Demons Afoot?

(c) Copyrighted 1996
by Franchot Lewis

I will tell you of Mrs Miller and of Emily Cooper, but first let me tell you that before the start of each day, and at its close, I retreat to a small, quiet room to meditate. I place on the phonograph, the hymn Ave Maria. I open my mind to God. I seek clarity.

***

Rain fell. The wind blew. The sky was grey. I forced my face not to frown.

"Monsignor Ryan," the loud woman screamed on that rainy afternoon as she slapped her left hand on the arm of my chair. "There are terrible things happening! Demons are everywhere!"

I sat listening to her since ... three o'clock. I glanced at my pocket watch that lay on my desk. The time was five passed three. A priest' s duty is to be pleasant, to at all times remember that he is blessed with the Grace of the Holy Spirit and Lord Jesus' message of love. I kept my patience.

"I am not talking nonsense!" The woman jumped from her seat, crossed the room and took my arm. "Listened to me!"

"Mrs. Miller, please?"

I stood, gave a pat and a rub to her neck, led her back to a seat. She sat down heavily. I calmed her with patience, and followed the procedures, which I taught to younger priests. I instructed thousands of priests over the years. I 'd known Mrs. Miller for a year. I'd known of her for many years. She, a non Catholic, was mid-wife to many Catholic women, and she worked as a volunteer at the Catholic charity hospital. She came to my office with a note from His Grace, the bishop, suggesting that I should take her seriously, and give her a hour of my time.

She sobbed in her lap. "You must stop them, monsignor. You must." I put my arm around her and gave her a hug.

"Mrs. Miller, it is all right. "We are not alone. We are never alone. We do not go alone, only with self to face our demons. God's host of angels, the love of His saints come with us. With God's Grace we defeat demons, drive them from our path."

"Monsignor!" Mrs. Miller screamed into my ears.

"Mrs. Miller, please." I spoke patiently. "Sit back and relax."

"Father Koch!" she sobbed. "Father Koch was possessed by demons and it was my fault!"

"No, Mrs. Miller," I said, very patiently.

"I exposed him without warning him, without preparing him," she continued.

"Mrs. Miller, I knew Father Gregor Koch. He was ---" I paused, sought a polite word or two to use to describe Father Koch's moral and spiritual fall from Grace, and I found them, "was burned out," I said.

"You must be thinking I am a crazy woman!" she screamed.

"I do not think that," I patted and rubbed her shoulder.

"You do," she said, not screaming, sobbing. "You think I'm wasting your time. You can't wait until I'm gone."

"Mrs. Miller, you are welcome to sit here all afternoon and into the evening."

"You do not listen," she sniffed.

"Father Koch was laid out by the undertaker twice. Once after he was murdered and again after he returned from the dead possessed and the demon was driven out."

"Mrs. Miller, I said a Mass for Father Koch. I gave his body the last Blessed Sacrament."

"You said a Mass, but not a funeral Mass. Father Koch's body was gone."

"The body was stolen by anti-Catholic bigots," I said, a little too harshly. My anger was not for Mrs. Miller, but for the louts whom lacked love, either for God or for man, and whom denied Father Koch's body a decent burial.

Father Koch was found dead, murdered, in a church owned car. I went to identify the body. A disgusting man with the Sheriff's office, Deputy Thomas Stone, took me to the coroner' s room where Father Koch's body lay. I shall never forget him. He was scary. He and I were alone in the room with Father Koch's body.

"You priest can't leave children alone, can you?" he sneered. "Why don't you be men?" He grabbed himself at his crotch, leered in a threatening manner, "Want some of this?!"

I just stood there. As I watched him grin, I boiled slowly, ever so slowly. I wanted to smack him down. God will forgive my anger.

The foul deputy said, "We're not looking for the boys who did him in. Hell! It might be the whole county, and the county can't afford to give out that many medals."

"Deputy!" I spoke harshly to him. "To speak ill of the dead is to bringing dishonor to yourself."

The wilful man shouted at me. "This goddamn papist priest raped a little girl. He might have raped little boys too." The hateful, nasty man touched himself again, grinned. He pointed to Father Koch's coffin. "We shouldn't waste a good box. Scum like that should be burned, don't need to be buried."

