Bless Me Father
by Deane Christopher

Edited by Steve Zink

 

Part 2 – EXODUS

 

Having just reconciled herself to the fact that she was no longer Father Dan, the new Karen Miller was keenly aware that she had some fast thinking to do. It was Sunday, and that meant that were she still the man and priest that she had been the night before, she would be in the church’s sacristy shortly before nine, preparing herself to function as the celebrant of St. Catherine’s nine o’clock services.

Though there were only a handful of parishioners that attended the earlier of St. Catherine’s two scheduled Sunday morning services, Father Dan’s absence would no doubt lead to some sort of inquiry. That meant Karen had to get done whatever it was she wanted to do and be out of the rectory by nine at the very latest.

Though her mind was still reeling from the mind-boggling turn of events that had seen her go from priest to pregnant young woman during the course of the night, Karen knew that she had to make good use of the truncated amount of time she had. Priorities had to be set and decisions had to be made. Rather quickly, she came to the conclusion that she could attend to that while showering.

A stomach churning bout of morning sickness, the very same nauseating experience that had, along with a painful cramp in her calf, contributed to her awakening, had resulted in her having had to throw up. And, because of that rather disgusting, commode hugging episode, minute particles of regurgitated food matter had lodged in some of the unkempt strands of that new mousy looking chestnut hair of hers. She also became keenly aware that she reeked with a pungent blend of cigarette smoke and BO. A shower was not therefore an option. As far as Karen was concerned, a shower was a necessity. In fact, a shower was her second highest priority of the morning, with her first being to wash and dry the one change of girl clothes the Good Lord and seen fit to grant her.

Grabbing a bathrobe that was now way too big for her slender girlish frame, Karen dashed down to the basement. There, she stripped off her clothes and dumped them into a washing machine that was pretty much on its last legs. Donning that old trusty bathrobe of hers, she dumped a hastily measured quantity of detergent into the washer and, without giving much thought to what she was doing, twisted the dials to start the machine cycling. Stopping in the kitchen to secure a large trash bag and a pair of surgical gloves that she used when replacing the toner cartridge in the parish’s copying machine en route, Karen quickly retraced her steps to the bathroom.

"Oh, my!" Karen reflexively gasped, as she began to apply a soapy lather to herself. ‘I knew that a woman’s breasts were reputed to be a whole lot more sensitive than a man’s. But, I had no idea that they were THAT sensitive! I’m really going to have to watch myself. Because, if I don’t, I could easily get carried away and end up doing something that I really shouldn’t ought to be doing. And, the Big Boss Upstairs might not take to kindly to me playing with all these new attributes of mine...’

+

 

Having heard the original Karen Miller’s confession the day before, the new Karen Miller knew that the old Karen Miller had a police record for soliciting, and had ended up doing at least one six month stint in the city jail for failure to appear. And, a police record meant that the authorities had a set of her fingerprints. And, those finger prints could cause her no end of problems should the police begin a criminal investigation into the strange disappearance of one Father Daniel Patrick Parker.

Should her fingerprints turn up in the rectory, especially so should they turn up on the second floor of the rectory where Father Dan’s bedroom was located, the police would want to question her. And, that was something that Karen wished to avoid at all costs.

Dealing with all the rigmarole involved in trying to adjust to living one’s life as a newly ensconced woman was one thing. Dealing with a pregnancy was another. Becoming the one and only suspect in a criminal investigation revolving around the disappearance of a much beloved parish priest was not something Karen wished to become embroiled within. She already had too much on her plate to have to deal with a lot of incriminating questions that the authorities might put to her.

Karen did not delude herself. The truth would no doubt land her in the nut house. But, to lie would be even worse. For lies would tarnish her soul, lower her self esteem and more importantly, ostracize her from the God she professed to love and serve.

Avoidance was key. Karen knew that she would have to vigilantly clean up after herself and thereby remove any and all evidence that could even remotely link her to having ever been in St. Catherine’s rectory.

