Cry From The Grave
Chapter 6
Consecrated in 1867, Emmanuel Episcopal Church had faced South Bompart Avenue for decades, keeping its silent watch over Webster Groves and welcoming parishioners of all stripes. The sanctuary was situated under a pitched stone structure, with a circular stained-glass portal erected above the east doors. The majority of classroom and office space extended from behind the sanctuary in an outstretched edifice that extended toward Lockwood Avenue. On these late autumn days, the Reverend Nicholas Fisher could peer through the denuded trees north of his office window and see St. Matthew's Grove across the street. Lately, there had been a comfortable distance between him and the hospice--even in his role as diocesan liaison--but now that expanse had shrunk considerably with the events of yesterday. And now, Father Rory Giles had brought his diminutive yet uncomfortable presence into his office early this Saturday morning. It was Fisher's habit during his eight-year rectorship at Emmanuel to finalize his homily on Saturday mornings by nine-thirty before--weather permitting--riding his bicycle westward for several blocks to get his morning java at Abode Coffeehouse. With decent luck, he got back to the church most weekends to practice his sermon once or twice before heading home for a late lunch. He was normally happy to oblige Giles, but this visit was putting a serious crimp in his preparations.
Nonetheless, Fisher was determined to play the role of gracious host. His offer of tea or soda having been refused, Fisher gestured Giles to be seated. The chaplain took the leather chair near the rector's desk and sank wearily into its frame, allowing an acute groan to escape his lips.
Fisher wasted little time. "Rory, tell me truly. What are you worried about the possible closure or contraction? I understand the nobility of public altruism, but behind closed doors, I think you can speak freely. Surely this has nothing to do with Isabel and everything to do with your perceived standing. Yes, you mentioned the staff, janitors, cafeteria workers. But surely your modus operandi is centered on your perch."
Giles fingered his clerical collar, refusing to make eye contact. His detached manner troubled Fisher. It seemed as if Giles was hiding something, a cloud, a thick darkness underneath his skin. The chaplain swallowed painfully, as if he was forcing down a tablespoon of repugnant cough syrup. He looked over at his friend.
"Put yourself in my situation, Nick," he began. "Coming up on retirement in a few years, is there any realistic chance a church or hospital or school would take me? I know you could always say the diocese could move me into an administrative position but are they really prepared or cash-equipped to make such a maneuver? Seriously, Nick. I'm looking at the end of the ministry line. I'm a relic. If I can't be kept around the hospice industry, where can I go?"
Fisher sat down next to Giles, shaking his head sorrowfully. "You can't believe that. And you can't believe there's a conspiracy by Hibbler to get you out."
Giles finally looked Fisher square in the eye. "You draw some lightning-fast conclusions."
"I have eyes that see what ears do not hear."
"So be it," Giles shrugged. "I don't think there is any doubt that if St. Matthew's Grove is bartered off for a tax dodge that will be my fate. Dean was the one going ahead with this. And you must understand, Nick, that I'm not upset St. Matthew's faces this next step, whatever it might be. I just wish you and the diocese had taken a more proactive role in scouting the options. That was your responsibility, not the job of a man who shirks it."
Giles' final words had pierced Fisher like a scalpel. The rector's brow creased, betrayed the obfuscation in his mind. "I'm not sure I follow you, Rory," he said placidly. "What do you mean by shirking responsibility?"
Slowly, deliberately, with controlled suspense, the chaplain reached for his black trench coat and slid a gallon-size Ziploc bag from underneath it. He passed the packet to Fisher, placing it firmly in his hands.
"What am I to do with this?" the rector asked.
"The thinnest of smiles spread across Giles' wiry lips. "You read it. Hibbler's your man, correct? Before you believe that, you'd better read what's in that pile."
Fisher looked at Giles as if the elder cleric had lost his senses. As if perceiving resistance, Giles got up form the chair and patted his friend on the shoulder.
"You know, I think I'll have that cup of tea now and stay around a bit. I'd like to get your impression anyway. Take your time."