"Mrs. Miller," I said to the woman in my study, "Father Koch's soul is in purgatory with the souls of God's children who will in time be redeemed by God's Grace."

"With our prayers he might be in Heaven," Mrs. Miller sniffed.

"Yes, in Heaven," I sighed.

"I come to you Catholics because you believe in angels and saints, and souls in purgatory. You have elaborate rituals to ward off and to defeat demons. You have the Mother of Jesus ---"

"Yes," I interrupted, hoping to calm her. "The Mother of Jesus is for all of us. Shall we sit now and mediate over what we have just said?"

"No!"

"Mrs. Miller --"

"The Mother of Jesus. A mother with the understanding of a mother. And your statues, paintings, stained glass windows, focal points for prayer, reminders of the nearness of the saints and the Holy Persons of Heaven, your rituals, the elaborate rituals of your Sacraments, your rich imagination, openness to spirituality -- where my Protestant church leave me relative naked, alone, with my self, you Catholics give me --"

"Yes, yes, that is what I have been telling you all along, Mrs. Miller," I said, breaking into her rambling. "You ought to be Catholic. You understand that God, His saints and angels are with all of us in our ordinary life. Now, you must forget these thought of powerful demons possessing people and threatening to destroy man. God will not allow that to happen."

I spent three hours with Mrs. Miller. It had been years since I counseled anyone who was not Catholic and it was apparent. I was at a total loss. I could not give her Hail Marys to say. She did not own a rosary. I asked her twice if she wished to convert. She did not. We shared a full hour of silent mediation. I did get her to stop crying. However, in truth I had not a clue if I helped her at all.

That night I had to go to a wake. Sean Kelly died. I had known Sean since he and I were lads. The number of wakes and funerals that I had attended, I could not have begun to count. It is a priest' s duty to attend wakes, to bring comfort to the deceased' s family and friends. It is a man's duty to attend his friend's wake. But, the way the wind whistled through the car and through my coat, like my chest was bare -- the way the moon looked, so glazed with a layer of hot ice on a Spring night -- the way I felt, as I drew my coat tighter to my body and shivered with a hard cold --made me want to turn the car around on the road and go back to my quarters.

That night was the beginning of the most serious trial of my life. My friend had been dead for two days. He was to be buried at noon the next day. I was scheduled to assist at his Mass. I had not thought of him as being dead until that moment, when the hard cold that caused me to shiver so greatly, fell upon me like chill. Yes, I knew that only the body dies, that the soul lives! Sean Kelly was alive in purgatory. Still is, I guess. He lived too much of the life of an Irishman to go straight to Heaven. But I was sure, and am, that he will sit among the saints on Judgment Day.

But I doubted that I had the strength to go on to his wake.

"Mother of God, let me go home," I prayed. I knew that all of Sean's friends, some of them mine too, from my youth, would be getting drunk, like his wake was the last party on earth. Some of the boys would fight. Sean's closest friends would sing old Irish dirges and cry. And when the wake was over, I would have to return home alone in the dark.

Then, I saw this young person, on the shoulder of the road, trembling in the cold. She wore thin clothing. She looked lost and freezing. She waved to flag me down to stop. I had only a short distance to go to get to Sean Kelly's house, but this young person was in her teenage years, she looked very lost, and she looked like she needed my help. I stopped. I saw this as a chance to delay my going to Sean's wake.

The girl hurried to the passenger side and got in the car. She rubbed her two hands together. "My fingers are numbed, " she said as she exhaled a frosty breath of cold air and shivered. Her hands and her face were red. She saw my clerical collar. "I see you are a minster, " she said.

"I am Monsignor Ryan. What are you doing out here alone, and with no coat?"

"I had a big fight with my boyfriend? He put me out of his car."

"A boyfriend?"

I thought: A boyfriend at her age! I could not count the number of times that I'd seen young people go astray because they'd begun dating before achieving maturity.

I asked, "How old are you, child?"

The girl laughed. "Seventeen."

Her teeth were clean, as were her mouth, face, hands and clothes. I found her clothes to be beyond her age. I deduced that her parents did not provide her with sufficient attention. "Your diction is good," I said. "Who are your parents?"

"My father is dead and stinking. My mother is a stinking drunk."

