Pierced by a Sword (40 page)

"As Joe and I discussed last week, Lee's suggestion that we scrap plans for several branches around the country and concentrate on making the Kolbe Center here a 'supercenter' has made planning a lot simpler. We simply don't have the workers or the time for organizing
branches. We'll keep the building in Salt Lake City that Lee leased as a 'mini-shipping' center to speed deliveries to the western half of the country, but with much fewer workers there. It should be up and running in less than two weeks. A satellite burst line between here and Salt Lake will merge our computer systems in real time. That way, Lee can move here and work here.

"We can supply and
train existing Marian Centers around the country with our materials in the meantime. We can refer people who want materials we don't stock to Marian Centers which do stock them. A Marian distribution network is already out there. It only needs to be developed, and we can help coordinate things. Why reinvent the wheel? Our focus will be to take the existing wheel and make it spin faster."

Nathan
stopped to take a sip of Snapple.

"Can I say something?" Lee asked.

"Sure," Joe said, "just jump in. You don't need my permission, Lee. Without your knack for cutting corners, we wouldn't be here today. Every time you think of an idea, it's like mining gold." Everyone at the table nodded.

Lee looked down, embarrassed. Privately, he prayed to Jesus for guidance in what he was about to say.

"I don't
want this to sound negative..." Lee started, hesitating, "and I think that all the stuff we're doing is great, and needs to be done, but the only answer to the problems we face is spiritual.

"You all know that. You know that the enemies we face, as Saint Paul wrote, are powers and principalities. When we get down to it, the only weapon we need is prayer. All our materials, especially 'Marian Apparitions,'
are designed to get people to pray, live a sacramental life, evangelize, and to do reparation for sin.

"It should start with us. While we can't require workers to do these things, our example should inspire them. Father Chet agrees, and wants to set up perpetual adoration of the Eucharist in Immaculate Conception, twenty-four hours a day, every day. Joe and Nathan, you already pray before the
Blessed Sacrament for an hour each day. Even if all our other activities fail or amount to nothing, at least we'll have obeyed the first request of the Blessed Mother. Prayer." Lee failed to mention the three or four hours he spent before the tabernacle every day in one hour segments. Everyone in the Kolbe Foundation knew they could always find him in Immaculate Conception when he wasn't working.

"I agree with Lee," Chet said simply.

"We all do," Wheat added. "I'm sure Anne would want to sign up for an hour a day, and I'm going to add an extra hour a day here after work, in addition to the hour I spend at noon at Notre Dame."

Everyone looked to Nathan, who nodded agreement. This seemed to seal the matter.

"Thanks, Lee," Joe said sincerely. "With all the disorder and activity, as well as
planning the wedding, I have to admit that I've been tempted to justify not praying as much on the excuse that I've got work to do. Prayer is the measure of our love for God.

"I believe with all my heart that this little team was assembled by Mary as a direct answer to tens of thousands of Kolbe Foundation benefactors who pray for us daily. I've been praying for a Karl Slinger to show up for years.
The real workers are the dedicated benefactors who distribute our materials to their friends and relatives at great personal sacrifice. Our success will be measured by how many more evangelizers and prayer warriors we add to the Marian Army. That's always been our goal–to substantially expand the remnant," Joe finished and took a breath.

"If there aren't any more questions..." Joe paused. No one
had questions. "Then let's get to work. Chet, if it's okay with you, can we start Eucharistic adoration tomorrow morning at six? I'm there anyway. I'll fill in whatever hours are needed until we get people to sign up–"

"We'll all fill in, Joe," Nathan interrupted gently. "I'm usually awake before five, so I'll come in before you. I'll go out to the shipping floor right now and start signing people
up." Nathan usually went to sleep before midnight and rarely slept more than five hours a night.

"Sign me up from midnight to two," Lee told Nathan.

Nathan made a note on his legal pad.

"I'll go in at seven, before school–write that down, honey," Joanie, who was sitting next to Nathan, volunteered, tapping his notepad.

"I'll take from eleven to twelve, as preparation before I say noon Mass," Chet
added, smiling.

"And I'll come in at five after my last lecture–" Wheat said.

"Hey Chet, let me finish writing this down," Nathan protested amiably.

