This appears in a pre-2010 issue of cc&d magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

get this writing in the collection book weathered Download (PDF file of the full book, in color): $4.95 paperback (5.5" x 8.5") w/ b&w interior pages: $18.95 hardcover (6" x 9") w/ b&w interior pages: $29.95 paperback (6" x 9" perfect-bound book) w/ color interior pages, for 89.95 hardcover (6" x 9") w/ color interior pages, for $74.95

The Pastor Priest Sexton, and the Man in Green

Jim Meirose

    The church arched solidly over the Sexton as he dragged his mop and pail to the end of the marble-floored aisle and headed toward the vestibule. Father Barnes, the associate pastor, came through the door thumbing a black leather breviary. The Sexton came up to him.
    Father, excuse me, said the Sexton. There is something I need to report.
    Pausing, the priest looked up, sighing deeply.
    What is it?
    The Sexton took a deep breath, then answered.
    Every day a man in green comes in the church, goes up to the altar rail and is calm for a short while, but then he starts acting like he’s fighting with himself—
    What do you mean, fighting with himself, interrupted the priest, lowering his narrow eyed dark-browed face.
    He wraps and unwraps his arms from around himself, replied the Sexton, and grips his hands together and writhes and half-kneels, then stands, then kneels—like he’s having some kind of a convulsion, and then he calms and takes a mass book out from the pocket under the front pew and tears out the pages and scatters them on the floor, and then he turns around goes up the aisle and out the front of the church.
    Father Barnes rubbed at his sharp chin and tapped the breviary against his hip.
    This is clearly a troubled man, he told the Sexton. He needs our prayers—but he shouldn’t be destroying church property.
    I know. And its me who has to clean up after him—
    Then confront him, said the priest. The next time he does it, confront him and tell him he should not rip up mass books and make a mess of things.
    The sexton shuffled a foot uneasily.
    It’s mine to tell him this?
    I think so, said Father Barnes. Put a stop to it. Talk to him. After all, said the priest gravely, as sexton the order of the church at all times is in your hands.
    Yes Father, said the Sexton, nodding. The priest returned the nod and stepped past and slowly went on out a side door of the church. The Sexton pushed the mop and bucket through to a utility closet hidden in a corner of the vestibule and wrung out the mop and emptied the bucket and came out and closed the door. He went back to the wide door at the head of the main aisle, and looked out over the tall long vaulted space of statues, crucifixes, laces and linens and solid stone and wide dark polished pews. The light slanted in through the high stained windows, purples and rose colors and yellows greens and blues.
    What a responsibility, he thought.
    Yes. I will confront him.
    The next day dawned brightly. The Sexton started early as was his habit. He dusted his way one by one along the ornately carved stations of the cross that lined the side aisles of the church. Lowering his dustmop at a sudden sound from the rear of the church, he turned. The man in green came down the center aisle, went straight to the altar rail, and looked up at the high altar, which stood before a great wide arched stained glass window of Jesus and Mary. The Sexton squeezed the dustmop handle as the man stood quietly for a moment before raising one arm and gripping it with the other, twisting around wrapping and unwrapping his arms about himself and going down on one knee on the hard marble. He brought one hand up to his throat, then struggled to pull it away with the other—he shuffled and writhed and bumped against the smoothly polished altar rail, then stopped dead in mid-struggle, and stood quiet. The colored light played down from the windows over him as he slowly turned to the nearest pew, leaned down, got out a mass book, and started ripping page after page out of the book and dropping them on the marble floor in the center of the main aisle. The Sexton tensed his grip on the dustrag.
    —Confront him, had said the priest with a harsh tone. The order of the church, at all times, is in your hands.
    The Sexton stepped out from between the pews, went down the aisle with his hand raised, and spoke.
    You should not be destroying church property. You should not do this any more.
    The man in green’s sharp face fell pale. He clasped his hands together before him and half bowed to the Sexton, his eyes shining.
    I know, he said. Forgive me, please, though, I can’t help myself, oh, I don’t want to do it but I must, I must—
    He fell to one knee and gripped the Sexton’s pant leg.
    Please forgive me. Please, he said, head bowed.
    The Sexton spoke gently to the pitiful man.
    Its all right, its all right—just don’t do it anymore.
    Placing his hand over his face, the man spoke.
    But I can’t promise that. I can’t help myself. But I may stop if you pray for me, Father—please pray for me and maybe some day I can stop.
    Father, thought the Sexton, standing before the bowed man. He called me Father.
    The order of the church, at all times, is in my hands.
    The Sexton stepped back, gently pulling his pant leg away from the man in green’s light grip.
