[stylist] sharing story/chapter

Mon Nov 16 23:30:21 UTC 2015

Chris,

I can't wait to read this. Had a long day, so will get to it tomorrow.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
via stylist
Sent: Monday, November 16, 2015 4:39 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net>
Subject: [stylist] sharing story/chapter

Hello,

Below is a short story which is also a chapter in a novel I'm slowly working
on. As background, the novel starts with a wounded Vietnam Vet learning
woodworking, and he makes a guitar for his girlfriend. Then each chapter is
an individual story about how the guitar gets passed from hand to hand over
the years until it winds up in the hands of a wounded vet from the war in
Iraq.

This story is set in 1986, and is about 4700 words, and as always with my
writing, contains colorful language. All comments and suggestions are
welcomed.

Thanks,

Chris

Priest

By Chris Kuell

Father Dunn stepped from the door of the rectory, savored the early spring
air, and slipped his car keys back into his jacket pocket. The long winter
had finally released its grasp, so the priest decided to walk for a bit and
simply enjoy being outdoors. He moved quickly through the suburban
neighborhood, where most people were tucked inside their three-bedroom capes
and colonials cleaning up the dinner dishes or watching mindless television.

Sharon was a primarily blue-collar town about twenty-five miles South of
Boston. Paul Dunn considered it a welcome change, and a huge step up from
the projects in the part of Lynn where he'd spent his youth. As he passed a
gray house with a double porch, a large German Shepard sprang from where it
had been hiding behind a couple of trash cans. The dog growled, baring its
menacing teeth as a tight thread of fear ran through the priest.

"Careful, big fella. You don't want to start something you can't finish." He
passed by the wary dog, then turned on to Hillside Ave. While still
residential, Hillside lead to the downtown area, if you could say Sharon had
a downtown, and he passed several sub shops, two video rental stores and a
Dunkin' Donuts. At the corner where Hillside intersected with Summer Street,
two teenaged girls in leggings and what could best be described as shirt
dresses dragged on cigarettes while they tried to look cool, probably
waiting for boys their parents wouldn't approve of to come pick them up.

Without seeming too obvious, he studied their faces to see if they were his
parishioners. They weren't. "Evening, ladies," he said as he passed. They
didn't answer, but burst into giggles a moment later.     

Father Dunn glanced into the Cumberland Farms convenient store as he went
by. The H and R Block firm was closed, and a mother was screaming at a
misbehaving child in one of the upper apartments. He thought about what he
was in the mood for. Tonight was the Hagler versus Leonard fight, which
could be considered a special occasion. Hagler lived in Brockton, and was a
local hero. Father Dunn considered him the best middle weight boxer ever to
have entered the ring, and the only question in his mind was how many rounds
could Leonard last before Marvelous Marvin knocked him out. 

A six pack of Miller was his usual go-to, but tonight he might splurge for
some wine instead. He'd had dinner with Dick and Erma Rousch the previous
weekend and they'd served a bottle of Bordeaux that was delicious. Erma said
she'd only paid seven dollars for it. 

He was still thirty feet or so from Hillside Liquors when he heard glass
breaking, followed by angry shouts. The door of the liquor store flew open,
banging so hard into the adjacent wall it seemed a miracle it didn't
shatter. A young man in a black leather jacket spilled out, followed closely
by another wearing mirrored sunglasses and a Red Sox cap. Both of them held
a handle of booze in each hand, and they were obviously in a hurry. Father
Dunn thought he recognized the first boy.

"I'll kill you sons a bitches!" screamed a red-faced store owner. He banged
through the store's door a second after the boys started running, swinging
an aluminum baseball bat in vain.      

Without thinking, Father Dunn took off in pursuit. They were twenty years
younger, their bodies torqued with adrenaline, and they had a head start.
But he wasn't dressed in his church garb. He had on blue jeans and his
Adidas sneakers, and the chase instinct was almost genetic. As a hoodlum in
Lynn, he'd run from the cops and from rival gangs countless times. In
Vietnam, he'd run down  and run from enemy soldiers like his life depended
on it-because it did.