Having toweled off, she wrapped her hair in a second towel, donned the surgical gloves, and turned to the task of sanitizing the bathroom so as to remove any trace of her having been there. Returning to her former bedroom, a naked Karen next went to her chest of drawers and from its bottom drawer, procured a dark blue woolen watch cap. Next, she opened the top drawer that served as her sock and underwear repository. Reaching in and under a pile of socks, Karen proceeded to draw out a zippered pouch that contained her cash reserve of five hundred dollars plus, and a spare bank card that she had prudently kept stashed there in case a sudden emergency should arise.

Oddly enough, Karen had to console herself that what she was doing was not really stealing. After all, it was her money. She - as Father Dan - had earned it. While it tugged at her conscious, Karen knew that she was going to need as much money as she could get her hands on in order to make her transition into girlhood as easy as possible for herself. Being penniless could lead to dire consequences. Dire consequences could lead to trouble. Trouble could in turn lead to temptation. Temptation could easily lead to sin. And, sinning would definitely tick the Big Guy off. And, the last person Karen wanted to tick-off was the Big Guy. She knew that if she was going to successfully make the transition into womanhood, the one person she needed in her corner pulling for her was none other than her ultimate Boss, the Big Guy.

Back in the basement, Karen took her clothes out of the washer and transferred them to the dryer. Knowing she had a good hour to kill, she went back upstairs to the kitchen and, taking great care not to leave any evidence that could place her in the rectory, made herself the last pot of coffee that she would ever consume at that locale.

Sitting at the table, Karen allowed herself the luxury of speculation, in that she began to wonder what had happened to the real Karen Miller. "Was she still out there - somewhere? Or, had she undergone a similar, but reciprocal transmogrification to the one that the former Father Dan had undergone? And, if she had become the physical personification of the Reverend Father Daniel Patrick Parker, as Karen more or less assumed she had, would she - as a he - use the opportunity to make a fresh start in life?"

While the new Karen fervently prayed that the old Karen would take advantage of the fresh start God had so graciously granted her, knowing the girl’s history as she did, she really didn’t think there was much hope of that occurring. But then again, where there was life, there was hope.

+

 

With the towels, coffee cup and a few other potentially incriminating items stashed away in the large garbage bag, Karen, in an effort to hedge her bets, stuffed a spare set of keys to the buildings that comprised the St. Catherine’s parish complex into the right pocket of the skintight jeans she was wearing. Pulling the watch cap over her still slightly damp hair, Karen donned an old tattered leather jacket that had belonged to her former male self. Taking a last, long look around the kitchen, Karen bid a fond good-bye to the place she had called home for years and then, aware that time was pressing, descended once again to the basement level. There, using a craftily concealed doorway, she entered a vaulted brick subterranean passage way that lead from the rectory to the elementary school’s boiler room. Exiting the tunnel that dated all the way back to Civil War times, she then traversed a warren of rooms that comprised the school’s sub-basement, and so entered a second hidden passageway that conveyed her from the school itself and into the sub-basement of the abandoned convent. Ascending one level to the basement level of the convent itself, Karen used an emergency exit that deposited her in a fairly secluded areaway that in turn granted her access to a little used neighborhood alleyway.

An hour later, having deposited the garbage bag and surgical gloves in a dumpster along the way, Karen sat at the counter of a greasy spoon eating breakfast. Knowing that her new body was undernourished and that she was now eating for two, Karen had ordered a hearty breakfast which consisted of coffee, orange juice, ham, eggs, toast and, to round out the morning, a sinfully scrumptious stack of buttermilk pancakes swimming in a more than generous lake of maple syrup.

As she was sitting there eating her breakfast, Karen realized that the thing she would miss most about not being an ordained priest anymore was celebrating Mass. Though she had repeatedly questioned her vocation to the priesthood over the years, the thing she cherished most was adhering to the charge that Jesus placed upon his Apostles at the Last Supper when he commanded them to "Do this in remembrance of me." Then, a random thought stuck her. Jesus had not said, "Some of you do this in remembrance of me while the rest of you have to sit out there in the pews and watch." Jesus had simply said, "Do this in remembrance of me." And Jesus, Karen knew, was anything but an equivocator. He did not pussy-foot around. He said what He meant and meant what He said.

