Page 7 of Priestly Sins

“Praying for safe travels for him.”

I turn and walk to my office. It’s refreshing to watch people who love each other actually like each other and want to be around each other, especially in this day and age.

A phone ringing almost has me turning.

“St. Micah Catholic Church, how can I help you?” she asks as I make my way around my desk to begin my day.

* * *

Several days later,there is another funeral. Wish I could say it was for Hank. That one would hurt me and heal me at the same time. To know he can’t hurt Henry or his sister or his mom allays my guilt a bit. But just a bit. I hate that I did it. No, I hate that it needed to be done, but I did what was required.

This funeral is for Chad Dugas, a man of fifty with no known health issues, who had a massive seizure and died within minutes. I never knew him.

Another thing people wish they didn’t know about priests is we don’t know everyone we bury. I’m supposed to stand up and speak of the beauty of this man’s life, the purpose in his calling, the joy that we had him this long, and God’s perfect plan.

And I’ve never once met him.

I have facts. One daughter, one grand-daughter, one ex-wife who is here only because of said daughter.

The young woman’s head hangs low. Her stillness is worrying. If her foot wasn’t fidgeting, I’d wonder if she were comatose. She must be mid-twenties. The only word to describe her right now is dead. And I don’t mean grieving, distraught, confused, angry, in denial, or sad, but lifeless.

Dead.

She is blanched of all color; her eyes are red, swollen, and practically lifeless. No tears, just a blank stare.

When she looks up during the homily, I stutter over my words. It’s the baker with the cute shop and the precocious daughter—Sirona.

Five

Icame to Mardi Gras only once as a boy. Ma lived here then, so I spent most of my summers here. The heat was dreadful and the mosquitos were worse. But that one Mardi Gras—the one prior to the summer she died—was an eye-opening experience for a boy of fourteen.

It must be said that I was mostly sheltered for a kid growing up in the early nineties. Most kids I knew were latch-key and grew up on weird microwave snacks.

My parents divorced when I was three. Thank God. With those two I can only imagine how volatile life could have been. I don’t remember our lives then. My father stayed in Boston.

Ma moved to New Orleans. Ever the hippie, she loved the vibe of this city and its live-and-let-live attitude. She loved the art, the culture, the music, the food, and the fact that making your own bread was seen as gourmet, not as cheap or odd. She wore her flowy skirts and peasant shirts, even when they weren’t in fashion. Same with woven sandals. Her hair was always loose down her back, except when she was baking or working with clay, and then it was twisted into daring shapes and held back with whatever utensil or gadget or pencil she could find to keep it up and away.

I’d run in the house when the streetlights came on after playing, riding bikes, tossing footballs, or getting up to no good on New Orleans’ long days. Many summer evenings, I’d see flour or clay on her cheeks and under her nails and Ma would have a dreamy look in her eyes. She could see the creation or taste the flavor combination before it ever came to pass. I’m fairly certain it was her superpower.

One of two.

The other was showing me what love and family were all about.

Claire Goodman O’Shaughnessy knew what it meant to be a mom. She was present and funny and held me tight when I needed reassurance or was afraid. She held me loosely when I was becoming a man and needed to show I wouldn’t be babied. But when that screen door slapped each night, she would smile in a way that I knew I was the greatest joy she’d ever felt, the greatest love she’d ever known, and the greatest thing she had ever accomplished.

So, divorced or no, summers and occasional holidays or sometimes otherwise, Ma made up for all the crap in life—the divorced parents who couldn’t stand to be in the same time zone, the fucked-up family that couldn’t tolerate each other’s predilections, the kid shuffled across the country to spend time because my father’s business was unsavory or because he wasn’t a full-time dad—with a smile and a reminder that I was everything.

That year, she gave me a taste of New Orleans—of Mardi Gras and hedonism—but not a full serving. She went with me, hanging back enough that I was safe and protected, but not so much that I was out there with my mom at this kind of party. I watched parades. I got flashed for beads and was promptly reminded to close my mouth and avert my eyes. When she wasn’t looking, I drank things that no fourteen-year-old should’ve. I watched men fall over from too much drink and drunk women show more than anyone should see because they had too little respect for themselves.

I didn’t know it then, but Ma was showing me how to be a man. How to remember who I was and what I stood for, even in the most egregious of situations.

She never saw my track medals. She never saw me graduate high school or get accepted to Notre Dame. Never made it to my finishing there in three years and being accepted into the seminary as one of the youngest students.

She never knew the man I became.

She would never know I becamehimbecause ofher.

Six