by
Danny Thoma
I was crying in the garden one day when the Drunk Priest walked up. I thought he looked like a nice old man so I tried to forget my troubles and straighten up quickly as I could, but he came right over to sit by me. He wobbled a bit as he sat down. That’s why they called him the Drunk Priest. Sometimes you’d see him stagger or stop suddenly in the middle of the path, staring down at his feet. After a minute he’d look up and start over, unsteady like he’d had too much to drink. But, you know, nobody ever said they smelled liquor on him. Anyhow, some of the snitty nursing students gossiped about his obviously sinful ways. In my book, his was an open, honest face. And, after all, he was a priest, wasn’t he? I expect I looked like hell, red-eyed and breathless, my nose running like a river.
My dear girl, he said tenderly. What’s happened to distress you like this? He sat down so close to me that I felt his hip at my arm. He was nearly bald with a fringe of white hair, but his face was lean, almost handsome. What is it? He asked.
Oh, I don’t know, I said smoothing my uniform. It was white and so stiff with starch it made a scratchy sound when I ran my hand over it. With our hair pushed up under our caps, all of us looked fresh and clean when we started a shift, which was a far cry from how we looked at shift’s end. Heat and humidity in Mobile left us sticky wet minutes after we started caring for patients.
Come, come, he said, patting my hand. Tell me, dear. I may be able to help.
He really was trying, and I was actually feeling better until I noticed how soft his hands were, which only reminded me of how soft mine were becoming. Soft as a priest’s hands—I couldn’t take that. And I couldn’t stop another tear from sliding down my cheek.
Oh, my goodness, he said. I’m making matters worse.
Seeing his discomfort helped me speak up. No, you’re not, Father, I said with a voice stronger than I thought I could muster.
Well, what’s made you cry? He asked.
He was such a nice old man I just fessed up. Your hands are soft, and my hands are getting soft now, too.
He smiled with a blank look on his face, and I realized I wasn’t making sense. He didn’t know me from Adam. Didn’t even know my name. Here it was the fall of 1941, and I’d only been there since early September, maybe five weeks now. I was homesick and lonesome. A scared baby was what I was. Suddenly I got angry. Not at him, but at myself. I wanted to tell him about Brother Warner, who I absolutely adored. About Punk Godbolt, who was crazy about me. About working in the cornfield, riding on the hay wagon. This was what I knew like the back of my hand. Not this nursing routine. And now, Lord, have mercy, I was training at Providence Hospital with the Catholics. It was what I’d said I wanted, yes, but, Lordy, what had I got myself into here?
I swiped at my eyes and pulled myself together. Let me explain, I said. I’m Linda Poe from Lower Peachtree up in Wilcox County. I’m the last of nine children, and the first to go away to school. My Daddy is spending ninety-five dollars to send me here this year, and the calluses on my hands that I got from shucking corn and using a hoe. Well, they’re gone.
Is that bad? he asked.
My hands are in soap and water six or eight times a day, I said, and they’re just getting wrinkly and pruney. I promised Daddy I’d work hard, Father, but my hands don’t show it. Still no good. He just looked at me.
Criminy, I said. How could I make it any plainer? How could I put it so he’s see how it was? If you can’t understand…A lump came up in my throat. Oh, it was hopeless.
Let’s try another way, he said. You’ve told me about yourself. Let me tell you about me. My name is Father Paul, he said. And they who don’t know me well call me the Drunk Priest. But what they attribute to inebriate behavior is actually an inner ear problem.
An infection? I asked. We had been studying that stuff two weeks earlier. I was trying to remember the right terms for it and all the diagrams and charts in our manual.
No, dear, he said. It’s a long story. He was looking across the path at yellow snapdragons and taller pink hollyhocks. They made me think how my oldest sister Agnes and her husband Brother Warner had hollyhocks behind our Peachtree house, but not as big or nice as these. I thought the Catholics sure know how to do a flower garden. The grounds around Providence Hospital were glorious. That’s why I did my feeling sorry for myself out there.