Knowing he wouldn't receive a moment's peace without his own compliance, Fisher groaned and opened the bag. There were some official legal documents, a newspaper clipping or two, and even a handwritten note on St. Matthew's Grove letterhead. Fisher began reading the note as he heard the clink of the decanter against the familiar Mikasa mug while Giles poured the tea. Fisher turned back to the page. He was a slow, methodical reader and there was much within these pages that required serious thought. As he pored over the words, a cold clutch arrested deep within his gut. This was a man he didn't recognize, a soul whom he couldn't identify. Sweat broke out on his face, even though the room was reasonably cool. It took him twenty minutes to digest all the material.
He delicately placed the papers within the bag and handed the package back to his friend. Giles watched him carefully for a few moments before placing his cup on a nearby table and clearing his throat.
"Nick," he said, his voice finding its confident tone, "I can take this any way you want." He gathered his coat and stood up, looking down at Fisher.
The rector drummed his fingertips together, grasping for an answer. "Well, this does call for a confrontation of sorts." He looked up at Giles. "What you have to do, Rory, do quickly."
"Put yourself in my situation, Nick," he began. "Coming up on retirement in a few years, is there any realistic chance a church or hospital or school would take me? I know you could always say the diocese could move me into an administrative position but are they really prepared or cash-equipped to make such a maneuver? Seriously, Nick. I'm looking at the end of the ministry line. I'm a relic. If I can't be kept around the hospice industry, where can I go?"
Fisher sat down next to Giles, shaking his head sorrowfully. "You can't believe that. And you can't believe there's a conspiracy by Hibbler to get you out."
Giles finally looked Fisher square in the eye. "You draw some lightning-fast conclusions."
"I have eyes that see what ears do not hear."
"So be it," Giles shrugged. "I don't think there is any doubt that if St. Matthew's Grove is bartered off for a tax dodge that will be my fate. Dean was the one going ahead with this. And you must understand, Nick, that I'm not upset St. Matthew's faces this next step, whatever it might be. I just wish you and the diocese had taken a more proactive role in scouting the options. That was your responsibility, not the job of a man who shirks it."
Giles' final words had pierced Fisher like a scalpel. The rector's brow creased, betrayed the obfuscation in his mind. "I'm not sure I follow you, Rory," he said placidly. "What do you mean by shirking responsibility?"
Slowly, deliberately, with controlled suspense, the chaplain reached for his black trench coat and slid a gallon-size Ziploc bag from underneath it. He passed the packet to Fisher, placing it firmly in his hands.
"What am I to do with this?" the rector asked.
"The thinnest of smiles spread across Giles' wiry lips. "You read it. Hibbler's your man, correct? Before you believe that, you'd better read what's in that pile."
Fisher looked at Giles as if the elder cleric had lost his senses. As if perceiving resistance, Giles got up form the chair and patted his friend on the shoulder.
"You know, I think I'll have that cup of tea now and stay around a bit. I'd like to get your impression anyway. Take your time."
Knowing he wouldn't receive a moment's peace without his own compliance, Fisher groaned and opened the bag. There were some official legal documents, a newspaper clipping or two, and even a handwritten note on St. Matthew's Grove letterhead. Fisher began reading the note as he heard the clink of the decanter against the familiar Mikasa mug while Giles poured the tea. Fisher turned back to the page. He was a slow, methodical reader and there was much within these pages that required serious thought. As he pored over the words, a cold clutch arrested deep within his gut. This was a man he didn't recognize, a soul whom he couldn't identify. Sweat broke out on his face, even though the room was reasonably cool. It took him twenty minutes to digest all the material.
He delicately placed the papers within the bag and handed the package back to his friend. Giles watched him carefully for a few moments before placing his cup on a nearby table and clearing his throat.
"Nick," he said, his voice finding its confident tone, "I can take this any way you want." He gathered his coat and stood up, looking down at Fisher.
The rector drummed his fingertips together, grasping for an answer. "Well, this does call for a confrontation of sorts." He looked up at Giles. "What you have to do, Rory, do quickly."
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