The kid with the baseball cap was panting and turned to see who was behind
him. First mistake. The big bottles of liquor slowed him down-second
mistake. It didn't take long for the priest to catch up. The kid was giving
it his all, which made it easy for the priest to put on a sudden burst and
shove him into a parked car. Bottles shattered and the boy thudded into and
over the hood of the car, hitting the pavement like a dropped sack of
garbage.

The guy in the leather jacket never slowed, but turned to peek over his
shoulder at his pursuer. He dropped one bottle into a front yard as he
turned up a driveway. Thirty steps behind, the priest knew what the boy was
trying. He'd turned into a house two away from the corner. If he jumped the
fence at the end of the backyard, he'd be in another backyard, and he could
run onto Privatt Street and turn either right or left. But, if he cut
through the backyard and turned left, he could cut through two more
backyards and end up on George Street, which bisected Hillside and Privett.
It would take longer, and of course there was always the chance of a dog,
but Father Dunn figured George was where the boys had parked their car. They
probably planned on grabbing a few bottles, outrunning the shop owner, turn
at the end of the block and quickly get into their car and drive away. So
instead of following leather jacket, the priest continued to George Street,
turned right, and slowed his pace. 

George was a one way, and twenty feet ahead an old dusty-blue Datsun B210
was parked. Before he could fully catch his breath he heard the rattle of a
chain link fence and knew he'd been right. Bowing his head, he charged
toward the car. His timing couldn't have been more perfect. The instant the
guy in the leather jacket thought he was in the clear, Father Dunn tucked
his shoulder like a linebacker and knocked the boy  to the ground. The
bottle of Jack Daniels flew from his hand, shattering a second after
bouncing off the roof of the Datsun.       

The boy in the leather jacket twisted under the weight of his adversary and
attempted a punch. The gesture was futile, as the priest turned into it with
a muscular thigh then pinned the arm. A powerful fist hit the boy in the
sternum, temporarily  stopping his breathing.

"Stephen Delgatto. I thought it was you. What would your poor mother think?"

"F-f-father Dunn?" the boy wheezed. "What the fuck."

"Watch your language, son." The priest stood, yanking the unstable boy to
his feet. "This your car? Let's get in and have a little chat."

He moved to the passenger door, which was unlocked-just as he'd expected. He
got in and waited for Stephen to do the same. Once he had, Father Dunn told
him to drive somewhere before the cops showed up.

"What about. my friend?"

"Your friend can take care of himself. Drive."

The boy's hand shook as he struggled to get the keys in the ignition. The
car turned over several times before catching, then exhaled a dark cloud of
oily exhaust. "Jesus Christ," Father Dunn said. "Can this shitbox make it to
the church?"    

The kid shifted into first, his nervousness transmitted through his ragged
clutching. Without further words, they drove to Saint Michael's and parked
underneath an old maple tree.

     *     *     *      *

"I'm really worried about her, Father. Last night after dinner, she didn't
ask to be excused from the table. She just got up and walked into the TV
room. My husband told her to get her skinny butt back in and help clear the
table, but she just gave him the fing. sorry, made an obscene gesture and
went outside to lord only knows where. You know we try, Father. And we're
scared to death she'll follow in her brother's footsteps, but."

Father Dunn leaned forward in his side of the confession booth and rubbed
his temples. The Corey's were good people, one of only a handful of black
families in Sharon. They attended church regularly, Rosemary sang in the
choir and taught CCD classes on Wednesday nights, and their daughter Angela
had been  one of his first baptisms when he came to  Saint Mike's. Their
oldest, Kent, started running with the wrong crowd and never graduated high
school. It was an all too familiar, and horribly sad story. Now he's 19,
hooked on dope and living on the streets. No doubt he's stealing for drug
money, and walking the path straight to hell and damnation. Father Dunn had
friends who had chosen that path, and he'd even taken a few steps on it
himself. 

Rosemary had finished her tale, so Father Dunn tried to send her off with
some hope. "Your son is always on my heart, and in our prayers. Angela's a
good girl. I'll have a talk with her. Maybe someone beside her parents will
have more of an influence."