"Okay, okay. I see it's going to be a snap," Joe observed, standing up. "Maybe we should build an enclosed walkway from the Kolbe Center to the side door of the church–" Joe suggested half-seriously.

"I've already called the contractor," Lee pointed
out.

Joe opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself. After a moment he said, "Let's go for it, Lee."

Chapter Seventeen

1

Thursday Afternoon
7 December
Mishawaka, Indiana

Two women stood next to each other in the stockroom of the Kolbe Center.

"I just can't
imagine
what Joe sees in her," Kelly Jones told a new volunteer in a conspiratorial tone. "She's such a cold fish. You've only been here a few days, and you can tell that. The way she orders us around like she's God's gift really bothers me,
too."

"I kind of like Becky," the newer worker said. "But she does expect everyone to work super hard. That's not right. I mean, I'm a volunteer. I don't need to get bossed around."

Kelly Jones moved in for the kill, whispering loudly, "I hear she's pregnant and that Joe Jackson is definitely
not
the father, that's what I hear. Joe is so naïve, really. He's a child being led around by his you-know-what
because Becky used to be a fashion model or something. And I heard her talking with Joanie Wheat about her wedding dress. A white dress." Kelly said "white" as if it was a dirty word. "The nerve of her. The least she could do is wear something that doesn't make a mockery."

"What's wrong with wearing a white dress?" Naomi Adams, the new worker, asked quite reasonably.

"You're only supposed to wear
a
white
dress if you are a
virgin,
dear," Kelly answered in a kind but slightly patronizing tone. "Joe is so sweet, I really worry that she'll drag him down. Oh well, I'm not going to let Becky Macadam ruin
my
day. I've got to get these new forms to everybody's desks, even if Miss America did tell me to do it."

Kelly Jones finished her assassination of Rebecca Macadam's reputation. Kelly had only
been working for the Kolbe Foundation for one month. She was quite pretty, but not nearly as pretty as Rebecca Macadam. She was also infatuated with Joe Jackson. Kelly spent much mental time and energy thinking up ways to be around him during the day. When Kelly's mother, a longtime Kolbe Foundation worker, suggested to Kelly that the foundation needed extra workers, Kelly had volunteered reluctantly–until
she got one look at Joe Jackson. Kelly was between jobs and needed to kill time. Her mother had hoped that volunteering at the Kolbe Foundation would help revive Kelly's faith.

So Kelly stayed on and was eventually asked to work full-time for a small hourly wage because of her secretarial experience and apparent dedication.

Kelly walked out of the stockroom, leaving the poison to settle into Naomi
Adam's system. Kelly did not see Rebecca Macadam, who had heard every word of the conversation, behind the room divider in the makeshift stockroom.

+  +  +

Becky tried to put Kelly's words out of her mind, but found it difficult to concentrate on her work. Finally, overcome with emotion just thinking about it, she ran out of the Kolbe Center.
How many of the other girls think about me the way
Kelly does?

Lady, Joe's new collie, ran up to Becky as she hurried out the front door of the Kolbe Center. Tears were in her eyes as she struggled to keep her composure.

"Oh Lady!" she called as she picked up the puppy and held it. Lady's warmth made Becky realize that she had forgotten her coat. It was quite cold outside. She hugged Lady to herself all the more as the puppy tried to lick her
face. "You don't care who the father is, do you, Lady? You like me no matter what I am!"

Becky looked up and saw Father Chet pull up in his old Chevy. There were over thirty cars in the unpaved lot. She quickly fished a handkerchief from her pocket and tried to dry her eyes and make believe she was blowing her nose. Lady jumped from her arms and ran to Father Chet.

Too late. I can tell by the
look on his face that he knows I'm upset.
Indeed, there was an expression of concern on Chet's face.

Since moving to South Bend, Chet had made a habit of meeting weekly with Becky to give her spiritual direction and to go over questions she raised as she worked her way through the
Catechism.
He had also given Becky and Joe (along with Nathan and Joanie) their required marriage preparation course.
Immaculate Conception Church was not officially a parish, but the overworked pastor of the church in Mishawaka had gladly delegated the marriage preparation job to Father Chet. The pastor, Monsignor Wilson, had taken a liking to Chet, and convinced the bishop of Fort Wayne to let Chet fill in for Sunday Mass at Wilson's parish. Wilson was a steady old priest and not at all like Monsignor Whelan
of Notre Dame du Lac in New Jersey.

