Chapter 28: Reunion

Jim Brightman, Mike Peterson and Fr. Ambrose sat around Vi's kitchen table. They sat sipping coffee following one of Vi's delicious meals. She decided to leave the three old friends alone and slipped off to the other room.

It was a time for catching up, for reliving old memories as older men often do. Time slipped away as they talked. Vi came in, put another pot of coffee on the stove and served up dishes of fresh apple pie with homemade ice cream on the side. They hardly noticed; Jim bobbed his head and smiled in quiet appreciation as she caught his eye and winked. She set the coffee pot back on the stove after refilling their cups.

Fr. Ambrose grew increasingly concerned as the evening hour grew late. Mike noticed but hesitated to intrude on the good mood they'd all shared that evening. Finally, though, he had to comment:

"Ambrose, something is bothering you. I can see it in your eyes. What is it?"

Fr. Ambrose stared down into his cup for a long minute, then raised his head and glanced quickly at Mike and then Jim.

"No, I don't suppose I can keep this to myself, not after all we've come through. It's the children. I can't get it out of my head that so many of them are trusting the priests of my church, and some, like poor Marilee, have had their trust violated in the most horrible way.

"But that's not the worst of it, as bad as that is. No. The whole thing continues to be covered up. The bishops and those higher, they hide the crimes by covering up for the abusers, the molesters. They transfer them from away from their accusers and they never face justice. It's the worst kind of violation, to use the house of the Lord and the trust in his servants to conceal such vile, criminal acts."

Moments of silence followed. Mike broke their grim preoccupation:

"I suppose we should do something about Kansas City, then."

Fr. Ambrose drove down the mountain later that evening, deep in thought. There was someone in Kansas City who could be a great help, but he had reservations about involving her. Theirs was a precious friendship, forged during years of service together.

He and Sister Agatha first met where she was the only nurse in an Asian mission clinic. She had trained two village women as mid-wives and helpers and they were able to cope with most needs. Fr. Ambrose and Sister Agatha were later forced to leave when a change in government made it impossible to remain in the country. They found other missions that were more tolerant and they worked together until she was recalled to the States. He left to continue his spiritual service in other remote and hazardous locations.

They managed to correspond using a mail forwarding service. Letters would be long delayed if one of them relocated to a difficult location but the letters would eventually arrive, often in a thick and battered bundle.

Sister Agatha eventually settled in a residential home operated for aged sisters of her order. She was semi-retired herself, but continued to work by supervising the home and caring for the more elderly residents. Her correspondence with Ambrose was frequent and detailed; they had lived much of their lives together. In most ways they were like brother and sister, if not soul mates.

She was a vital and brilliant soul, as active as he in mind and spirit. He knew that she'd have a keen knowledge of affairs in the Kansas City religious community. If there were hidden troubles, she'd have knowledge of it.

He called Sister Agatha the next morning. He was more troubled following a long conversation with her. She would not discuss particulars, but he could tell that she was very disturbed by events. He also suspected that not all was well with their home or her situation.

He returned to the Brightman ranch early that evening for another meeting with Jim and Mike. He explained what he'd learned, and told them he was worried for a dear friend. Of course, he then had to reveal more of his history and his long friendship with Sister Agatha.

They decided that he and Mike would journey to Kansas City. They'd get more details from Sister Agatha, and if she confirmed what Fr. Ambrose suspected, they would gather evidence from a possible network of friends and families. They were hopeful that many would offer proof to confirm rumors and suspicions. If this was successful, they would seek an audience with the bishop. They would confront him with their proofs, and force his cooperation to end the practice of transfers and denials.

It was an ambitious plan but none could rest until they made the attempt.

Fr. Ambrose announced to his Sunday congregation that he would be gone for three or more weeks. He trusted the lay volunteers of the church to handle matters. There were friends in the east he wished to visit, ones he might not see again if he didn't go now. He thanked everyone for their indulgence and promised to return, "very soon, only a few weeks. You'll hardly know I'm gone."