That got Karen to wondering if it was possible that the Church had not gotten it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, they had misconstrued Jesus’ intentions. Maybe His charge was to be taken literally. Was it at all possible that Jesus had never intended for there to be a middle man imposed upon the celebration that reverently recreated the sacred and ever so solemn benediction that was touted as the hallmark of the Last Supper? Could Jesus’ profound words have actually empowered all His followers to "Do this in remembrance of me," and not, as it turned out, a few chosen Church sanctioned and Church controlled intermediaries?

Had the followers of Christ been duped? Had they, for a multitude of reasons, been denied a personal form of devotion that God, through the words and deeds of His only Son, intended for His children to have?

Karen did not have the answer to those weighty questions of hers. What she did have though was the free will that God had granted all His children. Acting on the off chance that the Church may have missed God’s intentions as related to Jesus’ charge, much as the Church believed that those of the Jewish faith had failed to recognize their Messiah in the person of Jesus Christ, Karen picked up her orange juice glass and, using the words that Jesus had spoken at the Last Supper, consecrated and, subsequent to that, drank it. Likewise, when she was finished with the juice, she picked up a piece of toast, consecrated it and then, careful to consume every last crumb that had through her faith become the Body of Christ, ate every single morsel of it.

+

 

During her walk that morning, Karen had prudently taken the time to map out a strategy. First off, she would hit an automated bank teller and draw out as much money as was available to her on a daily basis. Next, thinking that it was a good thing that the old Karen did not have access to her password, Karen would begin to transfer funds from her savings account to her checking account so as to guarantee that she had a reserve of cash to fall back on should the need arise.

Next stop - a Rite Aid. There Karen purchased a whole parcel of personal hygiene items. Then, acting on an after-thought, she re-entered the store and with the aid and kind advice of the elderly pharmacist, she picked up a personal pregnancy test kit.

An hour later, sitting in the stall of a ladies room of fairly well known retail craft store outlet, Karen, having read through the instructions on the box a good three times before proceeding, took the odious little dip-stick and ever so tentatively maneuvered it up inside that new little you-know-what of hers. As expected, the results were positive. Karen was indeed with child.

Having counseled many a young unwed mother and mother to be as to where to go and what to do to get help in their time of need while functioning in her role as a parish priest, Karen was already one step ahead of the game. While she felt confident that her parents would welcome their prodigal daughter home, Karen did not want to go that route as yet. If all else failed, she knew that she would have to prevail upon them to help her. However, Karen dearly wanted to try to get back on her feet first. Then, once she was in a more stable position, as squeamish as Karen felt about such an eventuality, she had already reconciled herself to the fact that she would endeavor to make amends with Gus and Jean Miller and so, grant them access to the grandchild of theirs that she carried in the sacred crucible of that new womb of hers.

It was Sunday and because it was, Karen knew that the Catholic Center would be closed. However, that should not prove to be an obstacle. An old seminary buddy of Karen’s, one Monsignor Kevin McClarthy, functioned as the Catholic Center’s director, and though he was not assigned as one of the regular parish priests at St. Steven’s, he did reside and say Mass there. Feeling reasonably sure if she could but talk to Monsignor McClarthy, she could prevail upon him to pull a few strings and get her into one of the several halfway houses that the archdiocese funded and oversaw.

Though she hated to part with the money, Karen flagged a cab down and had the driver run her across town to St. Steven’s. God, it seemed, was looking out for her. Without saying anything to Monsignor McClarthy about her being the former Father Daniel Patrick Parker, Karen told her old friend the sad story of a good girl gone bad. Then, having informed the Monsignor that she wanted to keep the baby she was carrying, he did what she had hoped and prayed he would do. Though it took several calls to find a halfway house that had a bed to spare, her old seminary roommate not only cut through all the red tape to get her installed there, but took the time out of his afternoon to drive Karen over to the home himself.