"Bless you, Father. Harold and I surely do appreciate it."

"Bless you, Rosemary. Go forth and walk in the love of Christ."

Father Dunn bowed his head and prayed for the Corey family. He tried to
visualize Kent healthy and strong and studying for his GED. He pictured
Angela smiling on her way to school, secure in the knowledge that God is
always with her.

Someone new entered the confessional. Father Dunn asked Jesus to guide him,
and slid the confessional screen over.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned," came the voice. It took a second, but
the priest could almost always figure out who was unloading their sins. This
was Howard Anderson, owner of a prominent office supply store in Newton. The
guy was probably worth close to a million, but only slipped a twenty into
the collection basket on the one or two Sundays he and his wife attended
church each month. Father Dunn had asked the  couple over to the rectory for
lunch about six months ago, working the conversation around to the topic of
giving to God what is God's, and the importance of pledging, but his words
had fallen upon deaf-- or simply cheapskate-- ears.

"I have sinned, Father. I know I have, and I feel terrible. But, I don't
know. I, I just can't seem to stop."

"Out with it, my son. God already knows your sins. Confess now, and leave it
here. Only then can you properly repent and return to the path of
righteousness our Lord intends for you."

"Yes. Of course. Sorry."  He sniffed back what sounded like real tears.
"There's a woman, a girl, really-she's twenty-three. It started innocently
enough, you know. Sharing a soda at break time. Conversation when she worked
late closing the store. Then one night, we went to Campano's Pizza after
work."

"I don't need to know what you had for dinner," the priest interrupted. "Get
to the point."

"We slept together."

"How many times?"

"That night? Twice."

"In total. How many times."

"I'm not positive. Seven, eight I think."

"You're a married man with children of your own, committing adultery and
breaking your vows. You are taking advantage of a young woman who probably
has deeply seeded issues of her own and sees you as the father that she
desperately needs love from. Does that sound about right?"

A huge sigh came  from the other side, followed by a "yes."

Father Dunn let the silence hang there, weighing on Howard Anderson  like a
leaden yoke. A full minute later he said, "You know this needs to stop, and
our God is very forgiving. But he also knows how easy it is to backslide
into dishonorable behavior. You need to take steps to assure that doesn't
happen."

Again, he paused to let this sink in. "As penance, you need to let the girl
go. Explain how it was a mistake, and give her three months severance and a
glowing letter of recommendation."

"Three months?" Anderson muttered loud enough for the priest to hear.
"That's unheard of."

"In addition," the priest continued. "The school gym needs a new floor.
You'll donate ten thousand dollars to the church to cover it, and every time
your son plays on that court, you'll think about how grateful you are that
we have such a forgiving God. And, you'll attend church more regularly, each
week asking and praying to be a more righteous man."

"Ten grand? What is this, some kind of extortion?"

"This is a confession booth, where the price of sin is balanced. You have a
lovely wife, two precious children, and a very successful business. All that
could go away if you aren't diligent and careful. Now go in peace, and
remember our Savior died for our sins. You're getting off easy with a tax
deduction."

*              *              *              *

The priest knocked gently at first, then a little louder. Behind the door he
could hear the thud of drumming and some crazy guitar work.

"Who is it?"

He didn't answer, just knocked again. The door swung open, an angry teenaged
girl saying, "What do you want?" followed by a look of shock and
stupefaction.

"Hello Angela. Mind if I come in for a minute?"

"Father Dunn? What. why. uh, sure. Come in."

The girl moved first to the stereo to shut the music off. Father Dunn asked
her to leave it on, but to please turn it down a little. His eyes moved
around the room. Several stuffed animals sat at the top of the bed. On the
floor there was a math book and a spiral notebook. The open page was half
covered with lines of writing. On her dresser stood several photographs,
with one of her and her brother in bathing suits prominent. There was a
chair with a laundry basket in one corner, so he placed the basket on the
floor, pulled the chair out and took a seat.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," he said.

