lot on the pub’s east side. He depressed the gearshift, enabling him to put the car in reverse, as he breathed a prayer of thanks that the young lady who had delivered this rental car had informed him of this operational necessity. Otherwise, he would have made innumerable U-turns.
He parked, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the pub through the front door. Once inside, he stood motionless, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. The only light in the pub came through several side windows, but the day had turned overcast, and it was no longer all that bright outside—which meant it was even less bright inside.
“Father Koesler?”
“Yes?” He peered through the gloom. “Tom?”
“That’s right.”
Koesler had been informed by Chris Murray that his son Tom would be caring for the pub, taking time off from his spring term at Henry Ford Community College to do so.
“Right this way,” Tom invited.
“Right which way?” People whose eyes were accustomed to the dark seldom empathized with those who were going through the adjustment process. Koesler instantly recalled the occasion when he had gone into a darkened church to lock it for the night. He had lingered in the sanctuary, praying. Meanwhile, the pastor, not realizing his assistant was locking up, sent a young man over to do so. When the man entered the rear of the church, he could not see well in the dark, so he groped his way toward the front. As he reached the communion railing, Koesler, who could see quite well, reached out to grasp his hand in guidance—and scared him half out of his wits.
The recollection took only a split second to pass through Koesler’s mind. The next, related memory was that of an old joke. A priest, figuring he has finished hearing confessions of a Saturday evening, turns out most of the lights and returns to the confessional to complete his prayers. At which point, a teaching nun enters the near-dark church, kicks aside a misplaced priedieu, then stumbles over several kneelers, all of which makes quite a racket.
Finally making her way to the confessional, she begins by saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession and I have been angry with my children several times—”
“How many children do you have?” the priest interrupts.
“Sixty-two,” she answers.
“Get the hell out of here,” says he, “I knew you were drunk the minute you came in!”
“Oh, all right; I can see you now,” said Koesler, as Tom materialized before him.
“Sorry, Father; I keep forgetting: My eyes are accustomed to this place and yours aren’t. I was just stocking the bar. Would you like something to drink, or would you like me to show you to your room?”
“Well, I would like to get settled in.”
Tom nodded, and gestured toward an open door behind the bar. “Follow me.” He led Koesler through the door and up a flight of stairs.
“This is the bathroom.” Tom indicated a room to the left of the landing at the top of the stairs.
Koesler looked in. A rather large room, painted blue, with a washstand, toilet, and tub. No shower, Koesler noted.
“And this is your room down at the other end of the hall, Father.”
Koesler stepped into an adequately furnished room. A chest of drawers and mirror, a large closet, and what appeared to be a queen-sized bed. He set down his suitcase, then pulled the light curtain aside from the room’s only window. “What’s that?”
Tom stepped to the window and followed Koesler’s finger.
“That’s the church . . . St. Patrick’s, what else?” Tom said, smiling. “Or, at least it’s the bell tower.”
“Kind of close, isn’t it?”
“Four or five buildings away . . . but they’re all jammed together.”
Koesler nodded. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll just get cleaned up and be down in a little while.”
Tom left, closing the door behind him. Koesler seated himself on the bed and began to wonder if this had been such a hot idea after all. This place seemed to be further out than the proverbial boondocks. And, from experience, he knew himself to be urban . . . very urban.
But, he reassured himself, he did have wheels. So, in case he started feeling too isolated from civilization, he could always move on.
Besides, this had been such an unexpectedly hectic trip, he thought he might be in actual need of some measure of tranquility. And this certainly looked like the place to get it.
After freshening up, Koesler returned to the bar, where Tom was still occupied in setting up shop for the expected late afternoon and evening business. Tom was looking at Koesler while arranging bottles of Guinness. He was smiling. “Sorry to be grinning at you, Father, but it does seem funny to have a priest in the pub.”
“Doesn’t the parish priest come in?”
Tom shook his head vigorously. “Not that he doesn’t have his private stock, but, no, he doesn’t come in here . . . or in any pub for that matter.”
Koesler suddenly felt self-conscious. “I suppose I shouldn’t be wearing my roman collar.”
“Why not?” Tom continued to smile. “It gives the place some added class.”
For the first time, Koesler’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness and he was able to more carefully inspect the pub.
The section in which he was standing was long and narrow and dark. The traditional bar with stools on the patrons’ side ran the length of this section where there were also tables and chairs available. In one corner, on a wall-hung platform, was a TV set—not operating at the moment. This section opened upon a much larger area with a small stage and a huge fireplace, also not operating.
Then, Koesler saw him. A small man at one of the tables near the wall in the semidarkness. He sat motionless, a cap on his head, a pipe in his mouth, and one hand wrapped around a shooper of Guinness. But for the wisp of smoke drifting upward from the bowl of his pipe, he might have been a statue.
“Who’s that?”
Tom followed his glance. “Oh, that’s Paddy O’Flynn. He’s usually here as soon as we open. Then he stays with us much of the day and is usually with us when we close.”
Koesler decided to go over and introduce himself.
“Excuse me,” he said as he neared the man, “I’m Father Koesler, Father Robert Koesler. And you, I’m told, are Mr. O’Flynn.”
“I am.” Patrick Joseph O’Flynn snapped to his feet and whipped off his cap, but did not release his grip on either pipe or shooper.
He could have been a clone of Barry Fitzgerald. The contrast between his five-foot-five and Koesler’s six- foot-three was pronounced.
“Please sit down, Mr. O’Flynn. I just came over to visit, if you don’t mind.”
“It’ll be Paddy to you, Father.”
Somehow, Koesler knew better than to invite O’Flynn to get reciprocal and call him Bob.
“Very well, Paddy.” Koesler sat down at O’Flynn’s table. Sitting did not prove much of a help. There was still a significant difference in size between the two men.
“Would ya be givin’ me the honor as well as the pleasure of buying yer Reverence a pint, perhaps?”
“Thank you.”
With a large smile, O’Flynn rapped the table a couple of times. Then, having gained Tom’s attention, he pointed to his glass and held up two fingers.
“Have you been here long, Paddy?”
O’Flynn consulted the clock. “Oh, I’d say since about noon.”
“No, I meant in Gurteen.”
“All my life.”
“You’re a native then.”
“I am.”
Koesler wondered again that no one had ever introduced the Irish to a simple yes or no.
“Then maybe you’d know how big the town is? How many inhabitants?”