Chet was comfortable in his new job as chaplain of the Kolbe Foundation. He was able to hear confessions for two hours every day in Immaculate Conception. Penitents were already starting to come to him from all over the area. Lee Washington's suggestion to begin perpetual adoration was a stunning success–Chet was more than pleased that there were up to ten people
in Eucharistic adoration in Immaculate Conception at any given time during the day. In the confessional and during his daily work at the Kolbe Foundation, he observed the effects of perpetual adoration first hand. Slowly but surely lives were being transformed through the Eucharist. Immaculate Conception would soon be too small to hold all the workers and local Catholics who attended morning
and noon Masses. Starting next week, he planned to add an evening Mass after working hours.

Because Chet wasn't saddled with the daunting administrative duties of a pastor, he was able to fill his day meeting Kolbe Foundation workers for spiritual direction and catechetical teaching. He also taught a half hour lesson on the
Catechism
after noon Mass. When the priest found spare time, he worked
in the packing department with the workers and kept everyone laughing. Along with Lee and Nathan, Chet ate most of his dinners at Joe's farmhouse across the yard from the tiny rectory. The past three months had been the happiest of his priestly life. He had also tried to cut down on his drinking. He knew he didn't have a "problem" with booze, but cutting down helped keep his head clear for prayer
and work. Twice a month he met with Father Duffy at Notre Dame for confession and spiritual direction. The old priest had long since retired from teaching, but was overjoyed to have Chet back in his life.

When he saw Becky trying to hide her emotions, he instantly began to pray for her:
Dear Mary, please let me help your daughter Becky on the day before her wedding. It's probably just the jitters.
I'll leave it up to you and to her whether she needs to talk.

"Hi Beck!" he called loudly, trying to sound cheerful, petting the puppy jumping on his leg. "Down, Lady. Down girl!"

"Hello Father, how are you? Back from town?" She tried to smile naturally, but her lips felt cold and tight. A small sadness crept into her voice.

"I'm doing great. Just picking up a few groceries," Chet replied, holding
a brown bag in one arm. "With Joe going out of town for the honeymoon and you moving in, I'm going to have to start cooking my own dinners."

"You can eat dinner with us every night of the week! You can count on it, Father," she said.

Father Chet knew better. Newlyweds needed their privacy. The truth was, Chet could have dinner with any number of Kolbe Foundation workers most days of the week if
he wished.

An awkward silence followed. Chet was reminded of the first time he met Becky in the coffee shop in Chicago.

"Remember when we first met, Beck?" he asked, trying not to sound like he was fishing for an opening.

"You don't have to hint. Don't worry, I won't burst out in tears this time. I guess I need to talk. Maybe I should talk to Joe about it. I'm so confused. And I'm also cold."
She looked at Lady, who was now romping near the harvested cornfields. She avoided Father Chet's eyes.

"It's up to you. We can talk in the rectory if you want," he offered equably, also watching Lady. "I've got to bring these groceries inside either way."

Becky thought of the terrible things she had heard, shivered, and answered by taking a step toward the rectory.

+  +  +

Father Chet led her
to his favorite counseling room–the kitchen. After putting away his few groceries, he put a pot of tea on the ancient woodstove. He preferred to give advice at the kitchen table. His father had often gathered his sons around the kitchen table to discuss life and its problems. James Sullivan would smoke his pipe and often served hot toddies made with bourbon. The discussions would range from politics
to authentic Christian sexuality. Chet often wondered if his high school friends–frequent guests at Mr. Sullivan's bull sessions–liked his dad more than they liked Chet himself. Mr. Sullivan was cool. He even allowed the older guests to smoke cigarettes!

Once they got settled at the little wooden table, Chet began with the same words he had used in the coffee shop in Chicago, unaware of the repetition,
"Sometimes it helps to just start, Beck."

"I know. I know. I was in the stockroom this morning, thinking about the rehearsal dinner tonight, when I overheard the most horrible things from two foundation workers..." Becky related the conversation between Kelly Jones and Naomi Adams. "I felt like going up to that Kelly Jones and ripping into her! I'm so angry! What should I do? Am I allowed to fire
people?"

Father Chet rubbed his forehead and took in a deep breath. He prayed to the Holy Spirit for help.