    I’ll pray for you, said the Sexton. The man in green rose, his face ashen. Darkness lay in the hollows of his cheeks.
    Thank you Father.
    The Sexton nodded, his mouth set.
    Father, he called me Father—
    The man rose and pushed past and rushed from the church. The Sexton went on with his dusting and polishing, row after row, through the morning, rubbing strongly with long broad strokes, a tyhin smile on his face.
    Father. What if I was really Father—
    Power.
    Late that afternoon Father Barnes appeared, coming in through the sacristy and down the main aisle where the Sexton leaned polishing the last of the pews. The priest paused.
    Did that man you told me about come here today?
    Yes he did, said the Sexton, standing straight. And I had words with him—as you suggested.
    Well—did you take care of things? Did he promise to not come back and tear up mass books any more?
    The Sexton looked down, then up, before speaking softly.
    No, he didn’t promise. He’s clearly a troubled man—he asked me to pray for him and I said I would—
    The priest cut the air before him with his breviary.
    Prayer, no, don’t talk about prayer—what exactly did he say? Will he be coming back to do it again, or not?
    He might, said the Sexton.
    Then I will take care of this problem myself. Does he come here every day?
    Every day or two—
    Then I will wait here tomorrow and confront him myself. Go on with your work, Sexton. I’ll be back tomorrow.
    Nodding, the Sexton returned to his dusting. He moved more slowly than before.
    Sexton, not Father—
    Only Sexton.
    Father Barnes turned and went up the marble floored aisle to the back of the church and opened the door of the confessional booth he had come to ready for that night’s services. The door creaked open and he looked out a moment over the wide expanse of the church, with the Sexton stooping slowly rubbing the pew backs with his rag.
    The poor man, he thought. Good to clean the church, clean the dirt and the dust and mop the floors and keep the candles fresh and to keep the altar linens clean but—there are problems he can’t deal with. And those would be mine to deal with. And he thought prayer would solve this—if only. The poor man. If only it were all that simple—
    Quickly turning toward the confessional, Father Barnes arranged the white curtain over the small square opening and pushed the oak kneeler tight against the wall.
    Clearly the order of the church is in my hands. Not his.
    The next morning dawned cloudy with a light drizzle. The church filled with dim colors from the stained glass as Father Barnes sat reading his breviary in the last pew at the back, in the corner. Raindrops lightly pattered on the glass. The priest struggled to keep from nodding off in the cool and quiet until the back doors tapped open and the man in green came in. He strode down the aisle to the altar rail and quickly knelt, head bowed and hands clasped. Father Barnes pulled himself down into himself to make himself smaller in the pew, closed the breviary, and waited. The man knelt quietly, then half-rose, grabbing himself by the collar and shaking himself savagely, then pulling that arm away with the other—his pale face shone in the dim colored light as he tore at the front of his shirt and wrapped and unwrapped his arms around himself several times before going down on one knee with his hands gripped together. Bending further, he went on all fours, then pulled himself to the ground by the throat and lay stretched out in the aisle a moment—then he leapt up rod-straight and stood still a second before leaning into the nearest pew, getting a mass book, and starting to tear the pages out one by one letting them flutter to the floor. The priest rose in the pew and made his way to the center aisle. The man stood facing away from him. The pages fell. The priest went up and spoke.
    Stop this now.
    The man turned holding the torn mass book in his hands.
    Stop? he said. Says who—you?
    The man leered in the stained glass light. The priest put one hand on his stomach and gestured with the other.
    Yes. I say so. I’m responsible for this place.
    Then, said the man, screwing up his face, here’s what I think of you and your damned place.
    He spat heavily into the spot where the pews met the floor. Smiling, he raised the torn up mass book in front of the priest.
    I go where I want, he said, and I do what I want.
    The priest stood open-mouthed.
    But I am responsible for the—
    The man pushed his face close to the priest, smelling dirty unshaven and unwashed.
    Are you going to stop me?
    You should not do this—
    But you’re not going to stop me. Now here, he said, throwing the mass book to the side. Let me by.
    The man pushed past the priest and scuffed heavily along the marble aisle and left. The priest stood blankly at the altar rail, hands trembling.
    But clearly the order of the church is in my hands—
    The Sexton came out the door of the sacristy with a dust mop in his hands, and came toward Father Barnes.
    Clearly—
    What’s wrong, asked the Sexton. Is something wrong— you’re white as a sheet.
    No, said the priest, drawing himself up to full height. Nothing is wrong. Go on with your work—clean up this mess.
    He left the Sexton standing in the circle of torn pages as he clasped his shaking hands together and went up the main aisle to leave.