+

 

Having been read the riot act of acceptable behavior and personal responsibilities by the kindly middle aged woman that oversaw the facilities, Karen was turned over to one of her fellow house mates for a guided tour of the halfway house that would serve as her new home. Then, having been introduced to about half of her new fellow house mates, Karen began what was for her the arduous tasks of not only trying to fit in, but, to a larger degree, learning how to pass herself off as the young woman she had, by the grace of God, become.

Karen’s problem was that while she had a woman’s body, her mind was as manly as it ever was. God, for some reason or another, had not seen fit to recondition the former Father Dan’s mind so that it conformed to the very feminine body in which it was now housed. Karen, who was extremely ill at ease with that new body of hers, was at a complete loss of how to accord herself. Trouble was, as Karen was well aware herself, that fact was fairly evident to anyone who might take the time to seriously scrutinize the way she accorded herself.

Luckily for Karen, few of her fellow residents took the time to take note of Karen’s manly, to the point of being oafish mannerisms. Nor did most of her house mates take note of the fact that Karen had no idea how to go about attending to her looks. The same could be said about her hair. Though she washed and brushed it out every night, it stubbornly retained its unkempt look.

Basically, what it came down to was this: the majority of Karen’s house mates were simply too self-absorbed with their own lives to give a rat’s ass about anyone else’s problems. If she asked, more times then not, they would help her by offering a comment or suggestion about how to go about doing this, that or another thing. But, that was about it. Rarely if ever would someone just up and volunteer to give her a hand or even advice about something she was attempting to do.

‘Please, God!’ Karen relentless beseeched, as she lay in her poor excuse for a bed and, for the third night in row, cried herself to sleep. ‘I’m trying. I really, really am. But, I’m not doing so good with this being a girl business. And, I don’t mean to be a nag about this, but I could really use Your help right about now. I have to tell you, God. I’m pretty much at my wit’s end. And, if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to handle this...’

+

 

God, as Karen had often quipped, had a sense of humor. Trouble was, as Karen had been quick to point out when she had been the manly Father Dan, God’s sense of humor had a marked tendency to appear to be more than a little warped at times. Then, to clarify the point she was endeavoring to make, Karen - as the former Father Dan - would give the example of Moses and his flagrant double tap on the rock to gain access the water that God had promised His Chosen People, the very same flagrant double tap that had, in the end, denied Moses’ entry into the Promised Land.

That’s to say that while God, in His Infinite Wisdom, answered Karen’s prayers, He did so in a most unexpected manner.

Since Karen did not have a job, nor was she taking care of a newborn as many of her house mates were, starting right after she returned from her first visit to the free clinic that Monday morning, she began to pitch in and lend a hand around the house. Rather quickly it was recognized that where Karen was lacking in her womanly ways, her culinary talents were something to be savored. By almost unanimous consent, the kitchen soon became Karen’s domain.

Having had to fend for himself while stationed at St. Catherine’s, Father Dan had been forced to fix his own meals. Though he had not been a good cook to begin with, he quickly realized that he did not have any other recourse but to learn. Eventually, after a lot of trial and error, not to mention more than his fair share of burnt offerings, Father Dan had become a pretty good cook.

So, as fate would have it, a few evenings after Karen had pretty much assumed control over the goings on in the kitchen, Gabriella, the pregnant nineteen-year old who had been more or less volunteered by her cohorts to dry the dinner dishes that Karen was in the process of washing, pointedly said, "What gives, girl? I mean, you’re not really who you claim to be, are you?"

Caught completely off guard by Gabriella’s remark, Karen quizzically replied, "Huh?"

"I mean, while you’ve got a girl’s body, you really aren’t a girl, are you?"

"What are you talking about? I mean, that’s absurd. Of course I’m a girl."

"Oh, no you’re not. I mean, you may look like a girl. But, it’s pretty obvious that you don’t act like one. And, take it from me, there’s no way in hell you think like one.

"You know, as in you’re a walkin’, talkin’ contradiction."

"How can you say that, Gabriella?"

"Because, girl. I’m psychic."

 

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© 2001 by Deane Christopher. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.