"Becky," he began, "I know this is going to be hard advice for you to take, but I don't think you should confront Kelly at all." He saw a look of surprise come to Becky's face.

"It would only make matters worse," Chet continued. "Kelly is a relatively new worker, and I honestly believe that
she doesn't know any better. Believe me, I know that destroying another person's reputation–especially by slanting the truth–is a grave sin. But Kelly doesn't have a problem with you so much as she has a problem with Jesus and the commandments.

"The best thing you can do is to treat her with as much consideration and kindness as you can manage," Chet advised, thinking of the brutal treatment he
had experienced from Monsignor Whelan and Sister Margaret.

"But she's trying to hurt me! She's spreading lies about me! Indirectly, she's trying to hurt Joe and that
really
ticks me off," Becky fumed, now so angry that her tone of voice was lower and harsher.

"And Christ said to turn the other cheek," Chet replied evenly.

"I don't get it...it's just not right," Becky protested, confused but still
indignant. She took a sip of tea and put the cup down hard on the saucer.

"Settle down, Beck," Father Chet said, looking at her cup and saucer. "Look, we normally think of suffering as dealing with illness or poverty or stuff like that, right? But the worst suffering by far is mental anguish. You've just been heaped with a truckload. This is your cross. I know it's not going to be fun for you
to be wondering what terrible rumors are being spread about you. Even if Kelly Jones were to leave the Kolbe Foundation tomorrow, the rumors are going to persist.

"Gossip is poison. The antidote is humility, meekness, and charity. Being kind to Kelly is probably going to make her meaner in the short run. But your example to the other workers who know the
real
you will be an inspiration in the
long run."

"Okay, I get it," Becky said doubtfully, "I'm supposed to let myself get walked all over by some petty b–" Becky, who was working on her language, cut herself off before finishing the word. "But I'm still not buying it, Father. If anyone treated me this way back at the ad agency, I would have dealt with the situation fast."

"I know you would have. But this isn't an ad agency. The fact
is, you are pregnant by a man other than Joe. The word is out, and unkind people are going to say and think unkind things about it. And you
are
somewhat bossy." Father Chet winced, bracing himself for her reply.

"I am
not
bossy! And you don't believe Kelly, do you?" Becky turned an angry gaze on Father Chet.

"Let me explain," he said softly.

"I'm listening–very carefully, Father," she said, folding
her arms.

Chet knew that Lee was praying in front of the Eucharist at that very moment in Immaculate Conception. Before he answered Becky, the priest prayed quickly for a share in the grace Lee was bringing into the world.

"Let me put it this way. One of the reasons I think we get along so well is because you've got a lot of New Jersey in you. You're brutally direct. You don't try to put a rosy
spin on problems, yet you're always an optimist. You've got a sarcastic, biting sense of humor. You take every job you do seriously and you expect everyone else to fall in line. You're a fighter. I like that, I really do. Where I grew up, that earns a person's respect. Around here, some people think the same behavior is bossy."

Becky was surprised at Chet's strange list of compliments. "You make
me sound like I'm a drill sergeant or something!"

"Right," Chet replied, a gleam in his eye, letting his words sink in.

He got up and refilled his tea. He pulled a bottle of bourbon out of a cabinet and poured a nip into the tea. He offered the same to Becky. She nodded, so he made her a hybrid toddy, thinking of his dad. They both lit up a smoke.

"Still haven't quit?" she asked.

"One of my few
remaining vices," he acknowledged, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm trying to cut down–for the baby. Bossy? Do I really come across that badly?"

"Hey, I don't think it's bad. That's my point. I hate clichés, Beck, but I like you just the way you are. Let me play amateur psychologist for a minute." He gave her a blithe smile.

"I can't wait to hear this pearl of wisdom, O Great One," she said unenthusiastically.
"Oh, there's that wonderful sarcasm you love so much, Father Sullivan. How dainty!" She smiled wanly, squinting her eyes and tilting her head slightly.

Chet laughed and sipped from his cup.

"Oh Becky! You remind me of something I read about Gabriella Sabatini, the tennis star from Argentina. She was such a national hero down there that when she went for training runs in the streets of Buenos Aires,
people came to their windows and yelled, 'Don't die Gabriella! Don't die!'