    No wonder the Sexton could not get that man to promise. That man has no regard for anyone—anyone at all.
    Father Barnes rubbed his silver ring as he walked.
    I must discuss this with the Pastor. I can’t allow it to go on.
    That evening Father Barnes sat across the plain wooden dinner table from the Pastor and slowly ate his meal of sausages and mashed potatoes. He ate slower than usual and more quietly.
    What’s wrong, Father Barnes, said the Pastor, wiping his tall forehead. You haven’t said a word since dinner started.
    Father Barnes’ fork hung in mid-air.
    I’ve something on my mind, he told the Pastor. I need to tell you about it.
    What is it, said the Pastor, lightly chewing a piece of sausage and tapping the fork against the plate.
    Each day a disturbed man comes into the church and tears up a mass book and leaves. For no good reason.
    What makes you think he is disturbed?
    Father Barnes described the man’s struggles with himself that always led up to the destruction of the mass book. The Pastor swallowed heavily, then leaned forward.
    Well—it is wrong for him to destroy church property. You need to confront him about this.
    I have.
    You have—so where’s the problem?
    He was offensive to me. He said he’d do what he wants when he wants and then he spat on the floor—
    What, said the Pastor, putting down his fork and half- rising. He spat on the floor of the church? In front of you?
    Yes.
    And you stood there and let him?
    Yes, said father Barnes. But—
    But nothing, said the Pastor, rising to full height. You will confront this man again and see to it that he does not come back. Its your duty as a priest to safeguard the church, said the Pastor, wagging his finger and sitting heavily down. The meal ended in silence with both avoiding eye contact and when it was over Father Barnes walked slowly down the dark hallway and went up the narrow stairs toward his room with his hands clasped loosely before him.
    I will confront him again. I must be stronger this time.
    What a responsibility it is to be a priest.
    The next day Father Barnes once more sat in the last pew of the church in the damp cool of the early morning and read his breviary slowly, waiting. The man did not come in that day, or the next, or the next.
    Maybe he will not come back—maybe he has changed his ways— He smiled walking across the sunny garden to the rectory.
    Yes. That one time was enough, I made him change his ways—
    Idly turning to the left, he saw the man in green out on the sidewalk heading toward the front steps of the church. Heart sinking, he turned back toward the church and went in the side door. As he entered, he drew a deep breath.
    I will put a stop to this. It is my responsibility.
    Father Barnes stood in the shadows to the side as the man in green came down the center aisle, reached the altar rail, leant on it a moment, then slapped himself hard across the face again and again with one hand while strangling himself until he was blue in the face with the other—then he fell to his knees and bent forward and, gripping himself by his thinning hair, he slammed his forehead down against the marble floor and knelt silently motionless with his head on the floor before he slowly rose, went to the front pew and got out a mass book and once more tore the pages out and let them flutter to the floor.
    The priest solidly stepped forward from the shadows.
    I told you before, he said. And I’m telling you now. You must stop this, and leave, and not come back.
    The man in green froze and focused his pale eyes into Father Barnes’ before dropping the mass book and falling to his knees.
    Father—oh, Father, I am sorry, so sorry, I can’t help myself—I am sorry for it all—
    Father Barnes blinked.
    Please, said the man, leaning forward gripping Father Barnes’ limp hand. Please forgive me.
    The hand was cold. Father Barnes’ mouth set into a hard line.
    What to say—
    Father Barnes spoke softly.
    Then you will not do this any more?
    I must keep doing it. I can’t help myself. But if you pray for me, maybe, maybe some day I can stop—
    Father Barnes’ eyes narrowed.
    Yes, go on say what you’re taught to say what you’re taught to believe let it come—
    You should pray also, said Father Barnes, squeezing the man’s hand. If we both pray, then things are sure to turn out for the best.
    Lord God, thank you, said the man. Quickly rising, he turned and went quickly down the aisle and left the church. The wide doors closed over him. Father Barnes stood in the center of the circle of torn out pages.
    Prayer will solve this. Both his prayers and mine—
    Lord God let prayer work.
    Just this one time.
    That evening, Father Barnes sat eating his bean soup across the table from the Pastor. The Pastor took a spoonful, licked his thin lips, and asked a question.
    Has that man been in the church any more?
    What man?
    The man that tears up the books.
    Oh—yes he has, said Father Barnes, spooning up the soup.
    And have you seen to it that he will not be tearing up any more?
    He told me he was sorry, said Father Barnes. We decided together to both pray for him to stop—
    Then he said he’d stop?
    Father Barnes slowly stirred the soup.
    No—he didn’t. He didn’t say that—
    Then what did he say? Did he spit on the floor again?