Angela tidied up the work on the floor and put it in a pile on her bed,
where she took a seat. "No problem."

"What were you working on? Homework?"

She glanced at him, then looked down at her bare feet. "Nu-unh. It's
nothing. Just some words."

"What kind of words? A poem? A story?"

"More like words to a song," she said. "I know it's stupid. It's just
something I do sometimes."

He considered asking to see her lyrics, but thought better of it. "Who are
we listening to on your stereo?" he asked. "I don't recognize it."

"Sorry," she said. "You probably hate it. I can shut it off."

"No, don't. It's interesting. Who is it? And why do you think I'd hate it?"

"Because my parents do. Most old people hate new music." She glanced up
suddenly. "Sorry. I mean, you aren't."

The priest laughed. "Don't worry, Angela. I understand what you mean."

They both listened for a few bars. "This song's called 'Don't Disturb the
Groove' by The System. It's one of my favorites."

"It's catchy," the priest said, although in truth he hated the syntho-pop
this generation thought of as music. "Do you play any instruments, Angela?"

"She shook her head. "I tried flute back in fourth grade, but I didn't like
it."

"Is there any other instrument you'd like to play?"

"I'd love to learn to play guitar, but they don't offer that at school. Only
band instruments like trumpet and violin."

Father Dunn felt like one of those cartoon lightbulbs had just turned on
over his head.

    *    *    *

The priest slowly rolled up and down the aisles of the Sharon High School
parking lot until he found the dusty blue Datsun he was looking for. The
spot next to it was vacant, which he took as a good sign. He parked, checked
his watch, and waited. Ten minutes later several clusters of students
drifted out of the school, some making their way onto the waiting buses,
others moving to their own vehicles in the parking lot. One group of boys
slowly meandered to the back of the lot, smack-talking each other, not
bothering to hide their cigarettes. Father Dunn got out of his car, wearing
a black shirt and priest's collar, and waited. All the boys noticed, and one
kid looked downright terrified. The priest figured that was Stephen's
accomplice-the one who'd performed a tumbling routine on a parked car while
attempting his getaway. The cluster quickly broke up, and a boy in a black
leather jacket eyed him warily.         

"Afternoon, Stephen. Mind if we have a word?" The boy pinched out his
cigarette and pocketed it so smoothly the priest couldn't help but smile. 

"I know we still owe you forty bucks," the boy said preemptively. "Kev. my
friend had some other bills, but he's good for it. I promise."   

The priest had returned to Hillside Liquors the day after the simply
unbelievable had occurred-Marvelous Marvin Hagler had been beaten, his first
ever loss as a pro boxer-and spoken with the store owner about the theft.
He'd said one of the boys was a parishioner, and he wasn't a bad kid, and
Father Dunn would be sure he stayed out of trouble and repaid the owner for
his losses. After some bitching and grumbling they settled on two hundred
dollars-which was criminal-and Father Dunn paid the debt. So far Stephen and
his 'friend' had paid back a hundred and sixty bucks. 

"I wanted to thank you for the work you did around the church last week. The
gardens look ship-shape." The priest held the boy's gaze. "As for the money,
I know you're good for it. But I was hoping you could help me with another
matter."

Everything in the Delgatto boy deflated a little. He'd paid his debt, and
was now wondering if it would ever end.

"I'm looking for a guitar. Doesn't have to be fancy, just something for a
beginner. If you could find me one among your cohorts, I'd be willing to
forget the rest of the debt, including the work around the church-although
it's good for your soul, and is a great way to grow closer to our Lord."

"Electric or acoustic?"

"Acoustic," the priest said, thinking of Rosemary and Harold Corey and the
noise an electric guitar was capable of making. "And I better not read about
one going missing from a local pawn shop in the paper, or I'll have to kick
your ass."

A wicked smile grew on Stephen Delgatto's face. "Local?" he said. "I
wouldn't think of it."

    *    *    *    *

The Anderson's owned one of the finest homes in Sharon. A huge white
colonial with a slate front porch and tall, white marble pillars that made
you think of the Roman Coliseum. At least, that's what Father Dunn thought
the coliseum looked like-he'd never actually been there.

