Carillon

by John Minichillo

Fr. Ignatio sits at an aluminum typing-stand next to an unshaded lamp in his study. A lit candle is on the floor in the middle of the room. His packed luggage is in the corner with his hat on top. Ignatio was once known locally for carrying a prayer candle everywhere he went as a reminder of the Spirit. So much so that it became fashionable for rich families to buy him crystal lanterns decorated with gold leaf. He attached one lantern to the end of a holy staff and he hung another from a gold chain like a censer, which he was adept at manipulating. An elder accused him of pyromania in seminary. And he was once responsible for burning down an orphanage.

The linoleum floors of the rectory are spotted with candle wax, though Ignatio quit carrying candles decades ago. He still lights one when he prays, however, a habit he's been unable to shake. The window is open, a wet towel has been wrapped around the smoke detector in the ceiling—the smoke detector connected to the sprinkler system, a renovation insisted on by the most recent insurance company. Ignatio chain-smokes and types out three letters of resignation: one to Sister Carol, one to Brother Bob, and one to God.

When he finishes typing, he reads over the letters and he burns them with the candle. He sweeps up the ashes with two blank sheets of typing paper and he dumps them into the waste can. Everything in the letters was already known to them. In his last letter Fr. Ignatio expressed regret that his relationship to God wasn't more satisfactory. His calling had come when he was nineteen and was over in the blinking of an eye.

He remembers shaving in front of a mirror when the Spirit descended upon him. He had just gotten out of the shower and was unsure about the rest of his life. He wanted to go to college but couldn't take himself seriously as a professional. He was drawn to devotion but up to this point in his life his objection to the cloth had been the celibacy vow. As he shaved, Ignatio was filled with ego-lust. In an instant the nineteen-year-old realized he could go to a private college, not one of the trade schools or business schools that were his other alternative—and the church would pay his way. He saw that a vow was merely a vow and he could retract it or sidestep it as he saw fit.

While he was still wet from his shower Ignatio reached for the radio on the bathroom counter. It gave him a jolt and he shouted out. He saw a vision in the fogged-over mirror of a nun disrobing on an enormous bed. Then he saw naked church widows and naked nuns from all corners piling onto the bed, a confusion of shower fog and milk-white skin in the mirror. The light in the bathroom flickered, the bulb exploded, and a fireball slowly descended. Ignatio interpreted this event as the ecstasy of God's acceptance of his terms. He could take the vow but remain celibate only in appearance. After this God never revealed himself to Ignatio again.

He backs his Town Car out of the rectory's four-car garage and he lights one of the lanterns that had long ago burned into the dash. It's Saturday night. His luggage and golf clubs are in the trunk. Sister Carol will notice him gone in the morning. The letter to her was tear-soaked and burned slowly. Brother Bob's letter went up like a light. He'll be anxious to take charge of the parish. Brother Bob has come out of his shell these last two years and the congregation is ready for him.

The Boy Scouts are his niche. Fr. Ignatio had been trying to get Scouting started at the church school for decades but none of the male teachers was the right type. Brother Bob built a Pinewood Derby track. He acquired army surplus tents, kerosene stoves, and canoes. He repainted the old school bus in the Boy Scout colors: khaki and crimson with gold racing stripes, all from carwash money and an extra pass of the hat at services. When Brother Bob is ordained he wants to take the name "Joseph," so the Scouts can call him "Fr. Joe." Ignatio had heard of an emergency situation where the bishop had ordained a deacon over the phone, with an official ceremony following up as quickly as could be scheduled. Approximate time is OK in matters of the spirit, though haste is also important, like when marrying off a pregnant girl.

Graduation from the church school was traditionally combined with Confirmation, as it was again this year, so the Bishop had recently paid a visit. During his stay the bishop asked Brother Bob how his studies were coming along.

"Fine," Bob said. "Just fine."

"We have pastorship openings in Napanee and Wabash," the Bishop said, but Bob was humble.

"I don't know," he said. "I wouldn't mind staying here."

The weekend prior, Fr. Ignatio had taken the confirmation class on a retreat where he stood in front of a bonfire and testified, "Your parents made promises for you at Baptism, will you now? Can you love God as I love Him? As much as Brother Bob and Sister Carol love Him?"

The problem with Ignatio, according to Sister Carol, was that he encouraged the children to think of themselves as adults. During the retreat Ignatio singled out a boy wearing a "Porno for Pyros" t-shirt and he asked, "What's that all about?"

"Nothing," the kid said. "It's a group."

Sister Carol wants to either do away with the retreat or to at least segregate it. Sister Carol was in charge of the orphanage when Ignatio set it ablaze. She's afraid he might do something irresponsible again if he gets a wild hair. The pastor's domain used to include the church school but Ignatio created the principal position for Sister Carol to give her someplace to go after the fire. She moved into the south wing of the rectory and a year later there was a new state-of-the-art orphanage with a younger nun in charge. Carol thinks of herself as the stabilizing force in Ignatio's long life.

Ignatio speeds north on Highway 131, already missing his parish. He used to take this highway when he visited the convicts in Michigan City. Visiting prison gave him a feeling of concrete security and access to secret knowledge. He was a young priest when he learned he could make the inmates cry. There were some who would never cry, some who cried no matter what, and some who opened themselves entirely to Ignatio, though none ever confessed anything aloud but inward rage and sexual depravity. Because they knew the cells had video cameras and they didn't want to admit to anything criminal. To Fr. Ignatio they said, "I fucked some fuck," or "I sucked balls," but to God, in their hearts, they made real confessions with deep regret. Ignatio and the church agreed that that was enough. Ignatio imagined God spending a fair amount of time with the lost souls, inhabiting their dreams and sending signs.

