“Harmony”

Creators of Justice Award 2020 | Third Prize: Short story

CJ Bell is a Catholic priest who serves in the Midwest. He believes good storytelling has the power to protect us against getting lost; as individuals and a society. He hopes his fiction speaks heart to heart and reveals the beauty we live in.

“Father!  Father!”

Father Greene looked up from his breviary.  He had left the front door of his house open, trying to draw in the cool morning air.  It was late June in Harmony, Texas and it would probably hit a hundred by noon.  He figured another hour before the open door became counter-productive.  From his chair, he could see Mrs. Bailey through the screen.  She was in a flower print dress.  Her simple black shoes matched her simple black hair which was pulled back into its usual bun.  On the plump side of sixty, she was formidable and bristled all too easily.  He suppressed an inward sigh.  She was on the verge of running which meant either the apocalypse was imminent or someone had tracked manure into the Church.  

Father Greene looked at the clock on the mantle.  He wasn’t due to start hearing morning confessions for another 20 minutes.  Not that anyone would notice if he were a few minutes late.

“Oh Father, it’s terrible.”  She let herself in through the screen door.  As the sacristan of St. Alphonsus for the last twenty years, she took certain liberties.  Though frustrating, she was harmless.  “I can’t believe this Father.  I knew they were talking Father, but this!  This!  I knew there’d be trouble, I warned you!  I told you to leave well enough alone.  They got their own schools, there is—“

“Mrs. Bailey!  What is wrong?”

She stopped mid-pace and held out a large piece of paper.  “I found this this morning… nailed to the Church door.”

Father Greene took it from her.  In crude black scrawl it read:  

The sisters leave or the church burns.

The priest held the paper.  Stared through it; seeing different futures.

“I told you Father it wasn’t a good idea.  I told you—“

“Mrs. Bailey,” he cut her off, “I need you to take this piece of paper down to Fulton Riley.  And you tell him, I said that it is time.”

Cecelia Bailey’s mouth dried up.  The paper rustled as she took it in an unsteady hand.  She opened her mouth once, but could find no words.  Turning, she walked out the door much smaller than she had walked in. 

Father Greene sat down and pulled out his pipe.  It had been a gift from his parents on his ordination nearly thirty years ago.  Embossed on the stem were his name and the year he was ordained: Fr. Archibald Greene—1894.  He didn’t usually smoke in the morning, but today would be an exception.  It might be one of many exceptions before the day was through.

As it turned out, he was about ten minutes late for the confessions.  It was only 7:40 in the morning, but the sun was up and it already felt warm.  Today was going to be hot.

At the steps to the Church, he met Fulton Riley and three other members of the Knights of Columbus.  Each had a shotgun

“Good morning Father.”

“Good morning Fulton, anyone at the back of the Church?”

“Yessir Father.  Thomas and Benjamin are back there.”

“Thank you gentlemen.”  With a nod of appreciation, Father Greene entered the Church of St. Alphonsus to hear confessions.  Mass followed immediately after.  The typical morning congregation was there.  Not a single person out of the ordinary.  But they kept looking over their shoulders.  None had expected to pass an armed guard this morning.  It spooked them.  As it should.  Father Greene too had trouble concentrating.

It had been about three months ago when he had first spoke with the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament.  Their main ministry was providing assistance and education to Indians and Blacks.  He had been in Harmony for about 4 years and had noticed the lack of education for the local colored folk.  He had invited the Sisters to help.  He warned them, Harmony had a strong Klan influence, including some notable elders.   He didn’t think the mayor was a Klansman, but he was definitely sympathetic.  The Sisters never flinched.  They arrived about a week ago.  This was to be the first week the Sisters would start teaching the children and some of the adults.  They were using a hall the Church owned a few blocks away in the colored part of town.  

Father Greene had heard grumblings from the beginning, even from many of his own parishioners.  That surprised him.  It shouldn’t have, but it did.  Mass attendance declined.  The first threat came shortly after he announced his intentions a few months back.  It had shocked him by its directness, but he didn’t back down.  The threats that followed were more subtle or couched in terms of ‘advice.’  After the second piece of ‘advice’, he had started meeting with Fulton Riley.