"I am sorry."

I was concern for her. She did not look much concerned about anything, now that she had a ride. I asked, "Where do you live?"

She laughed, "On the other side of the world."

I frowned. "An address, please?"

II.

I was waken by sunlight, shining irritatingly bright into my eyes. I shielded my eyes with my arm. I squinted. My eyes hurt, my head, my back. I then saw a sheriff deputy staring down at me. He looked grim. Everything on me hurt more.

"What are you doing there?" he shouted.

My head hurt even more.

He glared. "You're an Irishman?"

"Yes."

"You're drunk?"

"No, sir."

"What are you doing in a ditch?"

A ditch! I sat up. My legs hurt. I had a cramp.

"Get out the car!"

The deputy was a gray haired man who wore a cotton civilian jacket over his official shirt. He had a nightstick. I had no doubt that he would have popped it a couple of times on my head, if I had not gotten out of the car quick enough to suit him. I obeyed him as quickly as I could.

My legs? Wobbly -- At first, I could not stand. He asked me again if I was intoxicated.

"No, sir. My legs are cramped."

"Get out of the car!" he said.

I opened the door to get out and a half empty pint of whiskey fell on the ground into the ditch.

"That's not mine," I said, looking as guilty as Peter when he denied Christ. I know this is not a proper comparison, but I was feeling like a lost Peter who thought that Jesus had deserted him. I had responsibilities. I was a responsible man, but my head was woozy. I did not know where I was, how I got there.

"There is no alcohol in me or on me. I do not drink ... Only the sacramental wine." I told the deputy. "I gave up drinking long ago."

I had given up drinking in my youth. A priest can not sit with the lads from his youth and drink like them, until they are drunk. A priest has duties. The deputy picked up the bottle.

"This isn't yours, mick?"

"No."

He looked in the car and when he saw my clerical collar on the seat, he was appalled. "You are a man of the cloth!"

"Yes, and I have a funeral this morning, a Mass to say."

He held the collar in one hand and the whiskey bottle in the other, held these up to my face. "Who would have you say words over him?"

"My friend."

"Sure?"

"Sean Kelly. I have to get to his funeral."

"Sean Kelly?"

"Yes."

"Here, you're be needing this, " the deputy returned my collar, "and this," he returned the bottle. "It gets cold at the cemetery," he said.

He was a friend of Sean Kelly too. "I'm going to his funeral, " he said. "I'm going to have a flask in my hip pocket. It's cold at the cemetery and I am sure going to need it."

The deputy helped me get the car out of the ditch. He offered to drive me home to get ready for Sean's funeral. I told him, I could managed, that my head had cleared.

My head was clearing as I drove home. I thought of Sean and of the girl to whom I had given a ride. I wondered: "Where was she?" What had she -- had I done? When the deputy picked my collar from the seat, I saw swirled around the white linen a long strand of blonde hair.

III.

At Sean Kelly's funeral, Mike O'Connor stood before the mourners, giving the eulogy. I was seated at the altar with Father Crosby, Sean's parish priest. My head had almost recovered. Mine is a thick Irish head with long race memories of headaches and recovering from headaches. The knot in the back of the crown of my head had thinned. I noticed the deputy sheriff. He sat in the back of the church. His hard blues eyes were framed by his thick brow. Suddenly, I realized I was staring at him, I covered my embarrassment by shuffling the program in my lap, and looking somberly at O'Connor, who was recalling an anecdote about Sean.

"Now, Sean says to me: Mike, you take this and put it away just for yourself. Nothing like a --."

"Mrs. Miller!" I mouthed her name. I was surprised to see her in the middle row. I was unaware that she knew Sean's family.

"Monsignor," she mouthed. "I need to speak with you."

I turned my eyes away. I did not want to speak with her, but I found myself turning back. She mouthed the word 'urgent'. I shook my head. I was scheduled to follow O'Connor's eulogy with a prayer.

Then I saw the girl! She stood in the back by the door. She wore the same thin dress. This was inappropriate. I wondered why the ladies present missed this and had not taken her by the ears and sent her home to change. She saw me and smiled. I said in thought: "Why are you smiling that way? Smiling? Why?"

