The Meadow

Back in town Father Munson put the water on for his afternoon tea and started getting ready for his Wednesday evening service.  Wednesday evening service was his least favorite because just about nobody came anymore; even Sundays saw an almost empty church.  The usual suspects could always be counted on to show up though, you know, the poor lonely types at the end of their lives hoping they lived well enough over the years to get into heaven, but just in case they didn’t, they have sentenced themselves to an extra day of worship like some sort of penance the Almighty might recognize and reward.
         Father Munson disliked Wednesday especially because he couldn’t eat dinner until after the service was over, for if he did his heartburn would nag at him so intensely that it would almost bring him to his knees.  In fact, one night, the last night he ate before mass, he did drop to his knees.  He started to feel it just after the first reading, a dull bubbling sensation that caused him to burp under his breath, which had the effect of bringing the acid from his stomach further and further up into his throat, until his whole chest was a blaze.  His sermon following the gospel that night was painful and short and to this day he still can’t remember what he talked about; all he could remember was the fire in his chest, the brick in his throat and the sweat bleeding through his robes.  By the time he was blessing the communion he had all he could do to put the Eucharist in his mouth and when he took a sip of the wine it happened.  The sound faded away from his ears and the light compressed around him and as he dropped to his knees he bounced his jaw off of the altar.  The next thing he knew Eunice Bigler’s eighty six year old mouth was pressed firmly against his.  Later she would swear that he wasn’t breathing and since she was a nurse during the war she knew just what to do.  Father Munson has become skeptical about whether or not he really did stop breathing because Eunice Bigler was always flirting with him and he was convinced she would never die until she persuaded him to break his solemn vows to the church.  Nevertheless, as he lay on his back his heartburn persisted, he had a sore jaw and was thoroughly embarrassed wishing the whole incident could be forgotten.  Of course, it wouldn’t be forgotten, people wondered what had happened to him and if it was time for him to retire and if that wasn’t bad enough, Eunice Bigler paraded around town bragging how she had to save Father Munson’s life by giving him mouth to mouth.
         “If I was twenty years younger and he wasn’t a priest,” she would always add with a smirk at the end of her story.

         The tea pot began to whistle on the rectory’s small gas stove.  Father Munson grabbed his favorite mug with the faded words printed on it and a new bag of English tea and poured the hot water into it.  Placing the mug to his lips he felt bored.
         “Screw it,” he said to himself, rather defiantly and reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator grabbing a pint size bottle of whiskey.  He held the smooth glass bottle in his hand and caressed the label.  It had been almost twenty years since he last took a sip from this bottle and he felt it was about time he gave it another whirl.  Father Munson twisted the cap off, poured a healthy shot down his throat and one into his tea.  He sat down at the kitchen table holding onto his favorite mug and drinking vigorously. 
         The whiskey began to work quickly starting in the back of his neck.  The warm fuzzy feeling then spread around to his lips and down his back reaching his fingers and toes.  The warm blood filled his face and relaxed his shoulders.  The weight of the entire congregation was set down and for the first time in a long time he felt at ease.  No thoughts were swirling around in his head; no problems were nagging at his brain and he sat staring at the ceiling, smiling.  As he knocked back the last sip of his spiked tea he noticed the phrase printed on his mug and laughed out loud.
         “When all else fails, trust God,” read the mug.
         “Right!” he said defiantly, “Twenty-seven years of trust.”
He set the mug down and headed off to the church.