Fulton was a unique man.  He ran a local barbershop and was considered a person of influence.  He was a regular communicant, a Knight of Columbus, and a sincere believer in equality before God.  Though never overtly political, a lot of business got decided in his shop.  He told Father Greene if the time came, he would keep the Church and the Sisters safe.  Father Greene was not so sure if the men with Fulton were quite so altruistic, or if they were just unwilling to be pushed around.  Either way, Father Greene would use them

His Mass that morning lacked its usual focus.  The possibilities of the day flickered in his mind.  Benjamin Dale had a new born son.  Fulton’s wife was seriously sick.  How far would he himself, as a priest, go?  He stumbled on his Latin, though today, no one noticed.  Those in the congregation were more distracted by what they saw, than what they heard.  At the elevation of the Host, with Father Greene lifting his arms, his chasuble rose revealing a 1917 Colt revolver.  It was holstered against his white linen alb, the symbol of his purity.  The bells rang, the body of Christ was lowered back to the altar, and the gun disappeared.   

After Mass, Father Greene sent Mrs. Bailey to retrieve some supplies for the Sisters.  He had left them at the rectory due to the excitement of the morning.  As she scurried off, he once again met Fulton Riley on the Church stairs.

“Remember Fulton, the goal is to avoid bloodshed.  If we can just keep it calm, it should blow over before the summer is out.”

“And if it don’t?”

“Then God help us.  Now why don’t you leave Benjamin and Thomas here at the Church and you and the other three escort the Sisters down to the hall and keep a watch out there.”

“What about you Father?”

“I’ll be along shortly.  I have to get a few supplies for the Sisters.”

“And at the school, what if folks show up with guns?”

“Then you talk them down Fulton.”

“And if I can’t?”

“You just do.  We will not fire first.  If it turns bloody, keep your head down and protect the Sisters and children.”

“Yes, Father.”  Fulton started off, but at the bottom of the stairs he stopped and looked up at Father Greene, “I understand you used to be a pretty good shot.”

“Still am.”

Fulton started to smile, but stopped.  He gave the priest a respectful nod and turned to join the Sisters. 

Father Greene watched as the three Sisters in full habit marched down the street ushered by four gunmen.  He wasn’t sure which group had the greater courage.  He wiped his brow and looked out at the sun.  It was still morning; it should not be this hot.  With a shake of his head he stepped back into the cool interior of the church.  He was alone.  As was his custom when he had the Church to himself, he walked up to the middle of the sanctuary and knelt down before the tabernacle and prayed.

He prayed for the children and the sisters and the men who were keeping watch.  He prayed for those who had posted the sign on the Church door, who were blinded by their hate.  But mostly he prayed for himself.  His rosary gently hanging at his left hand, the well-oiled gun tucked into a fold on his right.  He felt stretched between the two.  As a young man he had known violence, and had repented.  As a priest he had seen injustice, and had cried.  Has asked God to take his anger.  He prayed the choices he had made were right.  He prayed that the choices he would make, would be right.

The rectory where he lived was just a short walk from the Church in the opposite direction of the hall.  After he had prayed himself out, Father Greene checked his pocket watch.  Mrs. Bailey should have been back some time ago.  Maybe she could not find the supplies he had asked for.  Or more likely she was straitening something that did not need to be straightened.  Stepping into the sweltering morning sun, he made his way over to his house.  His ankle length black cassock seemed to pull in every ray of heat.  It was going to be an unpleasant day.

When he opened the door of his house, the first thing he noticed was Mrs. Bailey, sitting in a chair away from the window.  She had been crying.  Next, his eyes turned to Mr. Horace Dunbar seated at the kitchen table a few feet from Mrs. Bailey.  The way Mr. Dunbar drummed his fingers drew attention to the gun laying casually on the table in front of him; its metallic barrel cold and dull.

“Hello Councilman.”

“Hello Father.”

“Is Mrs. Bailey alright?”

“She is unharmed.  But I needed her to stay here until you and I could speak.”

“I suppose you are not thinking about converting?”

“I was thinking about converting you…at least on a few important issues.  Please have a seat.”

