Chapter 9 -- Fathers and Mothers
a/n: I may never get to any plot in this series of vignettes.. I have always been fascinated by episode 4 "The Faithful," Father McShale, and his story, so here's a tiny bit more of him…and another character I had no intention of including also showed up…it remains to be seen if that means anything…
Father Mike McShale walked into the common room on the second floor of the rectory and saw, slumped down on the couch, a very dejected looking colleague.
"Hey, Bobby… everything OK?" he asked gently.
Bobby leaned back against the sofa cushions and sighed, barely acknowledging the other man's presence.
"You look like you could use a drink." Mike poured them each a tumbler of scotch from the sideboard and sat down next to his friend on the couch. After a short pause he asked softly "Rough visit?"
Bobby sat up, took the tumbler in both hands, and sat there swirling the amber liquid and staring into its depths.
"You know Mike, I should be used to it by now. I shouldn't let it get to me. She is who she is. But on days like today, the futility of it all just gets to me."
"She's your mother…"
"Christ, Mike, I don't need any more guilt."
"I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty Bobby. I was just stating a fact."
"I know the facts, Mike. The facts suck."
Downing his scotch in one gulp, and slamming his glass down on the coffee table, Bobby stood up and started pacing. Mike watched him for a while, and finally said, "You can't keep doing this to yourself. Every week you drive upstate to see her, and when you get back you sit here and rage at the world. You ask me "why?" You ask yourself "why?" You probably ask God "why?" Well, are you getting any answers? It's time to give yourself -- and her -- a break, Bobby."
"Give her a BREAK, Mike?" He almost laughed at the innocent stupidity of his friend's suggestion.
Bobby paused, and wondered how much he could tell his friend. He really just wanted to forget the whole day, but he saw the concern in Mike's eyes, and he wondered if it might help to talk about it. He sat down in a chair across from the sofa and tried to explain.
"Look, every week I visit, and it's a crap shoot as to how she'll react. A lot of times it's pretty normal. We'll visit in the day room. Talk about books we're reading. Maybe play a game of Scrabble." He looked up at Mike and smiled, "I always lose."
"Then we'll have lunch in the cafeteria. Those are the good days when she's lucid and the most she has to complain about is the lousy food and the nurse's cold hands and the fact that her roommate snores. It's a lot like visiting any sick person in the hospital. Frankly, it's great training for what we do. But days like today, Mike, these are the days that try my patience -- days where she does nothing but harp and complain and blame me for locking her up -- days where she asks only after my brother, and accuses me of not letting him visit, of keeping him away to punish her. To see her so out of control and not be able to do one damn thing to help, to listen to the screaming and know that everyone can hear her rantings, to know that in that moment she really believes all the terrible things she's saying…"
"You have no idea what it's like to be so ashamed of your own flesh and blood, Mike, to have to hide them from the world. All my life I've had to protect her – from herself, from others, from those who were supposed to love her and didn't. You just don't know…"
Mike tried to respond, "Bobby, I…" but was cut off.
"Mike, today was so bad. I try so hard not to blame her. All of this is not her fault. But when she just keeps on about things I can do nothing about… " Bobby sighed heavily.
"You talked about facts, Mike? Well here's one. I am thirty-seven years old, and for the last THIRTY years I've been dealing with a crazy mother. Sometimes she's a little crazy, sometimes a lot, but always crazy. C-R-A-Z-Y. I can say it in fifteen different languages. I can define it. I can cite the medical diagnosis chapter and verse… but what good is all that knowledge, huh?
Eventually he continued, "I'm just so tired of dealing with all of this by myself…"
Full of nervous energy, Bobby wandered from the room. As he heard his friend going down the stairs, Mike sank down on the sofa, sighing, "Lord, you know I am SUCH a hypocrite… forgive me … and please, help my friend…"
Unsure of where his steps were taking him, but certain that he had to get away from people, Bobby found himself at last at the back of the church's sanctuary. He walked forward down the aisle until he stood in front of the altar. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees. He could smell the lilies that decorated the altar, the beeswax of the candles, the lemon oil the nuns used to polish the pews. He could feel subtle air currents tickling his cheeks and fluttering the altar cloths, providing him with gentle reminders of the way through this forest of doubt and despair. He took a deep breath and tried to still his thoughts.
His mind was still very much with his mother and her struggles. But, he thought ruefully to himself, "If nothing else, my mother taught me to talk to God. She led me here." It was she who had taken him to church when he was small, exposed him to the biblical stories of Noah, and Moses, given him his first illustrated Bible, and encouraged him to develop a personal relationship with a Father who in his forgiveness and charity was so unlike his own.