Then the image of the strand of blonde hair around my clerical collar popped into my mind and I questioned its meaning. Wild thoughts! Crazy thoughts nearly overwhelmed me! I found myself almost mumbling that a priest of God still bears original sin, is still a man, and a man does not know to what temptation he may next submit."

Anxiety was attempting to take me and run away with me ... My thoughts were galloping along. I prayed to God to slow them to a more dignified and appropriate pace. I glared at the girl. My thoughts burst into audible form. "What on earth is wrong with you?"

"Monsignor, " Mike O'Connor's voice trembled. I upset him. He said, "I thought to pick the boys spirits up a bit, make them shine a little on the cold day this is. I didn't think that my little reminiscing about Sean, you and me, when we were lads would rile you."

"No, sorry, Mike. Keep going. I was distracted."

"You're just too much grieving like I am about Sean."

"Keep going. I may get up and tell an anecdote myself about those days. There is nothing but good memories in your tale. Keep going, Mike."

I kept my eyes diverted from the girl, to keep from escorting her from the church myself. A sense of duty combined with disturbing and unknowing-why-guilt flooded me. I could not keep my hands still. I felt compel to do something about the young girl's very inappropriate appearance. I returned my eyes to the girl. She, grinning, poked out her tongue.

"Stop it!" I said fiercely.

Father Crosby' s hand lay on my arm. "Monsignor?" He spoke to me like I was a very troubled man. Mike O'Connor stared like I had wounded him. The mourners faces were drawn to me. They echoed O'Connor's pain. Only Mrs. Miller' s face was different. She was calm. She mouthed, "Let's talk now." I shook my head.

"If you wish," Father Crosby said. "You are tired, Monsignor," he said. "If you wish us to stop, we shall. But, please let me say this: The loss of your friend is troubling you."

"I am a nurse, the Monsignor needs air." Mrs. Miller came to the front.

"Excuse me, there are doctors present. If I were ill, I would not require the medical assistance of a nurse. " I grimaced as I said it.

The mourners murmured disapproval. My doctor, Kevin Kelly, Sean younger cousin, stood. "Fresh air will do you good, Monsignor. I could use some fresh air," he said and left the church. Several among the mourners gestured silently, that I should follow him.

"Please, Monsignor," Mrs. Miller said.

I gave her a sharp look. "I am the professional, Mrs. Miller. Do you think I have no training in when a person needs fresh air?"

"Maybe," she said, "But not necessarily."

All the faces in the church stared harshly, except the girl's in the back. She flashed a bright smile. This did not help my composure. I asked Father Crosby, "Will you give me five minutes?"

He replied, solemn faced, "Indeed, Monsignor."

IV.

I rushed to the back of the church to speak to the girl. She went out the door. I hurried out after her. Mrs. Miller followed, called to me to wait.

Outside, I stood on the church' s steps, looked in every direction. The girl was nowhere in sight. Mrs Miller caught up with me. She tugged on my sleeve. "Monsignor, why weren't you at the wake? You should have been there?"

"No, yes, you're right Mrs. Miller," I responded, muttering, still looking down the street for the girl. I was wearing long priestly robes. I was not dressed to search for her, to chase, and to run her down.

Mrs. Miller took my arm to draw my attention. "The wake is always the perfect time," she said.

"Mrs. Miller?" I mumbled

"The body is left unattended for periods of time while the aggrieved gets drunk and sleep." She tugged harder on the sleeve, "Monsignor, please listen."

"Oh, Mrs. Miller," I mumbled, very, very wary of her.

"The wake," she continued, "is the only time the body is left unattended, before it is put into the ground."

"Mrs Miller, what do you want?"

"I was ready. I had all the stuff needed, except a priest."

"For what?"

"To make sure he is dead."

I looked at Mrs. Miller with disgust.

"I was able to replaced the bottle of whiskey in his coffin with holy water, " said she. "I sprinkled some holy water on his clothes. I put a cross in the coffin with him. I needed you to say the prayer of the dead, and to call on the Holy Saints, while I punctured his heart with a small steel pike, no one would have noticed under his coat."

With my lips pursing with distaste, I gave her a stern look. "You awful woman!" I said.

I'd heard of women who believed such nonsense, but until then I had never met one.

"Keep away from me," I told her darkly

She shivered. She knew that violence could happen. She shrunk away.

