It was Jeb Phillips who found him: the man staggering out of the brush dressed in nothing but blood-soaked underwear.
The bloody incident happened in Burns County. Just to the north, a tornado had decimated a long swath the length of Wayne County and more, killing three, injuring many, destroying houses and crops, and knocking out the power plant that supplied power to Burns, Wayne, and bordering counties.
Jeb had started out at twilight in his truck to see whether the bridge crossing the creek at the county line was still intact. It was not. Unable to drive across the creek to offer help, Jeb had turned back toward home.
The man in the blood-soaked underwear had barely been able to stagger into the close-cropped grass and weeds alongside the highway, where he had waved weakly and collapsed. Seeing him, Jeb gasped, “What the--!” and screeched to a halt, training his headlights on the fallen figure. In an instant, Jeb was out of the truck and kneeling beside the fallen man, asking, “What happened?”
The man answered in brief, terse words in a foreign tongue. Jeb thought, “Spanish. I don’t savvy that lingo.”
Jeb was strong. After opening the door on the truck’s passenger side, he managed to place the injured man in a sitting position, seat-belted, in the truck. The only close hospital was in Wayne County; no chance of going there. Jeb chose to take the man to the Phillips residence.
The injured man was in early middle age, dark-haired and of olive complexion. Besides his white, bloodstained underwear, his only possession was a crucifix dangling from his neck on an apparently bronze chain.
Jeb and his wife lived in a modest but comfortable farm house. Behind stretched a ploughed and planted field. At the moment, two of the rooms of the house were lighted by kerosene lanterns. A battery powered radio bewailed the devastation in Wayne County. Leaving the truck and quieting the farm dog, Jeb fetched his wife Cora from the house. Alarmed, she asked, “What happened?”
“Man’s been waylaid,” Jeb replied. “Found him down the highway a piece. Help me get him inside to bed.”
They managed to carry the man inside and spread him out on the bed in the spare bedroom. With towels, Cora was able to stem the seepage of blood from the man’s side. Examining the wound, Cora groaned, “This man could die.”
Jeb said, “Let’s save him.”
The patient muttered something as Cora tended the wound. Cora asked, “What’s he saying?”
Jeb answered, “I can tell it’s Spanish. Came up, I figure, from the south. Somebody jumped him. Took everything but his drawers.”
“And the crucifix,” Cora added.
Jeb nodded. “The man’s a Christian.”
Cora said, “Listen, he’s saying something. I can kind of understand.”
Jeb shook his head. “You don’t understand that stuff.”
“No,” Cora agreed, “ but as you know, I had Latin in high school. This man keeps saying something like a Latin word that I remember. Something like sacerdos.”
“And just what does that mean?”
Cora stared at the man’s lips and listened. She said, “Sacerdote. He’s saying sacerdote. He knows he could die. I think he wants a priest.”
“A priest?”
Cora nodded. “Sacerdote. A priest.”
Jeb sighed. “Exactly where am I gonna get a priest? There’s three of them that I know in Wayne County. They’ve got their hands full right now. Besides, the phone’s not working.”
Cora nodded again. “I realize that. But you’re forgetting. We’ve got a priest here in the county.”
Jeb shook his head in disbelief. “You mean Padre? You call that man a priest? He took himself out of religion long ago. His church wouldn’t have him now as a gift.”
Jeb knew that Cora meant Dennis Hearn, the defrocked priest now living on what had once been the Michael Hearn farm about a mile and a half to the south of the Phillips farm. As a young priest, Dennis had served several years in Honduras, and spoke fluent Spanish. He had shown great promise as a missionary priest, but he had revealed a considerable fondness for whisky and the ladies. He had embarrassed the Church one time too many, and had been defrocked. Shortly afterward he had come to live with his brother Michael on the Hearn farm. Michael had died within a year of Dennis’s arrival. Dennis had inherited the farm, and had for several years—five, was it?—let the farm run down. Farmers nearby knew him for what he was, but tolerated him. They called him Padre.
Now, with a Spanish-speaking man in danger of death, Cora looked disapprovingly at Jeb. She asked, “What difference will it make to the dying man? Padre can hear his confession. Pretend to forgive him his sins. The poor man will at least die peacefully.”
Jeb pondered that. He shrugged. ‘Padre won’t come—I’ll bet on that. But I’ll try to fetch him.”
Cora nodded. “Too bad the phones are out.”
“Hah! Dennis didn’t have a phone anyway. Never paid the bill.”
Jeb started to leave. Cora called after him, “He’ll come. You’ll see. He’ll come.”
Jeb drove the truck to the Hearn house, a cottage on the way to becoming a shack. Inside, a kerosene lamp burned. Jeb saw Padre seated in an easy chair, drinking a beer as he listened to a portable radio. Jeb knocked.
