William Kienzle - Chameleon

But the game was set to start at 10:00. Later than usual. Perfectly acceptable; he could easily lose himself in a card game. And tonight he needed to get lost.

Here he was now, parked in front of his own home without a clear notion of how he got here. Force of habit, perhaps. There was still almost an hour before the game. Time to go inside and relax a bit.

He left his outerwear in the foyer closet. The thermostat had been programmed to have the house warm for his projected arrival. He poured a generous glass of Glenlivet neat, and slumped into his recliner chair.

He slid a mouthful of Scotch around in his mouth. Cleaning his teeth, he explained to himself. Also permeating his taste buds with that singular, satisfying piquancy.

He contemplated the glass, Martini for dinner and now Scotch. He didn’t used to mix his beverages like this. He didn’t used to drink this much.

Was his drinking becoming a problem? He didn’t think it necessary to admit that. He used to drink with Maryanne, his late wife, but almost always in moderation. A little wine before and with dinner occasionally. A nightcap. Nothing like it was now.

His attention turned to the end table across the room. On it rested a photo of the two of them. It was a posed portrait taken many years ago at a happy time of life. They had health, security, fulfillment, and, most of all, each other.

Now she was gone. And he was left with … what? A bottle?

He felt an urge to go over and turn the picture face down. He couldn’t bring himself to do that; he loved Maryanne too much. Though she was gone she was still a part of him.

And it was this dichotomy, her presence and simultaneous absence, that was tearing him apart.

If only she were alive. Sitting in this room. Now. They would be listening to music, and reading-he the newspaper, she a book. From time to time one would read aloud to the other and they would discuss what they were reading. One of them would say something silly. They would both laugh.

It was so quiet in this house. Not a sound. With the storm windows in, even the noise of the rare passing car was so muffled as to be almost unheard. So quiet. No one to talk to. Not even a companion.

He rose from his chair and walked slowly to the liquor cabinet. He refilled his glass. Not even any ice. He studied the glass again. It was going to be one of those nights when he drank himself to sleep.

No poker tonight; by the time he finished his second glass of Scotch he would be in no condition to play the game up to his usual standard of concentration. Odd; he considered himself capable of driving, but not of playing a game-albeit a game he considered an extension and measure of life.

He dialed the familiar number at St. Aloysius church and left his regrets for the evening on Clete Bash’s answering machine. It was his best shot. Bash would be sure to check his messages before the game. Never can tell when the media might want some information or, better yet, a statement.

He sank again into his recliner.

He was lonely. Terribly, terribly lonely. And it wasn’t just conversation he needed. If there were any doubt, the earlier events of this evening were a pretty clear signal.

Grace Mars was a desirable woman. She loved him. He knew that, even if before this evening he had not consciously acknowledged it. If it were not for canon law, if he were free, she would marry him. He could live very well with Gracie.

His mind was fogging.

Just a few months ago, his doctor had explored his drinking during a regular checkup. They had agreed he was not an alcoholic. Not yet. But his drinking had intensified, and the doctor had warned that this periodic compulsion to drink to the point of unconsciousness could lead to lost time spans-blackouts.

When he was in the mood to be brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that just maybe this had already happened once or twice.

If he were not careful, it could happen tonight.

With deliberate resoluteness he poured the remaining Scotch down the drain and, a bit blearily, turned on the television. It was a game show that, on top of what he had drunk, soon lulled him to sleep.

Before slipping off, he resolved that things would be better tomorrow. Things always looked more hopeful in the light of day.

Christmastime traditionally brings a bumper crop of suicides. People plagued by depression find that depression intensified when they are isolated amid the surroundings of the joyful majority who give and receive gifts, wax sentimental over the seasonal music, party and make merry with relatives and friends.

Fred Stapleton was not one of the depressed minority. Now in his early sixties, he was satisfied with his work as a psychologist in private practice. He was happily married to a former nun. Irma, their only child, a gifted pianist, who was a high school junior at the internationally famed Interlochen Music Academy, was home for the holidays. Fred enjoyed adequate to good health.

Yet Christmas was a difficult time for him. Fred Stapleton had been a Catholic priest, and as much as he missed his prime calling, he missed it most in this season. And this even though he’d been an inactive priest now for almost as long-seventeen years-as he had been a functioning priest-twenty years.

Tonight, his wife, Pam, an excellent cook, had served roast beef, one of his favorite dishes. He had only picked at it. She knew why. But there was nothing she could do about it.

Now, seemingly satisfied, he sat in his favorite rocker, puffing on his pipe. Pam was chatting with Irma about the future and her plans for after graduation next year. They were aware that Fred had long since been lost in his own thoughts.

Irma broke off her conversation with her mother and turned to her father. “Daddy … Daddy! ” She had to repeat it several times before she got his attention.

“Uh … yeah … what is it, honey?”

“You’re on your own private planet again.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Won’t you join Mother and me in the land of the living?”

“Sorry again. Are you going to play for us? Play for your supper?”

“Later, Daddy.”

Fred shook his head. “Can’t be later, sweets; I’ve got a meeting to go to.”

“Tonight? A patient?”

Pam answered. “No, CORPUS.”

“Dad! You don’t have to go tonight. They have so many meetings. What’s the harm in missing one?”

CORPUS was an acronym for Corps of Reserve Priests United for Service, an international organization of former priests who, though married, want a return to their ministry.

“These meetings are important, Irma. And they’re getting to be more important by the year. By the month. By the day!”

“Dear,” Pam said, “this group is very, very important to your father. You’ve got to understand that.”

“Daddy, it’s been … what?… seventeen years since you were a priest. You’re a successful doctor. I know you’re good at what you do. You help people. Isn’t that enough? You don’t need to be a priest anymore.”

“You don’t know. You weren’t a priest for twenty years. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You make me think you regret leaving. That you regret marrying Mother. That you’re sorry I came along.”

“Don’t be silly, honey. You know that’s not true.”

“If you hadn’t left you wouldn’t have had me. I wouldn’t have happened.”

Fred smiled briefly. “You’d be in pure potency.”

“Well,” Irma said, “once and for all: Are you sorry you stopped being a priest?”

“No, I’m not sorry, honey. But you’re not getting the point. Just about every priest who leaves really wants to stay. Most of us left to get married. As if the two were incompatible … as if marriage and priesthood were mutually exclusive.”