A Truer Calling

OPENING SCENE:  Introduces and identifies protagonist as a Roman Catholic priest and describes his physical appearance. Establishes setting (San Diego, CA) and time of year (July). Foreshadows the routine hospital visit that will introduce the protagonist to the central conflict of the story - the discovery of someone in need from his past.  The interaction with the young boy (not a central character) in the opening scene is intended to reveal something of the nature of the protagonist stemming from his early childhood.  FYI - this opening scene is a complete re-write based on feedback from a literary agent that I needed to introduce my protagonist in the first chapter to establish a relationship with the reader.  My original opening scene ended with the auto accident.

A TRUER CALLING by Catherine Ellbogen

CHAPTER 1

The moment the softball left his hand, he knew the boy would miss it. 

Across the empty church parking lot, the 8-year-old cocked his bat and swung… and missed. He saw the boy’s face immediately tighten in frustration—they had been practicing for nearly an hour and he had made solid contact only four times.

Paul Griessen started walking toward the makeshift home plate where the young boy stood, rigid, staring at the ground, pounding his fist into his thigh. 

“Manny, here, let me check your grip,” he said in a calm, measured voice as he approached, removing the baseball glove from his hand and tucking it under his arm. The boy relaxed his clenched fist and returned it to the bat. “Try gripping the bat closer to the end,” Paul said as he adjusted the position of the boy’s hands on the worn wooden handle, “and keep your fingers loose—don’t hold on too tight.”

The boy relaxed his fingers as instructed then directed his large brown eyes up to the tall man in black, seeking affirmation, “Like this, Father?”

Paul nodded, giving the boy his most reassuring smile, then stooped to scoop up the softball from where it rested at the edge of Mrs. McGovern’s fenced-in vegetable garden that lined the end of the parking lot near the Rectory where Manny was standing.

He made one last adjustment to the boy’s stance and returned to the spot from where he was pitching. He kneaded the ball a bit and raised his forearm to wipe away the beads of sweat that had formed at the hairline of his ash blonde hair. Though late afternoon, the San Diego sun could be unforgiving in early July, and wearing black clerical garb instead of shorts and a t-shirt didn’t help. He was thankful at least for the haircut he had gotten a week earlier, or his hair would be fighting to restore its natural curl that he so valiantly fought to control.

Returning the glove to his hand, he looked across the parking lot at Manny and called out, “Ready?” When he saw the boy lean in and cock the bat high over his shoulder, he wound up and let the ball sail. Manny swung…and missed again. But this time instead of frustration, Manny’s reaction instantly turned to rage. He took his bat to the wall of fencing behind him that separated the garden from the parking lot and violently bashed it over and over again, causing one of the fence posts to collapse.

Paul immediately rushed to him, dropping his glove along the way and reaching out with his hands in attempt to grab the boy who was now blind with rage. “Manny! MANNY! Stop! It’s ok, it’s OK.”  Weaving to avoid a close call with the wildly swinging bat, he managed to get both his hands on the boy’s shoulders and held them firmly until the boy calmed down. Eventually Manny loosened his grip on the bat, letting it fall to the asphalt, and then suddenly and unexpectedly swiveled his body, wrapping his arms tightly around Paul’s waist and burying his head in Paul’s midsection and began sobbing loudly.

Paul adjusted his embrace to protectively envelop the boy, allowing him to release his pent-up emotions, knowing that they stemmed not from his inability to hit the ball, but from a father who, for the past two years, had missed no opportunity to belittle the child and his mother until eventually abandoning the family all together, leaving Emmanuel to come to no other conclusion than that he was solely to blame. 

Paul stood stone still in the hot parking lot as the boy continued to emote, his thin black short-sleeved shirt clinging to his body, fighting the instinct to move his hands in any way—stroking the boy’s back or caressing his head—all innocent gestures conveying comfort that these days could be completely misconstrued when delivered to a young child by a 46-year old Roman Catholic priest. He had to trust in simple human contact and a sympathetic ear to provide that comfort. And, of course, the collar. The collar is what delivered what the boy needed most—a safe zone absent fear of judgement or ridicule. That one square inch of white that signaled that Paul was not just a man, but a vessel of God Himself.

His other reason for remaining perfectly still was to give the boy as much time as he needed for his catharsis to play out. He knew overt displays of emotion were generally frowned upon in Hispanic culture. Men, and boys, were expected to be strong, stoic, self-reliant, macho—a culture that was very different from Paul’s own upbringing in which his parents praised his caring nature and sense of responsibility toward others from a very young age, especially his mother. He didn’t doubt Manny’s mother, a 24-year old from Tijuana, loved Manny very much and was doing her best to fulfill the role of single mother unexpectedly thrust upon her when her Caucasian husband decided to up and leave. This is how Manny came to be with Paul at this moment.  The community center’s summer day camp ended at 3 p.m., however, Manny’s mother worked until five and had no family in the area to take the boy, and so Paul and Mrs. McGovern, the elderly widow who cooked and cleaned for the priests in the Rectory during the week, agreed to watch Manny in those two hours so he would not be a latchkey child.