Father Paul leaned back in the bench. When I was in seminary, he said, in rural Connecticut, I used to take walks every chance I got. I loved the countryside. In some ways, it was like here in Alabama. Flat, you know? I nodded. He went on, One day as I was passing a field that was being cultivated. I saw this tractor that was still running, but there was no one near it. I thought that odd, but it was a beautiful, sunny day, and I was tempted to walk on by. However, something changed my mind, and I climbed the fence and went over to the tractor, thinking at least I’d turn off the ignition and save the farmer’s gasoline. I think God led me there.
Why? I asked.
Because there had been an accident, and the farmer had been thrown from the seat and under a wheel. He was struggling to get out. He could hardly speak. I rushed over to help, and I got underneath the tractor and bent over at the waist. He stood up to demonstrate. And I pushed up with all my might.
And you saved him? I asked.
Well, I tried, he said. I was able to take some of the weight off him, but not enough to free him. After a while someone drove by and saved us both.
How long did you hold up the tractor? I asked.
Probably only twenty minutes, but it seemed like longer, he said. I strained so long and hard I’ve had inner ear trouble ever since. The condition leaves me dizzy sometimes. It doesn’t hurt, but there are times when I have vertigo and sometimes get sick to my stomach. I’m fortunate it isn’t worse, I suppose. Fortunately to be here at all.
So’s the farmer, I noted.
How true! God was watching us, he said. Then he stopped talking, and I wondered what was going on. I’m sorry, he said after a moment. Can we pray?
Now? I asked. Uh, sure. I never minded being with a bunch of people who were praying. I mean, I went with Warner and Agnes to the First Baptist Church in Lower Peachtree. That’s where I was saved. I liked the way Reverend Stabler always announced to the congregation when we’d be praying, but I’d never had someone hold my hand and ask me to pray close up like this.
He seemed to understand how I was conflicted, and said, All roads lead to Rome, Miss Poe.
Huh? I said.
What I mean is, it doesn’t matter if I’m Catholic, and you’re something else. We’re both servants to the same God. After he said this, he studied me. The same God who saved the farmer and me is watching over you. Watching over the whole world. He knows how hard you work. He looked to me, and I nodded my head kind of slow. Work is work, Miss Poe, whether your hands are soft or callused. He was making sense, and I wanted to talk a little more, but I had to run to get back to the ward on time. I thanked him as I started moving up the path. I’m grateful. You helped me see things clearer, I said, backing away.
I think everything will turn out all right, he said. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Miss Poe. I waved, and he waved, and I took off.
I went home for Fall Break in mid-October and helped out around the store and the farm. Agnes talked to me about my training, about the hospital, and about Mobile. She would have liked for me to help her do the housework, but I never like keeping house. I answered her questions, but when I got the chance to go with Brother Warner to bring in some hay, I jumped right to it. He was the smartest man I knew. I don’t think he went past high school, but he was our mail carrier so he always saw the latest magazines and such. I don’t mean he had to look it up. He knew! He’d take off his glasses, run his hand through his slicked back hair, and give me my answer before putting his glasses back on. He’d nod that nod of his as I absorbed what he’d said and smile just a little. That crooked, kind, and gentle smile of his, waiting for me to understand. He looked so different without his glasses, like he was letting his guard down just for me, sharing something precious with me. Everything he told me I meant to hand on to.
After he finished his route, Agnes would have his dinner ready, and then he’d eat, and he’d always tell her, That was real nice, Aggie. He’d go in the front room and read the Selma paper. Then he’d get on with whatever work needed doing first. That day when I was there to help he was going to drive the hay wagon, and my brothers, Al and John, were pitching in. Punk Godbolt would probably be there, too, so I was motivated to ride with them that afternoon. Agnes and my sisters Evelyn, Beryl, and Kate were going shopping in Camden which didn’t interest me.