I rushed back into the church, to my friend's casket. I did not know what kind of psychosis this woman had. I was determined that my friend's body not be defiled.

Sean was buried without further incident. I got through my part of the ceremony. Mrs. Miller stood in the back of the church, and in back of the crowd of mourners at the cemetery. She dared not make a peep. She could tell that one peep out of her, and I would have denounced her as a wicked, old crazy fool.

A week later, I saw the young girl again.

V.

When we were boys and I lived next door to him, sometimes, he came across the roof to visit. His family's house adjoined my family's. Sometimes at night, he entered the house through the front door. My family went to bed without locking the front door. Many nights Sean dropped by to tell me of his encounters with the wilder girls of the town. Sometimes I got up and we drank a bit and talked of other things. Maybe Sean Kelly's soul or a shade of his soul came for a visit? I thought it was just a dream.

He said, "Tommy, you look like you haven't eaten a bit since I died. You look scrawny, man. Go to my sister, Beth; tell her to fix you a pie, some spiced cabbage. She will fix you a cake. She loves you, Tommy. It was you who she wanted to marry and not that sweaty-thieving-miser-wretch she's wedded to. She wanted children and a church wedding, you just wanted the church. Well, you'll be a bishop yet, Tommy boy." He laughed.

I went along with the dream. "Sean, how is the after-life?"

"Shhh," he grinned." I'm telling you, you should have had a wife and a household of children with some of my blood in them, and you're asking me about something that you can not affect. You let your thing wilt."

"Sean!"

"What we men have between our legs is no small toy. It is there to give us a riot of joy and to fill our house with the great laughter of children." He laughed, mockingly.

"You're not Sean, you are the part of me that doubts my work, my doubting worst half, " I rebuked him.

I felt the need to lecture this specter who I thought was totally in my sleep. "A priest is no ordinary Christian. A priest must be an example, must outdo other Christians. Celibacy is appropriate for the priesthood. Chastity is a method, a means to an end, to achieve a higher standard of moral life. The right worship of God is the goal. Practicing chastity, self-control, enables priests to practice moral-self control ..."

"You are my potato!" Sean spoke with a louder tone of voice, summoning my attention. "When I was in the Great War, my sergeant, a real Anglo-Saxon Protestant prick, took me into a room piled high with potatoes," he said. "The prick sergeant said, 'Mick, peel them to earn your supper.' I told him, 'Sarge, I joined up to fight Germans' -- like King George and the entire British Royal Family-- Ha! Ha!"

I mumbled, yawned. "I wish to go into a peaceful sleep. Sean told me his potato story, so man times over years . I remember it so well that I remember every word." I mumbled a prayer, "Good saints in Heaven, help me have a good sleep."

"Oh, Tommy-boy, do I have to take the skin off you? Potato, when that skin comes off, you will free, free like me, and fit for red meat."

"Go away! I'm tired. I want rest."

"Monsignor, I can't leave this hot kitchen and I have to spend thousands of years cooking in purgatory until my soul is white meal."

I closed my eyes, mumbled. "What he says makes no sense."

Doubt, the devil, had entered my thoughts to sully my image of my self and work. I wake up, so that I could breathe deeply, so that I could try to take my mind from Sean. I tried to sit up and stretch. I could not move. My hands and feet hurt. "Oh, Mother of Mercy, " I sighed. My doubts were making it clear that I could be rattled.

"Just relax, Tommy," Sean whispered. "You are lucky, I'm here for you, sort of a guardian angel."

Suddenly, I felt the need to urinate. I decided to force myself to wake up and make the ghost of Sean leave. But Heaven, I could not move! "Why can I not move? " I muttered. I calmed myself, so lot to show loss of nerve to doubt that tested me.

"Your hands and feet are bound, Tommy-boy."

"What kind of problem am I facing?" I asked Heaven. My hands and feet ached. I could not move them, but they were not bound.

"If you move too much the metal cuff will cut into your ankles and wrists."

"What are you?" I mumbled.

"A supporter."

"Prayer is my support. I will not allow myself to be unsettled."

There were no cuffs. But this dream was a nightmare.

