1 Chronicles 28:10
Friday 9th November: Vicky Walters had phoned from Pazzo's Bar, back of the Basketball Hall of Fame.
Springfield, the City of Firsts. They invented basketball in Springfield, alongside the ice-skate and the Springfield rifle.
And this was a first for Father Seb. He had never been to this place before. But when Vicky phoned she sounded upset so he had come right over.
He found her nursing a dirty martini: gin, a splash of olive juice, and a whisper of vermouth. It was the favored drink of F.D.R.; at one time Roosevelt had mixed it for Stalin. But she was no Stalin. Vicky looked every inch the frail elementary school teacher, with a face young enough to be confused with those of her pupils. "Dollar to a dime they'll have asked her for photo ID in a place like this," Seb thought.
She sat alone at the 30 foot, mirror-backed, mahogany bar behind which marched wine bottles like soldiers framing row after row of spirits.
From somewhere piped music of a better stamp was piercing the gloom of the smokey lamps. The beetles sang, "No Reply".
Lisa, the bejewelled, well-bosomed barmaid, was leaning across sharing a plate of cheese with Vicky in an attempt to offer consolation to the sad figure cut by the elementary school teacher.
Vicky's pretty young face turned towards Seb as he walked in. Her lower lip trembled and her features grew pinched. She bit back the tears. Lisa made herself scarce.
"I'm sorry Father Seb," Vicky was saying.
Seb flinched. He knew he was compromised by his own behaviour. He half wondered what he was doing here. He felt unworthy to offer help to this broken child. "You don't need to apologise for anything."
"I needed to talk to you."
"Of course."
"Will you take a drink Father?"
He asked for a coffee which Lisa provided before retiring discreetly to the remotest corner of the substantial bar, busying herself with polishing the glasses in best bartender style.
"So?" Father Seb asked as soon as he'd sipped his coffee.
Vicky looked down at the table as she spoke. "I'm pregnant Father."
"Ah," said Seb. And without pause he slid his coffee towards Vicky Walters and took her martini from her hand. "You'd best not drink then."
She looked up at him then. "I'm so sorry. I'm alone you see," she said. "That's why I'm not keeping it Father Seb, the child I mean."
"That's your prerogative. But in case you change your mind, alcohol is not good for the child you now carry."
Vicky said nothing. Just stared, vacantly, at the coffee that Seb had substituted for her drink.
"Do I know the Father?" Seb asked.
She nodded.
"Will you tell me his name?"
She shook her head.
"Is he married?"
She nodded, adding, "Is it wrong to have an abortion?"
Seb shrugged. Before his recent conversation with Angie his answer might have been different. "For some things a simple yes or no answer works. Is it wrong to commit adultery? Yes. It is wrong." He didn't pause, his words flowed ahead removing all hint of disaproval. "Is it wrong to have an abortion? I'm not sure its a matter of right and wrong. Things are not that simple." He noticed Vicky's involuntary grimace at his equivocation. She wants me to say what she expects me to say, he thought. Then aloud he said, "Christ told Saint Peter that what he bound on earth would be bound in heaven. What he meant, in my view, is that we follow our instincts and that determines God's judgement of us. In a sense we judge ourselves. What seems right to you is right. What seems wrong to you is wrong." He paused and studied her. Her reddened eyes were fixed on his. He glanced down at the redundant martini he was now nursing and continued. "Have you told him? The father of the child I mean."
She shook her head.
"Perhaps you should."
"He has dumped me."
"That's not the issue."
"In what way is it not the issue?" Vicky bridled. "Why the hell should it mean so much to you? I am alone and I am pregnant and I am getting an abortion."
"If you are so sure about this why did you call me?"
"Abortion, is that wrong?"
Seb smiled. There was no way she was going to let him wriggle off this hook. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether there's any alternative."
Vicky laughed. "Fat lot of use you are." Then she sighed. "Is life sacred Father?"
He thought a moment.
"Have you heard of the Goldilocks enigma?"
Again Vicky shook her head.
"That the universe is neither too hot nor too cold but is just right for life, like Baby Bear's porridge?"
"So?"
"So everything that is created is just one immense cradle for life. It is God's central concern, the gift of life. And yes, life is utterly sacred, however much we wish God Almighty to play to our rules."
"This is supposed to be helping me?"
Seb shrugged. "You called a priest, not a doctor. What did you expect me to say?"
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