He was indeed looking forward to the trip and seeing his good friend again, but he wasn't sure how comfortable it would be. There was no way his tired, worn out car could go that far, or hope to come back. He didn't think his body could endure riding a Greyhound bus that distance, and he couldn't possibly fly.

Well, the good Lord has always provided. My duty is to take the first step; the Lord will clear the path, he mumbled to himself while he closed the chapel door and started down the steps to his car. He was going home to pack one battered suitcase and a small valise. He dare not take more than he could carry if he must ride the bus.

That's odd. Where's my car?

He looked up and down the drive and the street but there was no sign of the old Ford.

"Hullo, Mike! Did those kids hot-wire my car again? I thought they'd agreed not to do that after all the trouble their joy-ride got them into last year?" He'd called out to Mike who was standing out in front of the chapel leaning against a new Buick.

That's odd, Fr. Ambrose thought. Mike doesn't own a car. He usually borrows Jim's jeep.

"No, old friend, the kids didn't make off with your car. I did. I swiped the keys from your desk and sold it to the junk yard. I expect it's on its way to the crusher by now ... it'll soon be a cube of scrap metal for the furnace!"

"Here now, you heathen man! What's this, stealing my car? And what's that glorified rich man's chariot you're leaning so carelessly up against? Who went off and left that parked in front of the chapel?"

"Rich man's chariot, you say? When did you become rich, old man?"

"Hey! Who are you calling 'old man, ' you old renegade? I'll thank you to have a bit of respect for a distinguished veteran of many year's service to His faithful. And what's this about me becomin' rich? Did you put some bad herb in your latest concoction? You must be hallucinating to be accusing me of becoming rich. That's rich! Ha!"

"Well, you can call me crazy or hallucinating, or you can call me standing here without a ride if you don't climb in your car and offer me a lift to that shack you call home, you 'distinguished veteran' of the Lord's service! So how about it? Do I get a ride in your new car or not?"

And with that, Mike tossed the Buick's keys to an astonished Ambrose and reminded him that if he didn't park his bones behind the steering wheel and get the car moving down the street, neither of them would be going anywhere.

When he'd settled in and acquainted himself with his luxurious new automobile, and puzzled out where to put the key and engage the starter (there was no starter button on the dash; he had to twist the key to engage the starter) and had seen that the new-fangled automatic transmission shift lever moved from "P" to "D" to move the car forward, Fr. Ambrose started questioning Mike about how this had happened.

"Let's just say that a grateful friend of yours was sick of smelling the foul smoke from your old car every time he found himself following you. And he was afraid it would break down and leave you stranded somewhere and you'd perish and we'd have all the fuss and bother of trying to replace you. Perish the thought! So a plot was hatched and the funds provided. This car was traded in by a wealthy businessman who drove it for less than a year. He wanted something more impressive, a new Cadillac. This one is paid for, licensed, and all you have to do is sign the papers."

"Paid for, you say? I don't need to be watching in my mirror all the time for Deputy Thompson's flashing lights, pulling me over to check this against the stolen car list?"

"Be still, old friend. It's your car and it's getting late. My bags are packed and in the trunk. I suggest you stop worrying your half-bald head and put both hands on the wheel. The sooner you get us to your shack and toss your spare collar in that battered old leather suitcase of yours, the sooner we can hit the road for Kansas City." Fr. Ambrose grinned to himself. Yes, the Lord shows the path if one is committed to taking the first step. He's also provided a dear friend to share the road with me!

It is 1800 miles from the Methow Valley to Kansas City. By late afternoon Wednesday they had checked into a small hotel room not far from the section of the city where Sister Agatha lived with a dozen frail sisters of her order. They visited her early the next morning, after breakfast.

"It is lamentable, Father. The funds have dried up; the Order is not able to keep this home open very much longer. We have been told to make plans to leave. I'm afraid the older ones are being forced into charity nursing homes as wards of the state. There is nothing I can do. I have no money to help them, and I refuse to go into a nursing home. I am able to care for myself and I will not be shut away somewhere, waiting to die!"

"What will happen to the house, this building, then?" Fr. Ambrose asked.

"I am told it will be sold. The funds will be used for other, more urgent needs."

"There's no appeal, then? The decision has been made?"