I know you've made that clear as a bell and I appreciate that from the bottom of my heart, I really do. But come on, I'll be lucky to get a position as a retail supervisor, running an eight man team, getting fifty phone calls a night, getting my balls broken by some dumb principle who'll judge our whole department by the six stores he asks me to show him. And I'll make a lot less than even the shitty salary Scully gives me. I've been thinking a lot about all this, my situation, and I'm leaning to getting the hell out of this business, maybe getting the hell out of New York when he closes shop."
"You know what Sean, that's your fuckin' problem, you think too damn much. you're constantly 'taking stock' of your situation. 'How'm I doin'?', 'how'm I doin'?', right?"
"Well, yeah, but if I don't who will?"
"Let me tell you something. Fuck 'how'm I doin'?'. You know Mayor Koch, the guy who was Mayor of New York City for a couple of terms, now he's a judge on one of those stupid TV small claims court shows? When he was Mayor he was always saying 'how'm I doin? how'm I doin?' It was his favorite line, he was known for it, he still says it on commercials. Well, for one term in office everything was good, good enough to get him reelected, but by the end of his second term his administration, the people HE had appointed had become arrogant, self absorbed and fuckin' corrupt. And a bunch of them got caught, some went to jail and one guy even killed himself. And after that second term he wound up losing a PRIMARY for God's sake, to David Dinkens, a nice guy who wound up winning the general election and becoming a crappy mayor. And you know what the moral of that story is? Instead of asking everybody 'how'm I doin'? how'm I doin'?', Koch should have been minding the store. Watching to see how the people he appointed were doing. But he was too busy with himself, wrapped up in himself, asking people to tell him how good HE was doing. And that's kind of like what you do. You're always asking yourself 'how'm I doin'?', checking yourself out, instead of living your goddamn life. Do yourself a favor and concentrate more on the people that work for you, spend more time trying to make some friends, find a nice girl. DO things instead of WORRYING about things. I told you I'd take care of you and if you had to do a crummy job for a while at the next place we go it would only BE for a while. I respect your abilities, I respect your work ethic and I trust you explicitly. I assure you it would work out . I'd make it work out. So quit worrying, quit thinking so damn much, and quit asking yourself 'how'm I doin'?"
Except for the part about trusting me explicitly I loved his words, especially how he'd take care of me. He'd said those things before but not so definitively. And of course he was right about me thinking too much about my situation of the moment, thinking about it all the freakin' time. It never got me anything but headaches and indigestion. But I already knew all that and I hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it. And though his words should have given me a major push in the right direction the whole thing with Kathy was stressing me out worse than watching Scully Sales die. And the worst part of it was I couldn't share my fears with my best friend in the world.
By the next morning I'd put all the problems of my current life on hold as I began the hour drive out east to St. John's church in Wading River. I was seven years old and still living with the Hornings when I learned of the circumstances surrounding my being found in that church. A kind lady from social services came to the house to see how I was doing and she told me the story. From that day on I must have pictured how it happened a thousand times in five hundred different ways. It was always my mother and she was always very young, dark hair and pretty. And sad. Sometimes she was crying softly, sometimes she was sobbing. she'd say a prayer in front of the altar with me in her arms though I didn't completely rule out the possibility that I was kneeling with her. I imagined that she gently rocked me until I fell asleep and waited until she heard someone coming. She left me on a first row pew and hid in the back of the church until she was sure I was found. I pictured different nuns finding me in my different versions, young, old, small, big and fat, even the priest who named me Sean Murphy. My mother saw me get picked up and slipped out the door as my finder carried me somewhere.
I could never get myself to try to figure out exactly what it was that led to my abandonment and if I thought about possible scenarios too long I'd get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I guess I just couldn't come up with something bad enough to justify what she did, not because there was no justification, only because I couldn't figure it out.
The last few minutes of the trip to the church were on a two-lane road, winding north from the expressway, past old homes, not so old homes, past a brand new housing development. It even had a name, Tall Trees, painted on a too large cornerstone. It would take some time for the housing development to live up to its name, from my vantage point the sign should have read Tall Sticks. I passed a roadside fruit stand and decided to buy a little fruit and make sure my directions were right. The stand was larger than most and had some of the biggest zucchinis I'd ever seen. It was quite crowded with many of the customers in their Sunday church clothes, not surprising as it was now about twelve thirty. I knew most Long Island churches, regrettably, locked their doors most of the time except for Sundays so my plan was to be there just after the last mass.
