Chapter 10

Max made the appointment with the chaplain. I told my crew chief I'd be seeing the chaplain, and would advise him of the date as soon as I had the appointment. Whatever else you can say about the Air Force, it makes sure it doesn't interfere with religious freedom any more than it can help. There are chaplains, and anyone can visit with one, and no one asked any questions about this instance. Max got us an appointment for January 7, the first Monday in the month, and I passed that on to my crew chief, and he gave me the whole day off.

Max picked me up that morning at my place. It seemed she'd gotten the day off too, for she was in civilian clothes – a bulky coat with fur, or at least fake fur, around the collar and wrists, a pair of black jeans, and hiking boots on her feet. I was in my usual khaki pants and polo shirt, with a heavy jean jacket over it all. She drove well, getting us to the base chapel a few minutes early. We waited, and then right on the dot an airman showed us in to see the chaplain.

He stood and came around his desk, dressed in blues without a tie, the insignia of a lieutenant colonel on his collar. "I'm Father Bruce Johnson," he said.

"I'm Derek Alba," I told him, "and this is Max Bois d'Arc."

"If you don't mind, I'll use your first names," the chaplain said. "It was you, Max, who set up this appointment."

She nodded and we all took our chairs. "Yes, sir."

"What can I help you with?"

"Well, we've got a situation and we don't know how to handle it."

"That's why I'm here. Why don't you tell me about it?"

She hesitated. "Neither of us is Catholic, Father. What we tell you ... will it be confidential?"

"I take you to be asking whether it'll be under the seal of the confessional."

"I guess that's right." Max reached over and took my hand, and held it as she spoke.

"Since neither of you is Catholic, this can hardly be confession, and in any event confession is private – you couldn't both make a confession at the same time. The seal of the confessional wouldn't, therefore, apply. I wouldn't, though, speak casually to others of what you tell me here."

"The thing is," Max said, "if we tell you what our situation is, we'll be telling you about violations of Air Force regulations. Would you have to tell anyone about that – to rat us out?"

He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "Without knowing what the violations are, I can't be specific in any promise I make. I'm sure you can understand that. But I can say that unless you confess information which can prevent, or lead to justice in the case of, a heinous offense, I won't pass it on. I mean offenses such as murder, rape, child molestation, things like that."

"It's nothing like that, Father," Max said.

"Then why don't you tell me how things are, and we'll see what help I can give you."

She took a deep breath, and squeezed my hand. "The key to it is that Derek and I have a very close friendship, a relationship which neither of us is willing to give up, and which is growing closer all the time. And I'm a lieutenant, and he's a senior airman."

"You're right – this involves violations of the regulations." The chaplain tapped his index fingers against his chin. "I'm sure you know the Air Force's position."

"Yes, sir," Max said.

"And you, Derek?"

"Yes, sir, I know. Please, don't think I'm standing mute or something like that. I haven't said anything yet because Max has been speaking for both of us – not that we planned it, it's just that what she's said goes for me too."

"Don't you mean that Lieutenant Bois d'Arc has been speaking for both of you?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "But I call her by her name most of the time. I didn't mean to here, but because of the confidentiality and all, I suppose I just relaxed too much."

He nodded. "The fact that you could relax under any circumstances to that extent tells me something about the relationship. Please, if it's more comfortable for you, call her by name while we're in here." He sighed. "As a priest I hold to the doctrine that Christ receives all who come to Him. As Protestants you would probably disagree with me on the mechanism of that coming to Christ, but I think you would agree that before Him, all men and women are equal." Max and I both nodded. "So, as a priest, my reaction is to ask why your relationship troubles you.

"But I am also a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force. I don't take these oak leaves lightly. I don't take my oath lightly. And as an officer, my reaction is to order you to immediately break off the relationship before you find yourselves facing disciplinary action."

"So which reaction do we get?" I asked him.

He looked down for a moment, at his desk, it seemed. When he looked back up he said, "Let me tell you a story.

"Not long after I was ordained the church assigned me to a parish in Flagstaff, Arizona. I enjoyed the parish, I liked the people, and of course I had my vocation to the pastoral ministry. Everything seemed to be going well. But there was a woman in that parish, a widow. Her husband had been in the Army, and had been killed in a training accident. She came to me, as her pastor, for comfort – and fell in love with me. That isn't completely uncommon. But I fell in love with her as well.

"That is not usual. The church doesn't ordain priests unless it's sure we have a true vocation – that we're called to the ministry, I believe is the Protestant phrase. I had taken an oath of celibacy, and I meant it when I said it. And now I wanted desperately to marry this woman, and she wanted to marry me. It wasn't so much a sexual yearning, as a desire for marriage on both our parts. We longed for each other intellectually, spiritually...

"I had a choice to make, and so did she. We sat down one day and talked about it. I could either request a release from my vows, and marry her. Or I could be true to those vows, and we could agree never to be with each other except as pastor and parishioner ever again. It was agonizing for us. We both prayed intensely about it. I thought I might go insane from the stress of it.

"But we came to the same conclusion – that for us, it was right that I remain a priest, and request a transfer to another parish. What we wanted was, we both came to believe, contrary to the will of God. I requested the transfer and received it, and a few years later entered the Air Force. I have not seen or heard from her since then.

