CCLaP Journal #5

insecurity, of never measuring up, and he feared he used the cloak of the cloth to obscure his inadequacy. If he believed long and hard enough that he did indeed measure up, would perception not eventually be that such was the case? He hoped so.

Maybe his own perception of himself would begin to resemble, in time, this perception he desired to instill in others. He really hoped so.

Ah, crap, was all Gus thought, after his collision with Father Ernest, vaguely aware that the same few pairs of eyes that had nothing better to do than watch him end a conversation sort of embarrassingly moments earlier were now watching him with far more apparent amusement. True, their numbers had multiplied to everyone at the bruncheon. Why me, lord, was what he next thought. And so too did Father Ernest, almost at that exact moment, although of course neither one of them knew it. Must have been some form of divine serendipity, this thought jinx.

Then all at once Gus shot to his feet, apologizing and shuffling away clumsily like a bad liar. Reproving eyes followed after him, certain as they were that he could have done more to assist the stricken Father Ernest.

For his own part, Father Ernest shook the cobwebs off as he climbed up to his knees and cracked a weak smile as if to demonstrate no harm done. The bruncheon must go on, this being what he seemed to shrug. No one stood to help Father Ernest to his feet.

Now Gus returned to church with his tail between legs. Of course, who knew what might have come of Gus’s churchgoing life had things happened differently that fateful day last April? He might have been changed and made over new, and maybe then his boy wouldn’t have left. There was no time to worry about ifs, anymore. The time for that had passed. He needed direction. He hoped Father Ernest had suffered no long-term injury and would not be too disgusted with Gus’s previous insult and embarrassment to help him in this, Gus’s hour of need.

Father Ernest wasn’t about to refuse anyone his guidance. He was meant to be an all-embracing steward in life’s ever-undulating current. This was more or less what he said to anyone who sought his help, in order to plant the seed that he was a capable man offering sound advice. No one questioned him, not openly. But he distrusted himself and his own conviction, certain as he was that he must be more than a trifle transparent to the careful eye, or even the oblivious eye. Truly whatever eye.

Gus found Father Ernest passively occupied. He was flipping through and then what looked like adjusting a Bible on the pulpit. He seemed ready for, if not anticipating, an interruption.

“Father Ernest? You might not remember me. Gus Wilkins. I had a run-in with you last year.”

“Yes, I’ll say you did. Of course I remember it. How could I forget? It was memorable. We literally ran into each other. But that’s the past and the past has passed.

What is it exactly that I can do for you now, Gus?”

“It’s about my son. See he’s gone off away from his mother and me. I want him back. I’m worried that I’ve done or maybe said something that caused him to go. — Sorry about knocking you over by the way. I look back to that day as part of a really strange, confusing time for me. You’re all right, right?”

“Don’t mention it. These things happen,” he said, and he meant it. “I wouldn’t worry about your role in your son’s leaving. Fathers do and say all kinds of crazy things, sometimes literally crazy things. Take my father. He was a stern, ascetic man, piously devout and devoted to the Catholic faith. Sure, he would laugh on occasion, but just on 50 | The CCLaP Journal