"Is that it young man?" The woman behind the counter was working alone but she seemed quite competent. I had watched her for a moment as I marveled over the giant vegetables and she was quick with her hands and words.
"Yes ma'am, I was wondering, am I on the road that takes me to St. John's church?"
"Yes you are but you've missed the last mass, you know."
"Oh, I wasn't going for mass, I, ah... I have another reason to get there, but thanks for the information."
"Did you go to church this morning?" She said it with a soft smile. My money was already in her cash register but she was holding my strawberries close to her body, apparently as trade bait for some answers.
"Actually no, I'm not a church-goer for the most part."
"What does 'for the most part' mean?" She was still smiling, a little broader now but there were a few people behind me waiting to pay for their produce. I considered telling her to just give me the damn strawberries and let me go, but she had that sweet smile.
"I feel bad holding you up. You've got customers waiting."
"You're not holding me up, I'm holding you up. And don't worry about them, they can wait. So why don't you go to church?"
"It's a long story, I should... maybe I'll start. Really." My smile matched hers.
"Good! that's a nice one, the priests are nice. they're all foreign you know? Filipinos, one Italian and one Irishman."
"Is the Irishman old?" I heard my heart beating. Her smile turned to a laugh.
"Well, he looks around the age of your younger brother if you had one so I guess you wouldn't call him old. Why do you want to know how old the Irish priest is?"
"It's really a very long story but I promise I'll tell it to you next time I'm at your stand." I held out my hand for the strawberries. She put the strawberries in her left hand and clutched my outstretched hand with her right.
"Promise me you'll start going to church and I'll give you these."
"I promise."
"And say hello to Father Kerry."
"Is that the Irish priest?" As soon as I said it I realized what a stupid question it was.
"Yes it is. Tell him you met Aunt Kathleen and she's saving you soul."
I got back into the car and thought about Kathy and how calming Aunt Kathleen's words were and how uptight I got every time I thought about Kathy Scully. I decided I needed a relationship with someone who looked like Kathy and spoke to me like Aunt Kathleen.
Up a few miles drive from the fruit stand the road forked, I went left and the church was right there. It was on the top of a hill, the church itself at the rear of the parking lot and a large building, larger than the church, perhaps thirty yards north. The lot had just a few vehicles in it; all parked near the church. I parked closer to the other building; I wanted to determine what it was. Perhaps it was where the little old nun, the one that picked up the sleeping little boy and cradled him in her arms, took him to be named by Father Murphy. But the words on the door listed its functions as Sunday school, pre-school, out-reach and administration. Its architecture was vastly different from that of the church. It was very square, two stories mostly brick with some white cement, and it looked more like a library than anything to do with religion. I still wanted to see what the building looked like from the inside, I tried the door but it was locked so I turned and walked over to the church. It looked little like I had been imagining all these years; its front was light colored aluminum siding with dark clapboard sides. While not as cold as the administration building it wouldn't pass for any artist's conception of a church. I entered quietly and sat down in the last row of pews. There was a multiple baptism going on. I watched the baby daughter of the Caputo family being baptized more than twenty years ago but I remembered it very well and this looked just like what I remembered. And it sounded like it; one of the babies was crying loudly and when the priest, an Asian man with a beard held her head under the water she screamed loud enough to make my skin crawl. As loud as my foster child partner David screamed when Mrs. Caputo held his hand under the hot water in the kitchen sink for taking half of my sandwich. Another memory I have no trouble recalling.
I waited until both babies and their families were on the way out of the church and called out to the Asian priest as he was heading toward the exit behind the altar.
"Father, may I speak to you for a moment?" He turned and looked at me, hesitating for a split second.
"Yes, surely. Let me come over to you." I waited as he came down from the altar.
"How can I help you young man?" At thirty-five, thirty-four when all this was happening, I was already at the age where I enjoyed being called young man.
"It's a long story, I came hear looking for Father Murphy but I was just informed a few minutes ago that he's not here anymore."
"Father Murphy passed away about four years ago."
"Was he... was he very old?"