The priest admired the perfect landscaping, the groomed flower beds, the
fountain that had only recently been turned on, and pushed the doorbell.
>From inside the house, a gong-like sound reverberated.

A moment later a stern faced woman with eyes the color of a gold speckled
robin's egg opened the heavy oak door. Her countenance softened the moment
she saw who was at her door. Her tight lips broke into a magnificent smile
that surely had made her orthodontist proud. "Why father Dunn-what a
pleasant surprise! Forgive me, but I thought you might be one of those pesky
window or vinyl siding salesmen. Please, do come in."

"That's very kind of you, Camille. I'll only stay a minute." He stepped into
a tastefully decorated foyer, with polished hardwood flooring, an oriental
rug and two matching vases large enough to hold a keg of beer each. Gabriel,
the younger of the two Anderson boys, appeared from what was either the
living or possibly game room, wandering over to hide within his mother's
floral skirt.

"What a nice surprise," Camille said. "I hope everything is all right?"

"Absolutely," he said. "I just stopped by to have a word with Howard. Is he
home?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Camille said. Her painted on smile drooped just a
little. "With him it's always work, work, work. Late nights and now
Saturdays, too. I've told him since he's the boss, he should be able to
spend more time at home with us and let the store manager handle things, but
that's not my Howard. Would you like some tea? Is there anything I can help
with?"

"No thank you, Camille. I just stopped by to discuss a little business with
your husband." As Father Dunn spoke, his mind rapidly analyzed the
situation, calculating and recalculating to figure how best to proceed. "A
few weeks ago Howard told me he'd fund the new floor in the school gym,
which we desperately need. It was very generous of him, and someday your
Bobby and little Gabriel there, not to mention all the other kids, will
benefit."    

Camille's eyes grew wide, and Father Dunn caught a glimpse of the little
girl that was still in her. "Really now. I almost have to get a crow bar to
get Howard to open up his wallet when I need something."

The priest laughed. "Perhaps the power of the Holy Spirit caught him that
day. Anyway, I don't want to interfere with your day. Please just tell him I
stopped by, and to give me a call when he has a few minutes."

"I surely will." Camille gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, then she
scooped up little Gabriel, who was still playing shy. "See you in church
tomorrow."

"God bless," he said, and left.

    *    *    *    *

A heavy June rain was coming down when he visited the Corey home for a
second time. He exited the car, frowned at the downpour, opened the back
seat of his car and retrieved the guitar, wrapped almost comically in a pair
of Hefty garbage bags. It hadn't occurred to him when the Delgatto boy
delivered it that he might need a case. Oh well, live and learn as his dear
old mother was fond of saying.

He trotted with his package up the steps to the porch and knocked. Angela
answered, her hair in two long braids, still dressed in her school uniform.

"Hi Father Dunn," she said with a smile that would surely break some poor
boy's heart soon enough. "Come in."

"Is your mother here?"

"Yup. She's in the kitchen making supper."

The priest went to say hello to Rosemary Corey, then rejoined Angela in the
family room. She was watching a rerun of that idiotic nighttime soap,
'Dallas'. Better than running the streets, he supposed, but wasn't there
something educational kids today could watch? National Geographic or maybe
Jacques Cousteau?

He took a seat on the well-worn plaid couch, setting the guitar down beside
him. "How have you been, Angela?"

"Good," she said. "I got a B+ on my math test today."

Father Dunn smiled. "That's wonderful. Congratulations."  He ran a hand
through his wet hair. "And how have things been with your folks? Last time
we talked you promised to ease up on the back talk and help your mother more
around the house."

"I been real good," she said a little too quickly.

He raised one eyebrow. "How about when your father asked you to take out the
trash the other night?"

"That was an accident," she said nervously. "I didn't mean to drop it."

"Don't worry child. God doesn't expect us to be perfect, but he does expect
us to try to be." He paused to let her absorb and process his words.
"Everyone but the Lord Jesus is imperfect. But we need to strive to always
be better. Now, enough preaching for today. I brought you something."