"It is necessary for you to be chained to the bed until your shell has been peeled away. I know you don't remember now, but it will come back to you soon. How I tied you to the bed and peeled you before."

Sean's death obviously distressed me very deeply within. "Did what?" I mumbled.

"Remember?"

I mumbled, "I will cope. I shall handle life's difficulties." I felt anxious to end this nightmare.

"Focus your thoughts. We will peel this the fog away. Your true nature will show."

I replied, "I am a priest!"

When I chose to enter the priesthood there was no hesitation, only decision. I did not agonize over whether I could and would live up to the arduous standards of the priesthood. I jumped, certain that I would land sure-footed. I have no regrets, not a one.

I challenged doubt. "Who are you? You are not Sean Kelly!"

"Shhh!"

Suddenly, I was in darkness. I could not see Sean. I couldn't see my hands. I felt pressure on my mouth, smelt a rush of perfumed odors, force pressed on my face, my tongue. I wanted to bolt. I could not moved. I shuddered. Was I dreaming that Sean was kissing me on the lip? No!

The great Augustine confessed a wastrel youth. I have pursued Christ all of my life with rigor and sobriety. If I were to write a narrative of my past sins, my Confessions would not include any sexual encounters with Sean. No! This dream was not a test of doubt but a challenge from deception.

"No!"

The person moved away, then I heard the girl's voice.

I mumbled, "Why are you in this dream?"

The answer came with the lights. She sat on my bed.

"I am obviously under great stress, " I mumbled.

She looked around the room anxiously. "We are alone. My boy friend has stepped out. Dear God, let's pray, he doesn't kill you." She smiled.

I woke up. It was two o'clock in the morning. I could not fall back to sleep. I got out of bed, went into my study and I listened to the AVE MARIA recording. The music took my mind from the bad dream and relaxed me so well that I forgot about returning to bed and I fell to sleep in a chair.

Later in the day, while at prayerful mediation, I dissected the dream. I asked myself, what had it meant and how could I keep such dreams out of my head. The answer to the first question is that my commitment to God was being tested, challenged by temporal forces and influences. The answer to the second question is constant reconfirmation of faith. Yes, a problem of faith is that anxiety pervades; the solution is to seek the tranquility God provides.

I checked my weekly schedule: no funerals, two private dinners, one Thursday, the other Sunday, both with the state's two leading Catholic families, headed by men who generously supported Catholic charities, -- and a wedding! A good schedule. I had a good life. I liked my work. I assisted the bishop in matters of the diocese' s administrative affairs. I occasionally said Mass in local parishes. I held seminars for young priests and for the laxity. I visited the charity hospitals. I prayed with the sick and comforted the dying.

That afternoon while on the rounds of the charity wards of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, I ran into Mrs. Miller. She was making her rounds too. I tried to avoid her. I phoned ahead and asked the head matron which afternoons did Mrs. Miller work. I was told. "That 'saintly' woman divides her time among the two hospitals and she volunteers at Mercy Hospital every other afternoon, and three nights a week." I asked, "Is today Mrs. Miller' s day at Mercy?" and was told, "Sorry, no, the Dear will be on the wards tomorrow."

Mrs. Miller saw me first. Before I could retreat, she rushed me. I managed to duck into a service exit. I planned to hurry down the stairs and to the street, but she grabbed my sleeve in the stairway.

"Oh, Monsignor Ryan," she had exceedingly large smile, "I have been meaning to speak with you for almost a week now."

"Well, we have spoken. I must run along," I said.

She moved closer to me, whispered, so not to be overheard. "You were right about your friend, Mr. Kelly. His was a natural death."

"Mrs. Miller, I must run along."

"Of course, monsignor. I don't want to hold you."

She did not let go of my sleeve.

"My sleeve?" I muttered.

"Monsignor, but there are others," she whispered, still holding to my sleeve.

"Mrs. Miller, are you getting far too old to be traipsing around the way you do?"

She blinked, as she suddenly understood my utter disapproval of her. She bit her lip. Her eyes darted around the hallway to see if anyone had entered. After she seemed certain that no one could hear us, she asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"Why have you not found yourself a rocking chair?" I replied, quite aggravated.

She let go of my sleeve. "I thought you would help me with this?"