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         Marielle was walking back from her meadow still exhausted from her nagging thoughts when she noticed people filing into the St. Catherine’s.  She was desperate for some consolation, some peace, and so she decided to make her way into the parish.  Marielle wasn’t quite sure what she would get out of going to mass at this point, it had been so long since she went.  She was a holiday catholic now and that was only because her mother insisted that everyone go to church as a family on the holidays. 
         Climbing the steps to the church for the first time in a long time gave her a distinctly different feeling that brought her back to when she was a little girl and full of promise.  She smiled at the memory and grabbed the handle of the door to salvation swinging it open with the joy of a child returning from a long trip, knowing that the familiarity will bring much needed comfort.  As she entered the first set of doors she was greeted by the elder statesman of St. Catherine’s Holy Catholic Church of the Daughters of Charity, Rene De Lorme and Antoine Disney, no relation as he would say. 
         “l'OH ma jeune dame,” exclaimed Rene De Lorme with utter surprise, “To what great honor do we have the pleasure of your presence this lovely fall evening?  Have the planets aligned? Is it the apocalypse?”
         “No sir, I was passing by and I thought that it was long over do for a visit,” answered Marielle, knowing full well that he had meant no harm.
         “Oui, we should like to see you here more often.  Not enough young people come to church any more.”
         “Not enough people come at all, mon frère,” added Antoine Disney in his usual depressing tone.
         Marielle just smiled, guiltily, knowing he was right and started into the church passing by the holy water and straight to the very first pew she came to and, forgetting to genuflect, sat down.  The church was cold as always and so she wrapped her sweater around her tight and looked around.  The chandeliers that hung in between the white columns gave off a warm inviting light that made one believe that God himself was present.  There weren’t many people in the church and Mr. Disney’s words rang true in her mind.  She didn’t really recognize anyone at first, except for Eunice Bigler sitting way up front busily fretting with her rosary beads. 
         Marielle was deep in her thoughts when she was startled by the clicking of the door shutting behind her which echoed through the empty cavernous church signaling that mass was starting soon.
         “God won’t strike you down if you move closer to the front, you know,” grumbled Antoine Disney as he walked by heading to his seat, adding an almost inaudible, “damn kids!”
         Just then the organ ripped to life and Marielle realized that she was here to stay which gave her the sudden impulse to run.  She was right by the door and no one would notice as long as she got out before Father Munson saw.  But it was too late. 
         Father Munson exited his sanctuary led by one alter boy and made his way towards the main aisle.  He had brought the bottle of whiskey with him and he been making love to it while waiting to begin and by now had tied on a pretty healthy buzz which he hadn’t noticed until he stepped from his dimly lit sanctuary into the white light of the church.  He began walking down the aisle feeling rather bellicose and thinking how pathetic these people were to be tying themselves to such meaningless events as Wednesday evening mass.  He noticed the waves in the floor that were created by the whiskey and focused on steadying himself so as not to trip and fall.  The fear of falling didn’t stay with him very long and almost laughed out loud at the thought of him going face first into the floor and giving all the old people a shock.  Then he saw Eunice Bigler smiling at him with her dentures and quickly changed his mind again. 
         Father Munson walked on to the altar, did his usual blessing and made his way to his chair collapsing his stout frame into it.  Through the first two readings he found himself wandering through his thoughts and all his years in charge of this parish and even before when he was the assistant priest to Father Rousseau.  The congregation was bigger then and filled with all sorts of people, important members of the community, and Father Munson, was filled with the promise of a healthy congregation. 
         The first two readings were over and he made his way to the pulpit to give the gospel.  He stepped up onto the little platform and opened the giant book to that night’s reading.  As he began to speak he noticed his mouth was extremely dry which made his voice sound raspy.  He struggled through the reading without emotion, closing the book he then looked up to begin his homily.  He stared at the faces of the needy little souls, waiting for him to give them something moving and inspirational when he noticed Marielle sitting in the very back of the church and his heart nearly jumped out of throat.  His eyes widened with horrific surprise as the blood rushed into his face.  What she was doing there, he could not make sense of.
         “Tonight of all nights,” he thought.  “The night I decide to take a drink she shows up.”
         He rubbed his eyes in hopes that she was just a figment of his imagination, but there she sat, staring back at him, as real as his bewilderment.  The heartburn crept into his throat and the noise of impatient parishioners shuffling in their creaky wooden seats snapped him back to life.  Father Munson tried to begin speaking but his mind was blank and his voice stolen; the only thing that he could pay any attention to was the whiskey and Marielle, oh Marielle.  Why was she here?  He suddenly became the most fervent believer in the whole congregation; the Almighty was speaking to him. He had brought Marielle here to remind him of what happens when he drinks.
         “Ahem,” grunted Antoine Disney, hoping Father Munson would snap out of it.
         Father Munson came back into focus and began to read the homily he had prepared earlier, and much like the night of his heartburn attack, he wasn’t paying attention to anything he was saying.  He finished Mass in record time and went straight back to his rectory, forgetting his earlier revelation and finished his bottle of whiskey.