"What I'm saying is that I was once in a similar situation, and for me the right thing to do was remain within the structure that prohibited the relationship. I remained in the priesthood, and gave up the woman I loved. Your choice, Max and Derek, is whether you're going to remain within the structure – the Air Force – or pursue the relationship. If you choose the Air Force, then your relationship must end. Any other decision will result, inevitably, in punishment for one or both of you. If you choose to continue the relationship, then one or both of you must leave the Air Force, in order to prevent punishment from falling."

I looked at Max, and she looked at me. There were tears on her face, and I pulled her to me and held her for a moment. When she pulled back, I let her go, and we both turned back to the chaplain. "How will we know what's best for us?" I asked.

"First, you both need to independently determine whether you love each other – Max, you need to decide whether you love Derek, and Derek, you must decide whether you love Max. When you both know that, then you must decide whether your feelings, whatever they prove to be, are more important to you than your Air Force careers. You must each decide whether the other is more important than your careers. And once you've decided that, you must act on the decision."

Max groaned softly. "I had hoped you would be able to tell us yes or no, go on or stop. But you're saying that you can't make that decision for us."

"No, I can't." His voice was very gentle. "I wish I could. I can see how much pain you're both in, and if I could I would remove it. If I had a magic wand with which I could resolve impossible situations, I'd wave it many times every day. But I don't. All I can do is counsel you regarding what seems to me to be the best course of action. And, of course, I can pray for you."

"You know, colonel," I said, "I'm Portuguese, and my family's been Catholic for generations back. And yet I think Max is more comfortable with you than I am. I think my Protestant position is maybe more rigid than hers is. And when you say you'll pray for us I want to protest." I smiled a bit at the notion of a Protestant protesting. "But the fact is that we need all the help we can get."

"I won't contest that," he said. "I could arrange for you to speak with a Protestant chaplain if you'd like, if you think it would help."

"No, this is fine," Max said. "Derek's not complaining, just explaining. Though I suppose he could complain if that were his style. Your prescription isn't an easy one."

"I know that it's not. But it's the best one. Whatever you both think of my particular faith, I do seek the truth, and I seek to speak the truth. I'm probably as appalled as you are at reports of perverted or abusive or dishonest or lazy priests. I take my vocation seriously. And all I can tell you is what I see to be the truth."

Max nodded, and pulled me up with her as she stood. "Thank you, Father. You didn't give us a simple answer, but you gave us one we can put into action. You've been a help, even if you haven't been the help we wanted."

He stood up as well, and shook hands with each of us. "I hope that you'll resolve this soon. Neither of you needs the grief that will come if your relationship becomes public knowledge."

"No," I said, "we don't. Thanks." And we turned to go.

When I got home that day I invited Max in, but she excused herself. "I'm sorry, Derek, but I can't today. I want to – but I need to think. I need to ask myself that question."

I didn't need to ask which question she meant. I started to get out of her car, and then I turned and leaned over, and kissed her cheek. "Remember me, Max," I said, and then I did get out. I walked up to the door without looking back, but I didn't unlock it till I'd heard her drive away. I didn't think she needed any reminders to remember me. I certainly didn't need any to remember her. Even if I never saw her again, I'd remember Max Bois d'Arc forever.

I'd come up with a plan during the ride home, and in a way it was just as well that Max had begged off. I could start on my plan now, instead of waiting. I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and pen, and began writing down names. Once I had a fairly long list, I went over it again, scratching off everyone who I wouldn't be willing to tell my deepest secrets to. I didn't have that many secrets, but it was gong to be that kind of thing.

In the end I had half a dozen names. I looked them over, then got my address book from the drawer beside the sink. I wrote down phone numbers by the names, and looked at the list again. I decided to eliminate two of the names. And then I started making phone calls.

One of the names I called was available that day, so I got on my bike and rode. He'd given me directions, and I was glad he had, for the place was hard to get to from anywhere. If I'd known I'd have asked him to meet me halfway. His name was Darvin Carpenter, and he was the newest elder of the church I attended. I hadn't known anyone in Albuquerque very long, but what I'd seen of him and heard of him led me to believe I could ask him my question, that he'd give me a straight answer, and that he wouldn't spread it around.

I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, helmet in hand, unzipping my jacket as I warmed up. When I got off the elevator I turned right down the hall, and there at the end, on the left, was the door. I opened it and went in. To my right there was a desk with a sign on it that said GO ON BACK. I looked, and there was another door. I set my helmet on the desk, and walked toward the door. I knocked, and heard a voice call, "Come on in!"

I did, and there was Darvin. I'd learned early on that he preferred people to call him by his first name. He looked like a cowboy – deep tan, heavy walrus mustache, and the clothes. He stood up and reached across his desk to shake my hand. "How goes it, Derek?" he asked.

"Confusing," I told him. I looked around the office. His desk was more or less in the left rear corner of the office, with just enough room on the left – my left, his right – for someone to get around it. There was a refrigerator against the right hand wall, and framed prints on the walls. Behind him, on the wall, was a framed portrait of him and his family – his wife and daughter. The floor was wood, and the desk was clearly expensive, though one corner held some major scars. Darvin's chair looked like one a judge or a 19^th-century robber baron might have, leather, with a high back and brass studs holding the upholstery down.