Padre looked toward the door. Jeb’s face was faintly visible behind the screen. Padre said, “Come on in, friend. The door’s not locked.”
Jeb strode in and took a proffered seat near Padre’s. He said, “Evening, Padre.”
Padre grinned. “Evening, Jeb. Can’t offer you anything but a hot beer. No refrigeration. What brings you here?”
Jeb breathed heavily. “We’ve got a dying man at our place. I found him alongside the highway. Mexican, I guess. Speaks Spanish. Man of your faith.”
Padre paused in his beer-sipping. “Of my faith? He told you that?”
“No,” Jeb replied. “His crucifix did. He’s wearin’ it on a chain. Keeps sayin’ something in Spanish. Sounds to me like sassy doty. Well, Cora knows some Latin. Thinks he’s askin’ for a priest.”
“Ah!” Dennis set down his can. “Sacerdote. He’s saying sacerdote.”
“Does that mean priest ?”
“Precisely. Your patient is probably asking for a priest.”
“That’s what we figured.”
Padre breathed deeply. “Then why come to me?”
Jeb fidgeted a little. “Well, you’re a priest, right? Besides, I cant get a priest from over in Wayne County. No way to contact one.”
Padre sighed. He said, “You know, Jeb, that I haven’t been a priest in years. Defrocked! Done for!”
Jeb shook his head. “Won’t matter, Padre. You still know the ritual. You can hear this man’s confession. Think about what peace this man can have in his final hours. Not only that. Won’t the Lord forgive him his sins because he tried his best to confess?”
Padre sat silent for a moment, then replied. “That’s compatible with Church doctrine.”
“Then you’ll do it? You’ll hear his confession?”
Padre fell silent again. Then he seemed to speak from his soul’s depth. “Jeb, I’m worthless. A bum. What do you think I do when I go into town? I’m not worthy to hear this man’s confession.”
Jeb shook his head as if in disgust. He asked, “Padre, do you ever think of tryin’ to make a fresh start? Really get hold of yourself? Be the man you used to be?”
Padre looked into Jeb’s eyes. Jeb had struck home.
Padre said, “Jeb, I—“
Jeb interrupted. “Here’s your chance for that start. Do somebody some good. Give this man peace in his last hours. Why not, Padre?”
Both men sat silent for a long while. Finally, Padre rose. He said, “I’ll put on my clerical clothes. Might smell of mothballs.”
Jeb said, “Won’t matter.”
In a few minutes, seated in the truck, the two men headed for the Phillips place.
Cora’s eyes brightened as she saw Padre. She said, “It’s good of you to come,
Padre.”
Padre nodded. “How is he?”
“He might make it. Then again, he might not.”
In the bedroom, Padre gazed at the prone patient, and spoke to him in Spanish. The patient said weakly, ”Sí, Padre.”
Turning to the others, Padre said, “Leave me alone with him. Close the door behind you.”
The two went into the living-room, where they sat and waited. Jeb asked, “Whaddaya think?”
Cora replied, “It’ll be like a tonic.”
Time passed slowly. Why should it not? There was much to be said in the bedroom.
Finally the bedroom door opened. Padre emerged, looking pleased. He said, “I think he might pull through.”
Jeb asked, “What was the story on him?”
Padre explained, “He came up from Mexico to visit his sister, a naturalized American living about eighty miles north of here. The highway was blocked, so he was sitting in his car, wondering what to do. Two men jumped him and took his car, his money, and his clothes. Even his shoes. But they left his crucifix. Maybe they were superstitious. They left him for dead.”
Cora sighed. “What a pity! Did you hear his confession?”
Padre nodded. “Oh yes.”
Jeb observed, “Padre, you look like a new man. Nice to see you smile. It wouldn’t surprise me if this little business does you more good than it does the patient.”
Padre laughed an almost gleeful laugh. “Jeb,” he said, “you can’t imagine how hard I’ve prayed that one day I’d come to my senses. Control my passions. Come back into the service of the Church.”
Jeb nodded. “So now it’s happenin’.”
Padre nodded. “I’m going to apply for a reinstatement. Try to get assigned to a parish somewhere.”
Jeb chuckled. “Padre,” he said, “I knew this would do you some good. But man—it’s worked more wonders than I expected.”
Padre nodded again, then looked away as into the distance. “It’s no surprise, really. ‘An honest confession is good for the soul.’ After I heard this man’s confession, he heard mine and absolved me too.”
Jeb’s mouth fell open. Cora looked astonished. Jeb gasped, “What? What are you sayin’, Padre? How could this man hear your confession?”
Padre smiled at Jeb. He explained, “It’s very simple, really. This man is a priest himself.”