Father Greene carefully shut the door and crossing the living room pulled out a seat at the kitchen table opposite the gunman.  As he was lowering himself, there was a knock at the back door.  It was as if the world had halted.  Father Greene hovered, mid-sit.  Silence was heavy, no one breathed.  The knock came again, louder and with more insistence.  Overwrought, Mrs. Bailey again started to cry.

“People know I am here Horace.  If I don’t answer that, they will come around to the front, maybe look through the windows.”

“Go ahead.  But if you try anything, Mrs. Bailey’s morning will get a lot worse.”   

Father Greene crossed the kitchen to the back door.  He opened it just enough to be able to look out.

“Hey, Father.”  It was Oliver, one of the colored children the Sisters were here to teach; he was maybe about eleven.  “The Sisters wanted to know if you had the stuff they needed?”  He could hear Mrs. Bailey crying and was trying to peer around Father Greene’s body.

“Run along Oliver, I’ll be over soon.”

“Father Greene,” it was Dunbar, “by all means let the lad in.  He needs some supplies.”

Father Greene hesitated, but then slowly opened the door.  When he turned around, Councilman Dunbar was standing, his gun in a holster.

“What’s your name boy?”

Oliver didn’t answer.  His eyes were on the gun.

“I said, what is your name boy?”

“O-Oliver.”  Oliver, like all children of his neighborhood, had been taught early on that there were members in the community that he should avoid.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”  Oliver kept his eyes on the ground.  Father Greene’s hand was still on the door, frozen, unable to move.

“Good, a boy should know the leaders of a town.  Well Father, you better get him those supplies.”

Father Greene felt life rush back into his veins.  “Yes of course.”  He all but ran over to the counter where there sat a basket full of chalk, pencils and paper.

“Why is Mrs. Bailey crying?”  Oliver was looking at Father Greene, but it was Dunbar who answered.

“Oh, she found out someone she cares about got hurt badly.  Real bad.  It was a little boy about your age.”

“Is he okay?”

“We don’t know yet.  Father Greene is going to try and help.”  Dunbar looked at the priest who stood numbly holding the basket full of supplies.  Dunbar took it from him and walked over to Oliver.  Going down on one knee, he handed the basket to Oliver and put a meaty hand on his shoulder.  “If you were in trouble, do you think Father Greene would help you?”

“…yeah.”  The tremor in his voice had nothing to do with Father Greene.  He was uncertain if this was the answer the Councilman wanted.  Unsure of the consequences for a wrong answer.

“I think so too.”  Dunbar got back to his feet.  “Now run along Oliver, but don’t tell anyone I was here, okay?  Father Greene and I have to talk about some important stuff and he doesn’t want anyone to disturb us.  Isn’t that right Father?”  His voice dripped smugness.

“Yes.  I’ll be over there soon Oliver, but it is important no one bothers the Councilman and I while were talking, so it is best you don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Yes, Father.”

As soon as Oliver was out the door, Father Green shut the door and let out a breath.  He put his face up against the small bit of glass and felt the coolness on his skin.  Mrs. Bailey’s crying had intensified when the door shut.

“Shut up already.”  The way Dunbar addressed her, the way he stood with his shoulders back, he was feeling powerful.  His chest was tight.

Mrs. Bailey could sense it and her crying grew louder.  She was losing control.  Dunbar crossed the kitchen to where she was sitting and stared down at her.

His articulation was slow and commanding.  “I said, be quiet.”

She couldn’t.  

Lifting one heavy paw he brought it down swiftly and solidly to the side of her face.  His backhand sprawled her.  He stared down at her crumpled figure, temporarily silenced.  He licked his lips and swallowed.  She was getting up, but Dunbar’s pulse had quickened.   A little bit of violence was like an appetizer and had made him hungry.  He reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair.  It was the audible click of a revolver that gave him pause.  Turning, he found himself staring at the single unblinking eye of a 1917 Colt, held steady by the long arm of Father Greene.

“It is amazing what the folds of a cassock can hide.  Hands on your head.”  The priest took a step forward and pulled Dunbar’s gun free of its holster.  “Please, have a seat over there.”  Father Greene pointed to the opposite end of the long kitchen table and sat down himself.