"I guess you thought wrong, " I said. "I hope you are not sneaking into Christian wakes to hammer things into the dead's chest. If you are, the authorities will lock you up for years."

Mrs. Miller did not answer.

I said, "Stay away from Catholic wakes."

Her eyes glared and filled with instant tears. "They're not Catholics." She wept.

I put on my stern face. I lectured her. "You will never stop being who you are as long as you live. You can not teach an old dog new tricks. Seek the counseling of your pastor, or I may seek a judge to confine you. " I warned, using my sternest look.

"Why are you speaking to me like this?" she sobbed hard.

I sighed and walked away.

I was angry, but as I was leaving the hospital, I passed the statue of the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, the Mother of us all. Her face had a patient smile. Her arms were stretched out welcoming her children. She took the anger from me. Yes, she! The Mother of God did not want me to be angry. I could not pass her statue and remain angry. I was a middle-aged cleric. I was reminded of that simple lesson that I learned as a child that statues of the Holy Persons and the Saints are the symbols of the living faith. I paused before I continued.

I am sorry to say that I became angry with Mrs. Miller once more. I learned that she paid two villains to desecrate Sean Kelly's grave. Three week later, after the incident at Mercy hospital, a month after the fact, I discovered from Sean's first cousin and my physician, Kevin, that Sean's body had been disturbed. An alcoholic vagrant was arrested for attempting to pawn a ring that was buried with Sean. The vagrant gave the sheriff deputies some of the details of the outrage. He said he was paid, and that another man helped him, but he would not reveal the name of his employer or his accompanist. No proof that could have withstood legal challenge in a court of law concerning Mrs. Miller' s involvement was ever brought to light. I told the sheriff's deputy of my conversations with Mrs. Miller. He questioned her and that was all. The sheriff closed the case. His deputies had made one arrest and that was enough for him. That was not enough for me. I have not forgiven the sheriff's incompetence, though in time I forgave him and Mrs. Miller. God wants us to forgive.

Many pictures of Jesus hung on the walls of my quarters and in the diocese' s offices where I labored for the Church. -- Christ crucified, Christ at the Sermon on the Mount, Christ on Palm Sunday, et.al, et.al. Everywhere Jesus looked on me and I could not look back and not see His Love.

VI.

The girl on the road and in the church was an unhappy child in need of counseling. I could not keep her out of my dreams. My doubts brought her to me nightly. My greatest doubt was my commitment to man. I knew my commitment to God was strong. I kept my vow to love and to serve God, but what was I doing for man? I did my required duties. I was charitable, but I had not gone beyond duty into love. Specifically, I asked myself: Why have I not reached out to help that girl? Why have I not gone that extra step to speak with her parent? I decided to act. I needed the girl's address. I asked around. I circulated her description. I talked to the deputy sheriff. I was given several leads. I spent a week following the leads. Finally, I found her, Emily Cooper, the young girl who Father Koch deflowered!

All things were clear. The Church had a responsibility to this girl and to her family that we had neglected.

The maid let me into the Coopers' house. The house was cold. The air smelled cold. The room' s temperature was much colder than outdoors. The maid asked me to wait in the foyer. She went upstairs to informed the family of my presence. The wait was short.

I heard a woman shouting. She was Mrs. Claire Cooper, the girl's mother. "Refused the rascal entrance to the house, Bernardine!"

I heard the maid answer evenly, "Ma'am, he's in the foyer."

"Another priest, Bernardine! You know what to do, don't you? Go push him out and slam the door in his damn face!"

"Yes, ma'am, I'll tell him you don't want to see him."

"Good!"

The maid came down the steps, she looked pained. "Sir, Mrs. Cooper is not receiving visitors today."

Emily came running down the staircase. "Oh, I have a visitor!" She said to the maid. "Hurry, Bernardine, get him a glass of lemonade, a whole pitcher of lemonade."

"Miss Emily, the gentleman is leaving."

"He's no gentleman, Bernardine. He's a monsignor."

Mrs. Cooper, overweight, over-angry, stomped down the steps. She smelled of stale liquor. I saw at once the cause for the girl's abnormal behavior. The mother's alcoholism horribly damaged the child. I had a friend, a former University classmate, a psychologist, called in those days an "alienist." Psychology was a new discipline, the majority of the populace looked upon psychologists like we would look at out-of-space aliens today, but my friend had successes with problem children, and he sold himself as a counselor. He was a good Catholic and knew enough religion to reassure the children and their parents. I hoped to get Emily to see him.