My brothers didn’t want to let on they were curious about goings on in Mobile, but they were keen to know just about everything. Al had a place just a mile from Agnes, and John had his over near Coy, but in the country everybody helped everybody else, and they owed Brother Warner anyway. They’d never either one of them been to Mobile, and they thought Mobile was bright lights, big city. Truth be told, I hadn’t gone out much in Mobile. First of all, I didn’t have the inclination because the Sisters just worked the hound out of us. And, of course, there wasn’t much time for socializing. We were on duty by 7:00 a.m., and sometimes didn’t get back to the dormitory until 10:00 p.m. or later. A couple of times I collapsed on my bed with my uniform still on, which made for some fast scrambling next morning.
Anyhow, after the boys and I got the wagon loaded high as it would go,it must have been piled eleven or twelve feet high at the middle. It was tremendous. Brother Warner would have let me drive if I’d asked him, but Punk and John and Al were talking with me about partying in Mobile. I hadn’t been to any parties, but I didn’t tell them that. I dropped a few street names, some which I remembered because there was a large city map hung on the wall at the first floor nurses’ station. I always liked maps.
Where do they have the best parties? Punk asked, chewing on a straw. He was the most gullible in more ways than one.
Dauphin Island, I said quickly. But that’s not actually in Mobile.
Well, in Mobile, then, Al said.
Spring Hill College is really something, I said, noticing Brother Warner’s funny look without saying anything. I just kept at it. They hold street parties on Government Street and Conti Street, I said, laying back into the hay. But I love when we’re driving down Old Shell Road, I said. With the Spanish Moss on the live oaks, it’s like driving down through a living tunnel. I’d got my bluff in on the boys, sure enough. I’d been down that road exactly one time.
After we got back, and the boys were unloading, Brother Warner talked quietly with me. The Jesuits run Spring Hill, he said. Very few parties.
Oh, I said.
But I expect you’re right about the live oaks on Old Shell Road, he said. Then he took his glasses off and asked, You happy down at Providence, Miss Linda? Everybody at home called me Miss Linda, and I hadn’t realized til right then how much I wanted to hear somebody call me that. It was, oh, so good to be back home again.
I’m doing okay down there, I told him. I was pretty homesick at first, but not so much any more.
That’s good, he said. We want our Miss Linda to be happy and do good work.
When we went to Selma to see Gone With the Wind, Punk wanted to hold my hand real bad. I let him, and on the ride home I let him kiss me. His lips tasted different than they did back in the summertime, and his hands felt rough to me, which surprised me some because I knew it wasn’t his hands that had changed, but mine. When we were alone, he kissed me a long, long time. So long I almost ran out of breath. Then he said, I love you harder than thunder can thump a stump. Well, what could I say to that? I just rubbed his big, old hands which felt rough as a cob and said, Punk, you’re one crazy buck, you know that? Which set him off on a wild goose chase for a while. I wasn’t hard handed or toughened up like I was before. I was in-between now. I was back to being Miss Linda again, but I wasn’t sure if that was who I was any more. Before Punk got me back to Lower Peachtree, I was thinking about when I could catch the bus back to Mobile.
By December I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself any more. I saw Father Paul in the chapel one evening. He was probably there for a reason. Me, I was mostly just curious to see what the place looked like. He sat down in the first pew so I did, too. We were the only people in there. Are they still calling you the Drunk Priest? I said.
Yes, they do, he answered. But I don’t mind.
Did you ever? I asked.
Yes, I didn’t, he said. For a while, I did. But I’ve come to understand that I cannot control what other people think.
That is so true, I said, and my mind raced back to the first week I’d been at Providence, back when I was terribly homesick, afraid to talk to anybody, but just as afraid I’d bust out of school. It seemed the whole world was mixed up. There were rumors of war with Germany or Japan every week. We were afraid Al or John would end up getting drafted. I worried that I’d let Daddy and Agnes down. That Brother Warner wouldn’t understand. Back then I was trying to please everybody. The Sisters, the doctors, the other nursing students. I was spending time with some girls who were probably a little too rich for my blood. They were the ones who did all the talking about street parties on Conti Street. They were the kind of girls who knew girls who had come out, girls who’d had deb parties. I got the impression none of them had actually come out themselves, but I really had no inkling what they were talking about. I felt like a rube. They were telling stories about their boy friends and about wild times they’d had with boys. I didn’t want to talk about Punk. Finally the conversation worked around to me, and I wasn’t going to let anybody make me look dumb. They started acting like snits, making sly comments, saying things I didn’t really understand. I felt like a cornpone country girl, which is exactly what I was.