"God will always be there for you, Bobby. No matter who your father is with, or where he is, you can always turn to God. Talk to God, Bobby, he'll listen to you."
Clasping his hands and trying willfully to channel his rebellion and anger and frustration into prayer, he spoke, "Lord, I come before you as a willful and disobedient child. I have tried my best, but why, God, must it be so hard? I have come to you time and time again with questions, with complaints, with entreaties. My mother pleads with me to tell her why she is the way she is. I plead with you to give me answers…"
As Bobby tried to control his emotions, to form come coherent thoughts, he heard a loud voice from the back of the Church.
"Hey, Father Bobby… this old man… give a dog a bone!"
"Howard," he sighed. Standing and turning towards the back of the church, he saw a familiar looking homeless men jumping up and down and waving at him.
"Hey, Howard, how are you today?"
"Hey, Hey, Whaddya say? Does Bobby wanna come out and play?'
"No, Howard. No time to play right now. Have you eaten?"
'No way, man. Not going to eat down there. Shhhhh……There are sharks in those waters…"
"Sharks? What do the sharks look like?" Bobby had to follow Howard as he wound his way through the pews, crouching down and hiding from the sharks only he could see.
"Big, square, orange, mean-and-nasty sharks Daddy-o! Not going down there with no sharks."
"It's just fish sticks, Howard, they won't hurt you."
"Ain't eatin' no sticks. No sticky fishy. Nasty. I been down there. Just sticks and worms. No sir, not for me. Sticks and worms may break my bones. Give a dog a bone…"
"Howard. How about we go down and I make you some of my special peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. No sticks and no worms, I promise."
"Nutters for the nutty, huh Daddy?"
"Peanut butter and jelly just for you Howard."
"Butter nuts for the squirrel! Nuts are better for the buttered squirrel…" Howard rambled on as Bobby led him outside and around to the shelter entrance. After he'd made some sandwiches for Howard and gotten him settled down on a cot for the night, he went outside and stood on the sidewalk in front of the church. He felt restless and didn't quite know what to do with himself. So, tucking his hands in his pockets in defense of the chilly night air, he started across the street towards the park.
He wandered the perimeter of the park and tried to make sense out of his day. He knew he was upset about things he had no control over. But for some reason he couldn't seem to let go of his frustrations, and so he walked. Chased by his thoughts and the need to burn off his excess energy, he wandered the dark city streets. He was eventually brought out of his reverie as he was crossing from one corner to another and narrowly missed being run down by a cab. The driver honked and swore as he took off down the street in the perpetual rush of a New York cabbie. Bobby paused on the street corner and looked around trying to get his bearings. A glance at the street signs told him where he was, and looking around he found that he was standing outside a bar. He could see through the front window which was lit up with a neon sign that there were a few people inside laughing and talking. There was a pool table behind the bar, and a cluster of people gathered around it. He could see a few empty stools at the bar. Standing there on the corner with the wind whistling down the cross streets, Bobby shivered, and ducked into the bar to get out of the chill night air. He sat down next to a dark haired man sitting alone at the end of the bar and asked the bartender if they had any coffee.
"Coming right up, Father," replied the bored looking bartender.
At the word "Father" the dark-haired man swiveled on his stool, looked sharply at Bobby, grabbed his beer and moved to a table by the front window. Bobby noted this, but remained at the bar waiting for his coffee and idly watching the couples around the pool table.
When the bartender came back with the coffee, he looked over at the man who had moved from the bar, and said, "Hey, Logan, you ready for another one?"
"You know it Pete. Set 'em up."
"Do I look like a cocktail waitress, Logan? Get your sorry ass over here and get it yourself," the man replied setting another full glass on the bar.
"Aw, come on Pete, what did I do to deserve all this abuse?"
"You have to ask, Logan?"
"May I?" Bobby asked looking at the bartender, and picking up the beer.
"Your funeral," he replied, and went off down the bar to deal with the other customers.
"Yours I believe," Bobby said as he delivered the beer to the man's table.
"You needn't have bothered."
"It was no bother."
Brown eyes met green and read the unspoken contempt they contained. Bobby set the beer down in front of the man, and went back to his coffee.
The bartender came back to refill Bobby's empty coffee cup. "Don't mind my friend over there. He's making something of a career out of being a jerk."
"No law against that, as far as I know," Bobby replied with a small smile.
Pool games were won and lost, drinks served and consumed, the jukebox played a succession of songs, and still the two silent men sat wrapped up in their own problems.