“You can’t possibly shoot me, I’m—“

“I need you to shut up and listen.”  Father Greene un-cocked his gun and set it down on the table, but he kept his hand on it.  He had tucked the other gun into his cassock somewhere.  “The Sisters are not leaving.  They are going to teach the colored children.  If you or any of the Klan makes a move on them or the men protecting them, it will be a bloodbath.  Both I and Fulton Riley promise it.  Mayor Vallon has his eyes on state office next year, so he wants things quiet.  So that is what we are going to do, keep things quiet.  You keep your job, I keep the Sisters and we both keep breathing.”

“And if I say no?”

Slowly the priest rose from his chair.  With a steady and measured step he walked the length of the table until he was standing directly behind Horace Dunbar.  He laid his hand on Dunbar’s head as if he were blessing a child.  With his other hand he drew the cold barrel slowly across Dunbars cheek, letting the end slide into place right behind his ear.

“Do you fear Hell Mr. Dunbar?”

Thick silence hung like the curtains at a funeral home. 

Father Greene leaned in close to Horace Dunbar, his mouth inches from his ear.  “I promise you, if you raise a hand against us, before I go to God, I will empty every single bullet in this gun into your body.  That is a promise.”

Somewhere outside a car trundled by.  Time stretched.

After the passing of an age, Father Greene straightened his back but he left the gun in place for the length of a short prayer.  Then calmly, intentionally, he lowered his gun and walked back to his chair.

Sitting, he pulled Dunbar’s gun from out of his cassock.  Setting his revolver on the table, he emptied the other gun of its ammunition.  Like a pocketful of change, the shiny casings spilled out onto the table and rolled onto the floor.  The priest slid the empty gun over to its owner.  “We’re done here.”

Councilman Dunbar slowly rose from his seat and slid his gun into its holster.  At the door, Father Greene called to him.

“Horace.”

He turned.

“I always keep my promises.”

Dunbar didn’t blink.  He held the priest’s gaze, silently weighing him.  Finally he cleared his throat, and spitting on the floor, he left.

Father Greene watched him leave before tending to Mrs. Bailey.  She was sniveling and breathing heavy, but was sitting up.  When he was sure she was okay, he sat down in his armchair.  With a steady hand he tamped the bowl of his pipe full of tobacco and began to smoke.  They sat like that for a long time.

“Father?”

Father Greene awoke from his brooding.  He wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting there, but the sunlight through the window had begun to shorten.  It must be approaching late morning.  His pipe had gone out, but he couldn’t remember when.

“Father?”

He had never heard Mrs. Bailey sound so timid.  

“You can never speak of what happened this morning Mrs. Bailey.  Not to anyone.”

“But Father…”

“Not to anyone.  I will speak to those who must be spoken to.  There still may be hope for peace.  Do you understand?”

“Yes Father.”

“Good.  How’s your face?”

“Intact.”

Father Greene looked over at Mrs. Bailey; her left eye was swollen and purpling.  Perhaps she was made of tougher stuff than he had given her credit for.

“Father…could you have shot him?”

Father Greene didn’t answer right away.

“Father?”

“No.”

Mrs. Bailey let out a breath as if she were afraid that he would have said otherwise.

“Make no mistake Mrs. Bailey, I wanted to.  When Oliver was here, when he hit you, I hated him.  Lord forgive me, I hated him.  Maybe still hate him.  I want to send him before God and see if he smiles so smugly.”

“So…so why didn’t you?”

“You asked if I could have shot him.  Let me show you something Mrs. Bailey.  This too will be our little secret.”  Father Greene got up from his chair and pulled one up next to Mrs. Bailey.  He sat down beside her and pulled out his Colt.  He swung out the cylinder.  It was empty.  “I told him I would empty every bullet in the gun into his body.  That was true.”  He spun the cylinder.  “I don’t even own bullets, not for some years.  I won’t have them thinking we are an easy target, but I won’t shed blood if I can help it either.”  With a last look, he tucked the revolver back into his cassock.  

Standing, he offered her his hand.  “Come along Mrs. Bailey.  I must go to the sisters, and you should go home.”

When the priest and sacristan stepped out onto the porch, the sun was high and the temperature had risen.  But as Father Greene stepped onto the sidewalk, he noticed a bank of clouds in the distance.  It was too early to tell if the clouds would bring relief or a storm.