When Ignatio heard their confessions in prison he sat in one of two adjacent holding cells separated by a long wall of bars. The penitent was led into the neighboring cell to where a blanket was hung. The idea was to respect inmate anonymity but the blanket was really for Ignatio. The inmates always lifted the corner to peek at him though the guards told them not to. They said they wanted to be sure Ignatio wasn't another guard. One said he wanted to see what a priest looked like since he'd only heard of them in jokes. Some said they didn't believe in God but had come just to talk. Ignatio imagines Brother Bob taking down the blanket. He can even see Brother Bob sitting in the same cell with them and cupping their hands in his own.

Ignatio approaches Kalamazoo, which he considers a safe distance from his parish. He exits the highway, he buys a bottle of gin, and he gets a motel room. One version of the story ends with him here, overdosed on booze and tranquilizers. When he could have just as easily survived this impasse. . . .

Sunday morning he sleeps off his hangover then he imposes his way into a foursome at the country club, making a fivesome and he leeches drinks. He tells his chums he's semi-retired, they follow two cartloads of lady golfers and Ignatio is aroused by the swing of their brightly colored golfing skirts: vermilion, Kelly green, yellow. Their salon-colored hair is wind-blown, they wiggle their butts when they prepare to drive, they emote heartfelt and sometimes vulgar exclamations when they slice. By mid-afternoon Ignatio is flushed with desire. He needs to see Sister Carol.

Back in his motel room Ignatio nearly tosses his clubs onto the unmade bed when he sees his own dead body in it. He takes his wallet from the nightstand and leaves a generous tip for the maid. Why had he cared so much for this body all his life? There was nothing left, it is himself on the bed and he is dead, not asleep, that much is certain. He decides not to stare any longer. He leaves the golf clubs but takes his suitcase and the gin. On his way out he uses his room key to double-lock the door.

In the Lincoln he thinks maybe he's not completely dead, didn't he go golfing this morning or was that the dream before dying? Didn't he drive a golf cart? He looks at his hands. He's drunk when he pulls up to the rectory.

Sunday lingers. The school is locked up for the night. The sound of children swinging on the rusty swings takes him back. Church bells echo out over the empty parking lot and Ignatio is uplifted by Sister Carol playing the carillon bells in the tower, the hammers controlled from the keys of the organ. She's become quite a musician over the years. The organ is relatively new, an eighty-thousand-dollar instrument that was part of Ignatio's legacy, the old organ destroyed in a fire, the new one thanks to benefactors and good insurance.

Ignatio wants to surprise Carol. He enters the church through the back without using his key. He knows the door is unlocked. The handle is familiar to his touch. Sister Carol plays a fugue, an ode to his absence, and the church shakes. Ignatio climbs the stairs to the choir loft and tries to sneak up behind her. The organist, Carol, faces the pipes in the back of the church but she sees Ignatio in the mirror kept pointed at the altar over her shoulder. She's not wearing her habit and her hair is pinned back. He's in love with her face in the mirror. In the letter to her that he burned, he admitted setting the fires. She turns and embraces him.

"We wondered where you were, Nat."

"Angel," he says. Then he remembers this was an old pet name and maybe he should not have uttered it. "How did Brother Bob take my leaving?"

"We had no idea you would split," she says. "We got a priest from South Bend. Lucky they had an extra."

"You didn't know?"

"Well, I thought you might," she says. "We told everybody you were real sick."

Ignatio heads downstairs to find his old friend. Up the aisle, past the altar, through the vestry, and into the rectory. He finds Bob in the TV room wearing his Scoutmaster uniform and reclining in Ignatio's La-Z-Boy. Brother Bob is drunk on wine and talking back to a toupee-wearing evangelist on the box. There are wine stains on the carpet and the couch. The room is littered with burger wrappers, ashtrays, soft drink cans, dirty dishes. Ignatio didn't come to rattle Bob and Carol's faith, but because he missed them.

"Call the archdiocese," Ignatio says. "It's time we got your ass ordained."

Then, before Brother Bob or Sister Carol can stop him, Ignatio starts a trash fire with a candle left burning on the coffee table. The fire trips the smoke detector, the room is doused from a sprinkler in the ceiling, and the TV sparks and fizzles.

When the smoke clears, Ignatio is gone and so is his Town Car. Later that night a phone call comes: Sister Carol is asked by a policeman to drive to Kalamazoo to identify a body. But we just saw him. Ma'am, please. So in the morning they go, and yes, it's him.

The bishop visits the following weekend. He says mass at Ignatio's funeral, a packed house, and in the afternoon he anoints Brother Bob who takes the name "Francis Xavier," most of the congregation still wearing the same clothes.

Afterwards, the bishop sits for confession and Sister Carol spills her guts. She admits to being physical with Ignatio and also that she had kept quiet when she knew about the arson.

Ignatio's spirit persists clawing the earth. He hangs out in strip bars, theaters, alleys—everywhere the lighting's no good. Like a spider from a thread he dangles just below the small ceiling in the dark confessional where Carol kneels. As he listens he feels a slipping. Then at an inconsequential moment during Carol's monologue Ignatio pops like a soap bubble. With a mumbled prayer and a wave of his hand the bishop absolves her. A new TV is bought and a new sofa.

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