By now the sobbing had quieted, and Paul looked down upon the top of the Manny’s head with its tousled dark brown hair just as the boy sniffed and raised his eyes to Paul’s. He said nothing, but his eyes conveyed fear and uncertainty over Paul’s reaction to having damaged church property. Paul chose to ignore the subject, “Manny, your mom will be here in an hour to pick you up and I need to get my sacraments bag ready for my hospital visit this evening. Would you like to help me?”

The boy’s eyes softened in relief and he nodded. Releasing their embrace, Paul instructed Manny to grab the bat and ball as he walked back across the lot to retrieve the glove he had dropped and together they walked toward the side door of the church that led to the Sacristy. They set their gear down just outside the door and entered.

The room was arranged much like a locker room, with a set of closets along the far end where the vestments were stored and a long padded bench in the middle where the priests could sit to change their clothing. Along the side wall was a low 6-drawer dresser with various glass canisters and containers arranged on top. 

Paul stepped forward and opened one of the closet doors and withdrew a vintage black leather Gladstone bag and set it atop the dresser next to the cannisters. He invited Manny to stand on a small stool next to him as he opened the hinged top of the bag. “This is called a sacraments bag, Manny. I carry this with me whenever I visit the hospital or serve Holy Communion to home bound parishioners.”  Paul began withdrawing the various contents from the bag and setting them on the dresser, explaining what each one does as Manny observed with rapt interest. “This is my stole.  When I place this strip of embroidered green cloth around my neck, it means I am ready to perform my official priestly duties, such as blessing the sick or serving communion. Practicing softball doesn’t count as a priestly duty.”  He side-glanced at Manny and gave him a wink.  A half-beat later, Manny picked up on Paul’s quip and smiled.  

Paul then showed Manny the prayerbooks and various vials of Holy Water and Holy Oils used to anoint the sick. The boy watched with interest as Paul replenished the contents of the vials from the glass canisters atop the dresser, ensuring that no drop spilled in the process.

For the final step in the preparation, he led Manny through the doors leading to the altar and the tabernacle behind the altar that housed the Holy Eucharist. Manny instinctively genuflected before the tabernacle along with Paul. He had made his First Holy Communion the year prior in second grade and looked on in anticipation as Paul opened the tabernacle doors, revealing the spectacular monstrance with its large round glass-encased Communion wafer displayed at the top of a tall jewel-encrusted pedestal and surrounded by golden sun-like rays representing the presence of the consecrated Body of Christ.

At the sight of the monstrance Manny let out an audible gasp—up close, the monstrance is much larger and more impressive than it appears to those seated out in the pews. Upon hearing Manny’s reaction, Paul’s mind flashed to his own sense of awe the first time he served as an Altar boy and saw the monstrance up close. But more so than the sheer beauty of the gilded receptacle itself, he recalled his own indescribable feeling of awe at the sudden comprehension that the Host at the center meant that Jesus Himself was present. To a small degree, he still felt that same feeling today.

Near the base of the monstrance in the tabernacle were several round gold receptacles that Manny instantly recognized as what the priests held during Mass when they distributed the communion wafers, and one smaller receptacle with a lid. Paul explained that the larger ones were called a ciborium while the smaller one is called a pyx—the pyx is what he carries with him in the sacraments bag.

Manny watched, transfixed, as Paul began carefully transferring a few of the consecrated wafers from the ciborium to the pyx. After a few quiet moments, he asked, “Father? When did you know you wanted to be a priest?”

Paul smiled to himself, reflecting a moment before responding. Carefully placing the wafers one by one into the pyx, he mused, “I think…the first time I had a feeling the priesthood might be something I wanted to explore was when I was maybe eleven—a little older than you. I remember being on the altar as an Altar boy and looking out at the people singing in the pews, and thinking how happy they seemed. The church had always felt like a special place…a welcoming place…and I saw the men who were priests listening to people, caring for people, helping people. And I thought, well, maybe I wanted to do that too.”

He glanced over at Manny and smiled. He’d said enough—he didn’t want to influence. If it was meant to be, the boy would recognize the calling when it came…as he had. And he would have to make a hard decision—the life of a priest is not for everyone. Affixing the lid onto the pyx, he removed it from the tabernacle and closed the doors and the two genuflected and returned to the Sacristy.

As Paul was placing the pyx into the Gladstone bag, Manny suddenly asked, “Father, when can I be an Altar boy?” 

He closed and clasped the hinged lid and turned to Manny. Placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “Next year, when you turn nine, speak with your mother and ask her permission, and if she agrees, I will speak with Father Rosario to make sure he has a spot for you.” The boy’s expression brightened, and Paul was pleased that his little diversion had helped Manny forget all about the earlier incident with the fence. But then he saw Manny’s smile fade a bit as his eyes held Paul’s a moment longer in silence, and he sensed the boy wanted to share something but was unsure whether he could trust. He made a mental note to speak with Manny’s mother at some point to obtain her permission to talk with the boy in more depth about his feelings, or at the least, to encourage her to seek counseling for Manny through his school or other means. 

He glanced at his wristwatch. “Your mom will be arriving shortly, let’s wait for her outside, shall we?”  Manny’s face beamed again and he nodded and Paul grinned back, roughing up the boy’s hair and grabbing the Gladstone bag as the two exited the Sacristy to wait for Manny’s mother to arrive. 

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A Truer Calling - First 3 Pages - Catherine Ellbogen.docx