"Well, I got here after he died but from what I gather he WAS old, extremely old. I think one of the sisters said he was in his nineties. Everyone speaks of him very highly, they say he was an especially kind and generous man. Did you know him, son?" Wow, I was getting younger by the moment.
"Not exactly, it's just that I was left here as a small child and he named me Sean Murphy, after himself, and I never got adopted, so I'm still Sean Murphy. I know it's strange but I sort of feel... I feel almost as if he's my father."
"I've never heard that story but it's fascinating. And sweet. Would you like to meet one of our older Nuns, someone who knew Father Murphy?"
"That would be great, Father, do I need to come back. or..."
"Oh no, no, come with me."
We walked out a side exit together and I followed him up a gravel path, beautifully lined with red and white impatiens. The path wound its way to the top of the hill that made up the church grounds and ended at small cement walk with buildings to the right and left.
The priest walked toward the building on the left, a mirror image of the building on the right. Both looked closer to parish buildings of my imagination, dark stained wood, large trees hovering over them, red doors with shiny brass doorknobs. He rang the bell and a middle-aged nun in a white blouse and gray skirt came to the door. He greeted her as Sister Margaret and asked if Sister Colleen was in.
"Yes she is Father, please come in a sit down while I get her." I watched her go through the living room that we had just entered and climb a set of carpeted stairs. The Asian priest walked inside but didn't sit down. We were in the nun's living room and it had several rather old looking chairs and sofas. There was a small maroon area rug over gorgeous shiny wood floors, each of the three chairs had a small table and lamp next to it and the two sofas sat facing each other with a large light wood coffee table in the middle. A bible lay on each of the four tables and I could see the red ribbon bookmarks flowing out of each of them. The air in the room was filled with the smell of beef, I made mention of it to the priest and he pointed toward a hall to our left.
"They're cooking our dinner Sean, roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy. Would you like to join us?"
"That's very kind Father but I'd feel terribly out of place, thank you though."
"Your candor is refreshing, most people would have felt that way but would have made up an excuse instead of speaking honestly. Father Murphy would have been proud of that I'm sure." For the first time I was noticing an accent though it was faint. He had a presence about him, an air of confidence tied, I'm sure, to his faith. He spoke in a slow cadence, seemingly choosing his words literally one by one. I felt good standing next to him and wasn't in a hurry for the moment to pass. But it did as Sister Margaret, holding her arm, escorted a very old nun down the stairs. The old nun was dressed in the more traditional black garb and her steps, once she got down from the stairs were surprisingly strong.
"Good afternoon Sister Colleen, how are you today?"
"Who's your friend Father?" She spoke with a decidedly Irish brogue, it was lovely.
"Ladies, let me introduce to you Sean Murphy. he's here because he was left with us as a small child and Father Murphy gave him his name. He never got to meet Father, I told him of his passing and the little I knew of the man but I know that you Sister Colleen knew him well and I thought that perhaps you could speak to Sean a bit about him."
Sister Colleen was very short and quite thin. She didn't appear frail though; maybe it was how clear her blue eyes were. I'll never forget the way she stared at me that day, how she looked me over before she spoke.
"Those stairs are my enemy but you're going to help me attack them again. I've got quite a bit to tell you and some pictures you will be very interested in. Lets go Sean Murphy."
I took her arm and we negotiated the stairs. At the top she made it clear she didn't need my arm anymore but she took my hand. We walked in to her bedroom and she pointed to a chair by the window. The bed was against the back wall under a picture of Jesus looking to the heavens in prayer. There was a fan in the window behind me but it wasn't on though I remember wishing it were. She walked to a closet next to her dresser, pulled out a small stool and climbed, very carefully on to it.
"Please, let me help you sister" I said as I got up and walked to her.
"Just stay right there, I'm fine." She reached up and took down a photo album, climbed off the stool and slid it back in to the closet. She reached behind the dresser and took out a small wooden folding chair and carried it and the album over to me.
"At least let me give you this chair."
"Young man I'm fine, this chair is better for my back than that old worn out sack of feathers." She sat down on the little chair and opened the album to the middle. "Take a look at this Sean Murphy." It was a picture of a priest down on one knee next to a dark haired little boy. "Do you know who this might be?"
