Until the evening of July 12, 1988, Calvin McCrae, M.D., had considered himself a lucky man. Certification as a pediatrician was but a few years’ training and a few dozen sleepless nights away. That was what he had wanted ever since that experience with Tim Haig.

Calvin’s parents, their friends and acquaintances, and most of all Father Joseph Conley, twenty years their parish priest, were proud of their collective favorite son. Calvin was determined to live up to their expectations, because he was grateful for their support along the way ― support that had made the difference between staying the course and dropping out.

On the way up he had tripped ― badly ― more than once. It all began on a spring day when he was thirteen. Life was perfect. He was in the top five percent of his class at Bishop McNamara Junior High and enjoyed the highest batting average on the school’s baseball team. He was tall, handsome, and popular. Classmates sought him out for help with their mathematics and science problems; he gave them as much of his time as they needed. No one resented that he knew all the answers, because he shared unstintingly. Among his admiring clients was Tim Haig, a less than industrious student who was also catcher on the team.

What would go down as the defining event of Calvin’s youth, and Tim’s too, occurred during baseball practice. Calvin swung at a fastball and missed. Trying to make light of his embarrassment, he continued the arc of his swing while doing a pirouette on his left foot. The bat caught Tim on the side of the head as he came out of his crouch. Tim went down in a heap. He was rushed unconscious to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with a subdural hemorrhage. The blood was drained through two holes drilled into Tim’s skull. Within hours he regained consciousness. A week later he demonstrated to the neurosurgeon that his brain was as good as ever. He was kept in the hospital five more days for observation and released.

Calvin had watched with horror as Tim was lifted onto the stretcher. When the ambulance attendants refused to let him ride with them, he followed on his own. At the hospital he tried in vain to learn Tim’s condition. The truth was that at that time neither the doctor in the emergency room nor the nurse on the floor knew the extent of Tim’s injury. Calvin misunderstood their evasive answers as a reproach, and he took it to heart. Going home that evening, with Tim in a coma and no one willing to say whether he would live or die, Calvin shut himself in his room. “I’ll never lift a bat again,” he tried to bargain with God, “if only you make Tim OK.” He lay in bed, his night lit up with visions of Tim’s viewing at the funeral, and cried himself to sleep.

God was not given a chance to make a deal with Calvin. That delicate task was assumed by self-appointed bargaining agents. On one side of the negotiating table sat Sister Marie Hogan, principal of the school, who felt that Calvin should sit out the baseball season, write a thousand times “My carelessness would have killed a person but for the grace of God,” and have an ineradicable comment entered in his record; and Calvin’s father, Eugene McCrae, who argued that his son should be taught a lesson by being banned permanently from school sports. The needs of the victim didn’t figure in their deliberations; punishment was what counted.

Pleading for the perpetrator were Bill Grady, the baseball coach, who didn’t care what punishment Calvin drew so long as it didn’t include a ban on sports; and Father Conley, who argued for a meaningful service obligation in lieu of proscriptions and assignments that were purely punitive. Inwardly he agreed with Bill Grady: Why punish the team, and the school, jeopardizing a promising season, for the misadventure of one member? He kept that argument to himself, though. Sister Marie wasn’t the kind of nun to get worked up over baseball.

Calvin was benched for a month and had to write Sister Marie’s statement five hundred times. His service obligation consisted of daily visits of at least an hour to his teammate in the hospital, after which he had to report for such chores as Mr. or Mrs. Haig required of him. As Tim began to show signs of recovery, Calvin thanked God in his heart and did his assignment with increasing fervor. In the end, the Haigs had to insist he had done his penance, or he might have indentured himself to them for life. As for Tim, he and Calvin became better friends than ever. Tim, too, found the experience transforming, for his schoolwork took a marked turn for the better. “All I needed,” he explained to the unbelieving, “was a couple of holes in the head.”

One person particularly moved by Calvin’s devotion was Constance Bader, the nurse on the evening shift. Calvin developed a crush on this woman, almost twice his age, who fussed over him as much as she did over her patient. Although her feelings for him were maternal at most, frustrating his vision of a more romantic relationship, the experience left him with a fondness directed not only to her but to all things hospital-associated.

Three years later he stumbled again. Though uninterested in drugs in general, he was not above sharing a joint with friends occasionally. Once, carelessly assembled in the corner of the schoolyard, the huddled group was apprehended by a teacher. The usual penalty for this infraction was a three-day suspension and ineligibility for aAvery mic excellence awards.

Calvin stoically faced his parents. He knew he had erred and he was ready for whatever additional punishment awaited him. As for his school record, even though the stakes were higher, it did not occur to him to seek exception. If his chances for a first-class college were diminished, that was the price for his carelessness; he should have known better.

Father Conley, who heard about the affair through Calvin’s mother, had a more creative idea. Westwood High was not like McNamara Junior High. His collar gave him no particular standing at a school without religious affiliation, not even if the principal’s name was Tadeusz Kazmierski. But it was worth a try. Speaking on behalf of a promising student who had veered ever so slightly from the righteous path, Father Conley proposed community service in return for a clean record. Mr. Kazmierski was aware of Calvin’s superior aAvery mic performance and was not happy applying the usual formula. He agreed to consider the petition.

Father Conley, well aware of Calvin’s past, had already chosen the community service. For the remainder of his high-school days, Calvin would work as an unpaid aide five hours a week at a hospital of his choice. Calvin insisted that he should take his punishment along with the others, that he didn’t deserve special consideration. Father Conley argued that Calvin could help more people working at the hospital than having a scarlet letter on his high school record. This convinced Calvin. Nurse Bader welcomed him back. “I hope one day I’ll see you here when you’re not working off a sentence,” she said, unable to keep a serious face.