    No—he said he was sorry, that he couldn’t help himself—
    Did he tear up a mass book?
    Yes he did—
    And will he come back?
    He might—but we are both praying that he might stop—
    Enough!
    The Pastor rose, his face reddened. He ran his wide white hand down the front of his black robe, then pointed into the face of Father Barnes.
    I can see I will have to take care of this myself, said the Pastor. You were to have gotten his promise not to do it any more but you did not so I will just have to take care of it myself. Leave the table, Father. Go to your room and think on this failure.
    Yes Father, nodded Father Barnes, dropping his eyes and slowly rising. The Pastor stood holding his spoon as the priest pushed by heading for the narrow dining room door, his head bowed. When the priest was gone, the Pastor sat down and slowly finished the last of his soup.
    The poor man, he thought. Good to say mass, hand out communion, hear confessions and say his daily office, pray for people, but—there are problems he can’t deal with. And those would be mine to deal with. The poor man.
    Pushing away his empty bowl, the Pastor dabbed a napkin at his lips before rising and slowly moving from the room.
    Clearly the order of the church is in my hands. Not his.
    The next day the Pastor went across the garden through the rain into the side door of the church. He sat in a pew about halfway back. The oily waxy acrid smoky smell of snuffed out candles from this morning’s mass still hung in the air now, hours later. Mother Mary and St. Peter and St. Joseph looked down from their niches in the tall stone walls. The Pastor rubbed at his eyes.
    It’s so closed in in here, the air’s stuffy, always stuffy—
    Fighting to stay awake in the heavy air, the Pastor remained about an hour, then left. He came into the church each morning for three days and sat in the same pew running a black rosary through his fingers to stay awake.
    When will this man come, maybe Father Barnes did the job after all—maybe he will not come back—
    The doors banged open and the man in green shuffled quickly past, long thin hair waving, rubbing his arms and hands together again and again as he walked. He went by the Pastor as though he weren’t there. The Pastor leaned forward as the man reached the altar rail and heavily knelt with his head in his hands. The Pastor sat gaping as the man slowly ran his hands back through his hair, then half-rose and hit himself in the stomach once, twice as hard as he could, then bent and slammed his forehead on the pink veined marble altar rail three or four times before sliding down onto the floor and lying there on his back, his great eyes popped out toward the high dark ceiling as he choked himself with both hands, then lay there motionless. The Pastor sat frozen.
    He’s killed himself—lord God, he’s killed himself—
    Suddenly the man drew himself to his feet, calmly stepped to the closest pew, got out a mass book, and stood over the spot where he’d lain tearing pages from the book and letting them flutter slowly to the floor.
    The Pastor rose and stepped down the aisle, hand out.
    You. Now listen here. Stop this now!
    The man turned quickly with great wide pale eyes.
    Who says I should stop, he snapped sharply. You?
    Yes. I am Pastor here and what you are doing is wrong. Put down the mass book and leave, and don’t come back unless you promise to behave yourself—
    The man stepped forward, gripped the Pastor by his shirt, looked him closely in the face, and spoke.
    I do what I want! You’re nothing but a bastard to me. Pastor. Shit. I spit on the Pastor—
    He spat with great volume into the pastor’s face.
    Lord God-
    He let go the Pastor’s shirt as though throwing him backward. The Pastor half-fell stumbling against the pew, rubbing his wet face with his sleeve. The church seemed to spin.
    He pushed me, he spit on me—he called me bastard—
    The man pointed into the Pastor’s face and shouted, his voice echoing among the candles statues lace linen and crucifixes and coming down off the high vaulted ceiling.
    I do what I want! I’ll come here as often as I want. As a matter of fact, every day from now on! Every day at this same time! And no one can stop me. Especially not you, you little bastard!
    Bastard—he keeps calling me bastard I am no bastard—
    The man threw the torn mass book to the floor and pushed past stomping heavily up the aisle and went out the wide front doors of the church. The Pastor stood there, trembling, gagging. The Sexton came in the side door with a mop. Alarmed, he rushed to the Pastor.
    Father, he said. What’s wrong. Why are you leaning there like that—can I help you—
    The Pastor struggled to gain his breath.
    Father—there, see, I am a priest, not a bastard—
    Pastor—pastor, answer me, said the Sexton, placing a hand gently on the Pastor’s shoulder. Are you all right? What has happened?
    See. Pastor. Pastor. Not just any priest. Not a bastard. Pastor.
    Nothing, said the Pastor, pushing away from leaning on the pew and running a hand down his damp sleeve. Nothing at all, he said. Go on with your work—clean up this mess. I need to go to my office. There’s a phone call I must make.