"Miss Claire, I can handle the gentleman."

"Be still, Bernardine," Mrs. Cooper said. "I might need you."

"I'm not going anywhere, Miss. Claire."

"Mother why don't you go back up stairs and get unconscious?"

"Does it give you pleasure to talk to your mama like that?"

"Oh, Mother! This is Monsignor Ryan he is a very important man."

"He's another goddamn priest and I don't want any priests in my house."

"Mrs. Cooper," I attempted to intervene between mother and daughter to offer them help.

The two women continue to bicker, totally ignoring my attempt to counsel them.

"Mother, you are going to die and go to Hell, if you keep talking that way."

Emily rolled her eyes at her mother, then she turned to the maid. "Miss. Bernardine, run and get the monsignor some lemonade."

"No!"

"Monsignor, how are you feeling?" she asked, brushing her bangs to the side.

Finally, I had my chance. "How are you, Emily?"

"Mad," she replied, her smile deepening. "This is what I have to put up with."

"Well, we must remember --"

I started to make the statement that a family must seek tolerance and understanding, when Mrs. Cooper snapped at me: "My little girl should be with her dolls, with her paints. She should be wearing nice dresses. She should be gentle and polite, sweet. She will never be those things again because a lousy priest stole her most precious gift, her innocence."

Emily interrupted her mother, "Mother, you are your usual glum and miserable self."

"Ladies!" I interjected myself, speaking louder than I normal would have. "The Church wants to do something for you," I said.

"Emily smiled. "I hope you don't hold this against me. It took me a while to make Mama let anyone in the house," she said.

"This is a great thank you for protecting my daughter!" Mrs. Cooper shouted

"Mama, you're welcome for protecting me; now, go somewhere and take Miss. Bernardine with you."

"No!"

Emily smiled. "Monsignor, I'm sorry. Do you mind talking outside, on the porch?"

"I want to speak to your mother too, " I said.

"That's OK, she will overhear what you say."

Emily's mother shouted, "You got something to say, get started, then get your self off my property!"

"I want to give you both an apology."

"An apology!" Mrs. Cooper shouted. "Take your apology and ram it!"

"Come with me, Monsignor," Emily grabbed my arm. "If you want to talk, to tell me something that might help me, you better do it on the porch. Mother is mother today. Come?"

She opened the door. I went. I wanted to help her. Once we were on the porch, she left the door opened.

"Monsignor, I need to warn you of the danger, " she said, whispering.

"Your mother?" I said. "Your mother is -- "

"Weak!" she shouted.

"Emily, I'm right here. There is no need to shout."

"My boyfriend. I love him but he is very dangerous," she said.

"Boyfriend? Emily, I am here to help you," I said.

"Let me help you. My boy friend gets people to do bad things --"

"Emily --"

"Listen. Just listen."

"Okay."

"I am a Christian. I want to go to Heaven. I am afraid."

"Emily."

"He wants you; sends me for you."

"Emily, now, WHO is this boyfriend? I would like to meet him."

"He is playing with you, to steal into your mind, to get you to do terrible things. He stole into Father Koch's mind, got him to burn down churches."

"Listen. I will help you with these --"

"Believe me. My boyfriend wants you, why? Don't ask. I can't tell you why."

"No, nobody gets into someone elses mind, unless they are weak."

"He does it. How? I don't know. Protect yourself."

"A boy friend that steals into peoples minds? No."

"I come to you. I like priests. Priests are good men."

"Most of us are."

"My daddy was a bad man," she said. "My boyfriend knows you're here."

I took her hand. "Let us pray." She shook her head. I held her hand. She was a seriously troubled girl. I regret to say she would not see my alienist friend. She would not seek counseling. I was not able to help her, or her mother. I prayed for them both.

I never saw her after this. I never met the boyfriend. I heard stories. I don't believe them. I believe in the Power of God, Almighty. God is. I believe that demons only have the power we give them. Demons are our fears and our doubts. Other than that, demons are not real.

(c)1996 by Franchot Lewis