"That's me and Father Murphy, I guess.
"Yes it is, it was a few hours before the social services people got here to take you away and we, well mostly Father had a lot of fun with you. You were a sweet little child, you never cried, you never asked for your mother. We wondered about that."
"Is this the only picture you have?"
"Well, it's the only one we have of you, I think we only had one picture left in the camera. it's been such a long time I'm not sure but I know I would have taken more if I could have."
"So you took the picture?"
"Yes."
"And you were the one that found me?"
"Yes. I remember that as clearly as I remember anything in my life. I was walking from the little building that we used to have before we built that big monstrosity I'm sure you saw when you came here. I'd been working in the pantry of our outreach program and was on my way back to my room when I thought I heard voices in the church. It was early on a weekday morning, we never had anyone in there at times like that and I don't know why but I just wanted to see who it was. I walked in the side door and I saw this little child, you, sleeping on a front row pew. Before I touched you I looked around and called out, I think I said hello a few times. I picked you up and carried you to the priest's rectory, I knew that Father Murphy was there. You never woke up until we laid you down on father's bed. We asked you your name a few times and you said some words but we couldn't make out a name. I got you some milk and cookies before I called the social services department. I came back upstairs to find you and the Father sitting on the floor together. He gave me his camera and said to take some pictures but as I said I guess we only had one shot left.
He walked you around the grounds and spent most of the time waiting for the social services people alone with you. I remember he was the one who spoke to them when they got here and he was very sad when you left. He never told me that he asked them to give you his name but he spoke of that day often.
Many times I remember him saying that there was a little boy in church or Sunday school that reminded him of the little boy we found. that's how he referred to you, the little boy we found. I loved Father Murphy with all my heart so I never reminded him that I found you. I do think that by the time he died he really believed that he WAS the one who found you. I heard him tell the story many times to the new priests that would come here and the only thing he gave me credit for was taking the picture."
"He showed them the picture of me? Of us?"
"If I wasn't around he'd come into my room and take the album downstairs, it brought him a different kind of joy than his love of the Church. He once told me he understood a little what it would be like to be the father of a child, how he could relate to the men he'd met in his life who would show pictures of their children at the drop of a hat. You were very important... finding you was a very special part of his life, Sean."
"What kind of man was he Sister?"
"He was tall and handsome, even when he was very old he was still a handsome man. He had a wonderful smile and as you might guess he loved children. But he could be harsh with the young priests and nuns and he had a bit of the Irish temper I must say. I've got some pictures of him here in here. Go through the pages slowly and I'll show you the ones of him."
I took the album and went back to the first page. She slid her chair so that she was close to my left shoulder and would point at any picture that contained Father Murphy. He was a tall man that's for sure, unless all the other priests in the pictures were tiny he must have been well over six feet. He had light brown hair and though I couldn't tell the color of his eyes, I'm sure they weren't the pink that they appeared in half of the photos. I looked hard at each of the eight or ten shots of him and by the size of his smile compared to the smiles of the other people in the photos he appeared to be particularly happy. I stared a long time at a picture of him with a young, dark skinned boy in his confirmation robe; Father Murphy had his arm around the boy and they seemed to be trying to out smile each other for the camera.
"Would you like that photo Sean?"
"Sister, I'd love it, that and the one with him and me. I promise you I'll have copies made, and I'll send you back the originals."
"I'll give them to you on one condition. That you bring them back to me in person."
I started to say 'I swear', but caught myself, and promised with my hand over my heart.
She insisted on walking me out to my car and on the way I remembered to tell her to tell Father Kerry that Aunt Kathleen said hello.
"I'll tell him but I must tell you that lady is not his aunt. He went there once and she told him she thought he looked like her nephew would if she had one and you're the third person I know of who she's told that story to."
I kissed Sister Colleen good-bye and drove down the big hill
with the church in my rear view mirror. I'll tell you something;
it looked a lot more like the church in my imagination on the way
down that hill. And as I passed Aunt Kathleen's fruit stand on
the way back to the highway I wondered if Aunt Kathleen had
missed having a child in her life and had settled for a make
believe nephew priest. If she did it was surely something I could
relate to.
Questions? Comments? Please send e-mail to jbearden@ieee.org
Material Copyright © 1998-2003 by Jim Bearden