Chapter One – Thinking Back

“I need a miracle, God. AIDS. Me. Why must my life end now, like this?” Father Francis sighed breathlessly from the depths of his soul as he lay in his hospital bed as pale as the white sheets that nearly enshroud him. He is suffering from the complications of HIV/AIDS, pneumonia has caused his lungs to be filled with fluid and a fast growing cancer is eating him alive. He’s waiting for his minister friend to arrive at any moment. Francis had a plan, he is going to make things right. So many thoughts were channeling through his mind muddling with the fear and the depression that were once rooted there a long time ago. Settling down into his hospice bed he thought back to when it all really began, when one event triggered another after the church board ruled on an important decision.

In the stillness of that night long ago, the only sound that could be heard for those willing to listen was his heart quietly breaking. He could actually feel the stillness in the air, feeling so alone and vulnerable. This was not the first time Francis would cry out to God and it wouldn’t be the last. A falling tear moistened his pale blue shirt cuff. The sorrow in his aching heart cried out to be relieved understanding each tear is carefully counted by the same God who lit a million stars with one glance and scatters galaxies with a single nod. Francis sobbed as he prayed regarding his lifelong vow to serve God. He admitted his feelings of love for God had waned at times and confessed his feelings for Sister Margaret or Maggie as he called her, were deeper and more meaningful than casual friendship. A sense of confusion overwhelmed him as he poured out his heart in prayer. He wondered what will become of him, his parish and possibly his career as a Catholic priest. He looked around the gloomy monotony of his study in the old inner city parish of Saint Rita’s church rectory. The dark paneled walls and dreary brown furniture with matching threadbare carpet made Francis feel as if he’d been buried alive in a grave from which there was no escape.

Francis rose from his knees and gazed into the full length framed mirror near the heavy wooden door, “Who are you?” he asked the disheveled reflection staring back at him. The moderately built frame and sandy brown hair were familiar but his trademark smiling hazel eyes were dull. The pain of his reflection squeezed his heart sending scorching tears flowing from his scarlet reddened eyes.


Chapter Two - Where It All Began

Inside the parish hall at St. Rita’s, Angela Harrid smoothed her chestnut shoulder length hair wishing she were anywhere else on the planet as she prepared for the battle she is certain will transpire after she calls the parish executive board meeting to order. At the top of the agenda next to Roman Numeral One is the name Father Francis, with the words “Incident in Church”. This incident occurred between Father Francis and Sister Margaret and was witnessed by one of the board members. It doesn’t matter how innocent the embrace was, appearances can go a long way in creating scuttlebutt in the collective consciousness of the parishioners.
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This is the hot and spicy stuff affluent socialite the Widow Henrietta Bridges, loved to fuel. With an already overactive imagination and so little excitement in her everyday life, titillating fantasy is a most welcome pastime for the church busybody. Unfortunately since the death of her tender-hearted husband, Mr. Cyprian Maxwell Bridges, II, who was the church board chair, well loved and known as a very generous man, she’d taken it upon herself to gather all the goodwill he nurtured over the many years and cashed it in to influence the daily workings of the parish. A storm was brewing on the horizon for years. Father Francis, whose legendary energetic levels slowed down to a snail’s pace was worn out from fighting the political battles that Widow Bridges keenly cultivated through her manipulation and her coercion.

“It’s downright indecent, a priest embracing a nun in such a familiar manner right in the church before the crucifix,” Widow Bridges sneered through her thin, colorless lips turned downward with just the proper amount of righteous indignation. “I understand you’re upset but we must calmly discuss this and not jump to any conclusions, Mrs. Bridges,” Angela showed no hint of anxiety in her plea, having experienced more than one of Widow Bridges’ outbursts, “I have spoken with Father Francis about this and...”

“Everyone knows your relationship with Father Francis,” the widow loudly cut in, “from the time you were a child running around this parish in your dingy little dress and smudged face.” Widow Bridges pointed her personal attack in Angela’s direction attempting to undercut the chairwoman’s authority.

Angela’s brilliant brown eyes blazed and her throat ached as she struggled to choke back the words her lips begged to say. At this instant she appeared much taller than her tiny five foot frame, “The fact that I was raised by a single mother without many resources is irrelevant to this meeting. It’s true that Father Francis is like a father to me. I needed a dad but that’s precisely what makes me the perfect go-between to help resolve this misunderstanding.”

“What misunderstanding? There’s an eyewitness to this incident!” a self satisfied smirk was apparent on Widow Bridges’ round face as her gray eyes showed a hint of a twinkle.

Widow Bridges turned her head away for a moment intimating her disgust at not being taken seriously. Angela knew it was more about a power struggle than any pertinent information when it came to the elderly woman’s distorted agenda. Her obvious dislike for Sister Margaret now only made the fight that much sweeter for her.