Her little eyes grew as big as baseballs when he unveiled the guitar.
"Here," he said. "See what you think."

"Me?" she said, not daring to touch the instrument.

"Yes, you. It's for you. I wouldn't know what to do with the damn thing."

She took it reverently, wiping away a few water droplets with her skirt. She
traced the pick guard, which resembled the letter M, with her index finger,
then balanced the guitar on her thigh and strummed the strings. Her smile at
that moment could have lit up all of Fenway Park.

"Now, I know we don't offer guitar at Sacred Heart, but once you go to
Sharon High, I hear they offer guitar and piano and all sorts of music
classes. In the meantime, you know Mark, the leader of the youth group? He's
going to give you a few lessons to help get you started. I'll have him work
out the details with your mother, and I'll see if he can get you a case and
a strap and whatever else you might need."

The priest couldn't tell if the girl was listening. Her head was bowed as if
in prayer, and she fingered the strings and strummed, making nothing but
noise. But the joy on that kid's face, that was priceless.

"Thank you," Angela said with watery eyes. "I love it."

     *    *    *     *

He put a twenty down on the bar, emptied his pint and slid off the stool
he'd occupied for the last three hours.

"Calling it a night, Paul?"  A red-nosed guy to his right said.

"'Fraid so, Pete. Gotta go to work tomorrow."

"Fuckin' Sox," his new friend said before downing his glass of Jamesons."God
I hate the fuckin' Skankees."

He simply smiled and headed out to the parking lot. Here at the Irish Mist,
a dive in Quincy where he'd never run into a parishioner, he was just Paul,
not Father Dunn. If anyone asked, which they sometimes did, he just said he
was a banker. That always put a glaze in their eyes. Not that he was ashamed
of being a priest-just the opposite, in fact. But sometimes he needed to
take the collar off and just be one of the guys yelling at the television as
the Red Sox lost yet another game.

He drove home with the window down and the radio turned up. He'd only had
four pints, but it wouldn't do to get pulled over and possibly get his name
under the police blotter in the local paper. Half-an-hour later he pulled
into the rectory driveway. It was a little after midnight and the
neighborhood was fast asleep.

He'd just locked the car door when the first guy stepped out from the
neighbor's bushes. "Kind of late, isn't it, Padre?"

The guy was tall, maybe six two, and skinny. White, but he couldn't make out
much more since the lighting wasn't good. He heard steps to his left and
turned to see a second guy. If the first guy was Abbott, this was Costello.
Maybe five foot six, with huge gym muscles shown off by his wife-beater tee
shirt. He opened and squeezed his hands shut as if itching for a fight.

"Watching the Sox," Father Dunn said. Always take out the bigger threat
first, he'd learned on the streets of Lynn. That will put the fear into the
others. A second later his fist connected solidly with Costello's nose. It
came away splattered with blood. He turned quickly to throw a left at
Abbott, who he knew would be closing in. but before he connected Abbott
struck his leg hard with a tire iron. They both heard the bone break and the
priest went down hard. He rolled to his side and Abbott hit him again,
cracking a rib or two.

"I got a message for you," Abbott said. "Mr. Anderson don't like you asking
for money, or coming around bothering his wife. Understand?" When the priest
didn't answer, Abbott poked him in the neck with the tire iron.
"Understand?"

"Yeah."

As Abbott stood up a blinding flash of pain shot through Paul Dunn's head. A
bloodied Costello had kicked him with a steel toed boot. 

"Ease up, Eddie" Abbot said.  "He got the message."

"This motherfucker broke my nose," Eddie/Costello said. "I'm gonna fuck him
up."

Father Dunn managed to roll toward his car so the next kick broke his
clavicle instead of his skull. 

"Enough!' Abbott shouted. But  Eddie/Costello grabbed the tire iron from
Abbott's  grip  and shoved him aside. The priest attempted to kick the goon,
but the effort was too weak. When Costello/Eddie raised the iron bar above
his fireplug head and swung it down, there was only a brief flash of pain,
followed by a warm, omnipresent light.

And then there was no more.

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