I blurted out the first thing I could think of. Any of you all ever go on a cakewalk?
That shut them up a second, and I thought I’d got ‘em good. Not that I’d ever been to a cakewalk myself. Brother Warner had told me how black folks would dress up their fanciest, and somebody’d make a big old cake. The best thing you ever put in your mouth, he’d said. And they’d have this contest, seeing who could walk the most stylish. They would strut their stuff, and they’d have judges who would pick the winning couple, and that’s who got the cake. I explained how it worked to those stuck up girls by asking Haven’t you heard somebody say, Well, that just takes the cake?
Yea, they’d all heard of that, and I was the center of attention for a little while. It felt all right in that moment, but I was worried they’d discover I really was just Miss Linda trying to pull the wool over their eyes with my cake walk story. A story about black folks, but they didn’t know it. Scared to death I’d be found out, I spent a nervous week fretting about what I’d say if they figured it out.
But that was a long time ago. So much had happened since then. The headlines were more ominous as England tried to stop Hitler. None of the snits ever found out about cakewalks. Here it was, the first Saturday in December, and we had been run ragged three days in a row. I’d never been so tired. Never worked so hard for so long. We were at it fifteen or sixteen hours each day, and getting run down pretty bad. When I woke up Sunday morning, it was already 6:42, and I didn’t have time to get to breakfast and still make it to the ward on time. I changed into a clean uniform, washed my face with cold water, and pushed my hair up under my cap, and trotted over to the ward. I thought I was going to feel bad, but it wasn’t so bad really. So far, I was doing okay.
I lost my first patient that day, a little black boy, a four year old named Lawrence who had a hole in his heart. They had operated on him twice in three days time, and I told him, You’re going to be fine. You’ll see. I used the same tone of voice that Agnes had used on me when I’d had the chicken pox, and I’d gotten sick and tired of itching and scratching and ended up boo hooing about all my pox that hurt and oozed all over. She’d said, Now Miss Linda, you just lie still and listen to my voice. Your job is to breathe in and breathe out and not move a muscle. You just keep doing your job, and things will turn out all right. You wait and see. I’m right about this. Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see. Just listen to my voice. She had been wonderful, and could have taken the cake so far as I was concerned. That morning I kept telling Lawrence, You just listen to me. Everything’s going to be all right.
I was feeding him ice chips, and he said, Thank you, ma’am, with a hint of a smile. Which helped me send a smile back to him. Then he just stopped with his eyes wide open. It took me a second to figure out he was in trouble. I ran for a Sister, and they rushed him to the Operating Room.
He didn’t make it. It hit me later when I realized I was the last person that little boy ever talked to.
I got a break about 4:00 p.m. and ended up in the garden. I thought I might break down. Maybe at supper or back in the dormitory. My mind was racing, and I wasn’t worried one whit about the snits finding out about cakewalks. It didn’t really matter what those girls thought. None of that would bring the child back. I was hoping I’d see the Drunk Priest in the garden, but no such luck. I sat on the bench and thought how he’d tried so hard to hold up the tractor that he’d injured his inner ears. Each halting step he’d take for the rest of his life would remind him of his good deed. How he tried to save the farmer. How he did save the farmer.
I thought how smart Brother Warner was. He never bragged. Never made anybody else feel small. He was my hero. I loved him better than anybody else in this world. I could almost hear Brother Warner talking. Not the words, but the sound of his voice. I was going to use it to stop feeing sorry for myself.
Then the Drunk Priest appeared at the far entrance to the garden, under the willows. I was happy to see him. I was going to tell him about Lawrence. About how he said thank you to me. How I’d remember him. When he sat on the bench next to me, the look on his face was not what I expected.
Have you heard about Pearl Harbor? he asked.
I hadn’t, no, but I was ready to hear all about it.