    There was no reason for him to treat me so brutally—
    Rubbing a hand on the side of his neck he went out the door through the rain in the garden, into the rectory and down the narrow dark paneled hall to his office.
    There is no reason ever for anyone to be as brutal as that to anyone else—
    Raising the phone to his ear, he dialed quickly.
    Police? he said. I’m the Pastor at St. Stephen’s church on Walnut Street. I’ve got to report something outrageous—
    The next day the Pastor, the Sexton, Father Barnes and a policeman stood near the back of the church by the heavily carved confessional boxes, waiting for the man in green. The stocky policeman stood tall with his hand hooked into his wide black belt and glanced more and more often at his watch.
    Are you sure he’ll show, asked the policeman. Its nearly ten o’clock.
    He said he would, said the Pastor, running his white hand through his greying hair. The Sexton and Father Barnes stood blank-faced. The policeman leaned back on the confessional box chewing lightly at his lip.
    What nonsense is this—someone beating themselves up then ripping up books, grabbing the priests, spitting in their faces—nonsense all nonsense but this is the kind of thing that goes along with my job. Listening to ridiculous things. Waiting and waiting for nothing to happen with screwball people like these, day in, day out—
    But dealing with it. I end up dealing with it.
    The Sexton, Priest and Pastor lightly shuffled their feet on the marble flooring.
    People like these need someone like me. To keep their lives straight. To clean up after them. To keep order—
    The back doors of the church banged wide open, startling them. The man in green went straight up the aisle to the altar rail, and stood gazing up with hands folded at the golden tabernacle in the altar. The Pastor leaned at the policeman.
    That’s him, he whispered.
    You sure?
    As the Pastor nodded, the man stepped back sharply and wrapped his arms around himself and twisting at the waist, sank to his knees on the floor by the marble rail. Grabbing himself by a fistful of hair, he slammed his head three times into the railing and went down backward onto the floor. As the policeman started down the aisle toward him he rose and got a mass book from a front pew and slowly started tearing out pages and dropping them. The policeman came up to him, followed by the Pastor, Sexton, and Father Barnes.
    What’s your problem fella? asked the policeman.
    The man looked up, crushed the mass book in his hands and sank to his knees, head bowed.
    I’m sorry, he said. I know I shouldn’t do this. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry but I can’t help myself—
    Thumbs hooked in his belt, the policeman turned to the Pastor.
    This the man grabbed you and spit in your face? he asked.
    The Pastor nodded.
    —please pray for me, continued the man, rocking back and forth on his knees. I can’t help it—I can’t help myself. I need help—
    Get up and turn around and put your hands behind your back, barked the policeman.
    But I need help. These men of God must pray for me. I need help—these men of God must pray for me and I must pray also—
    Moving quickly, the policeman gripped the man strongly by the collar, forced him to the floor on his stomach, pressed a knee down on his head with all his weight and pulled a set of chrome plated handcuffs from his belt. The man in green moaned, his face crushed against the hard floor.
    No, no! Pray for me! You said you’d pray for me—
    Shut up! You’re under arrest—
    The policeman twisted the man’s hands behind his back and tightly clamped the handcuffs on and pulled the man to his feet by his hair and began dragging him roughly down the aisle. The Pastor, Sexton, and Priest stood back as the man was dragged past them, yelling with his face set upward toward a large statue in a niche far above.
    Mother Mary—help me! Mother Mary—help me!
    The Pastor smiled harshly in the dim light and felt his face where the man had spat.
    The policeman is being much too brutal—But he should be brutal even more brutal for what that man has done to me.
    Mary! Help Me! cried the man in green as the policeman jerked him forward by the hair. The Sexton pressed a hand to his mouth as the man was roughly dragged past.
    No one should have such power over another. No one, never, ever, for any reason—
    Father Barnes paled and clasped his hands together as the policeman dragged the man further up the aisle, shaking him savagely. It hurts, cried the man in green. Mary Mother of God, it hurts—
    Father Barnes’ hands twisted nervously before him.
    I prayed, he said he would pray—and it end up like this. Oh, my faith, shaken again—I must say it, again I must say it, I don’t want to say it but I must, yes, yes, let the thought come—
    Dropping his eyes, Father Barnes closed them down.
    There is no God.
    The policeman and man in green reached the front doors of the church. The policeman gripped the man’s cuffed wrists with one hand and pushed the doors open with the other. The three watched unsteadily from the altar rail. The sun from outside came around the man and the policeman and pulled them out through the door into the light and the door closed back over becoming once more a broad dark-grained oaken panel closing in a great solemn silent empty space.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...

This appears in a pre-2010 issue of cc&d magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.