The “sentence” proved to be no sentence at all. Buoyed by memories and the promise of Nurse Bader’s smile, he went to work gladly. Father Conley looked on with satisfaction.

At graduation from high school, Calvin’s aAvery mic record qualified him for three class prizes. The principal had decided, on due consideration, that the rules regarding drug use had to be followed. Therefore Calvin had to forgo the prizes. But it didn’t matter.  His grades and scholastic aptitude test scores were good enough for Temple University. Four years later, the special commendation for his work at the hospital helped secure admission to medical school.

~~~~~~~~~~

Years later, Father Conley still carried his weight well. On his six-foot-three-inch frame, two hundred fifty pounds could easily pass for muscle. That’s what it had been thirty years earlier, when he was playing tackle at Notre Dame. When his playing days were over, the hypertrophy of his muscles receded, but his appetite did not. His body had no use for the excess food but to turn it into fat, which he kept on this side of embarrassment by a supreme effort of posture. He still presented a formidable figure.

However, he would have been offended had anyone suggested he had been called to the priesthood as God’s enforcer because of his intimidating bulk. He didn’t believe in threats. He preferred to reason with his flock, make them see the consequences of their actions, and, if logic fell short of that objective, bridge the gap with love of neighbor rather than fear of hell.

On a Friday in mid-July he received a telephone call. “Father Conley? This is Cal McCrae.” Silence. “You know, Marie and Eugene’s son.”

“Now wait a minute,” answered Father Conley, “you mean Doctor Calvin McCrae?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, why don’t you identify yourself properly? And what do you mean by ‘guess’?”

“I don’t feel much like a doctor. I need to see you, Father. Is tomorrow afternoon OK?”

Father Conley understood. The first month of an internship could be very stressful.

“Do your folks know you’re coming?”

“I’ll tell Ma I have some charts to catch up on.” Father Conley frowned. If Calvin didn’t want his parents to know, there must be a reason. “One o’clock then.”

With most of his body hidden behind the desk, his size would not have been apparent to a first-time visitor. But there was no missing the florid face, the rimless glasses that seemed a size too small, and the mop of unruly red hair. He noticed the drawn look on Calvin’s face, a far cry from the mixture of embarrassment and pride he had seen at the graduation party a month earlier. Then, Calvin had cheerfully tolerated his parents’ ebullience over the first McCrae to become a doctor, while allowing himself a measure of pride in his own achievement. What was showing now was the antithesis of pride.

“What’s on your mind, son?” Father Conley asked softly.

“Father, it’s been four days. I’ve been walking around like a zombie. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how I get through the day.”

“What happened four days ago?”

“How can I go on after I’ve killed someone?” Father Conley waited patiently. “I killed a patient, Father! I gave a girl a drug she was allergic to. I should have known, only I never asked. Seventeen years old, her whole life to live. How can I call myself a doctor after that? My job’s to help children, not kill them. I even told the mother to leave so that I could do my work. My work! Do you know what my work was? To murder that girl, only get the mother out of the way first.” He looked at Father Conley with fire in his eyes.

“Father, I’m not worthy of the title doctor. I’m resigning my internship.”

“You’re doing what, son?” Father Conley asked softly.

“Resigning. I’m bringing my confession to you this way because I want to look you in the eye and save at least a vestige of self-respect. I want to face my punishment squarely.”

“You always do. And your punishment is giving up your internship? Anything else?”

“It was my arrogance that brought me to this. I need to be humiliated. The only way I can do that is stop being a doctor and do something where no one will think I’m anything special.”

“So you want to go to prison, metaphorically speaking?”

“Isn’t that what happens to people who’ve committed crimes?”

“Do you expect to be indicted for murder?” Father Conley asked.

“It would serve me right, but doctors who kill their patients get sued for malpractice, not indicted for murder. I don’t even get sued, because they hold my supervisors responsible.”

“What did your supervisors say to you?”

“My immediate supervisor couldn’t be reached, and he got his ass in the sling too. But it was still my fault. The department chair told me I’d learned a hard lesson and not to forget it.”

“A wise man, if you ask me. Do you know why I say that?”

Calvin shrugged. “I suppose it’s the right thing to say. Doctor Hamilton’s a woman.”

“Doctor Hamilton must be a shrewd person. She knows what’s happened has happened, and she’s found something to salvage. She’s telling you, you have skills that shouldn’t be wasted, even if you did make a costly mistake. And she’s confident you’ll take this to heart.”

“Doctor Hamilton has been more than kind to me, kinder than I deserve. It’s not her that I’m afraid of, nor the law. It’s me. I just have to do something to make up for this.”

Father Conley studied Calvin’s stricken face. “Yes, you do. Or your conscience won’t leave you alone. That’s all for the good. But who benefits from your self-flagellation?”

“I do. My soul does.”

“And meanwhile God knows how many patients are denied your services, right?” Father Conley rose from his chair, letting his height tower threateningly over Calvin. His voice rising with each word, he said, “Do you really expect those poor souls to drop their meager coins in the basket to pay for the salvation of your soul?” Calvin cringed at the onslaught.

“This is your job,” Father Conley thundered, “not theirs!”

“Then what shall I do?” Calvin asked meekly.

Father Conley pushed back his chair and walked to the window behind him. For a while he stared out as if gathering inspiration from the summer landscape. He turned back to face Calvin. “So help me, I don’t know what’s wrong with our teaching. The first thing that comes to people’s minds when they hurt someone is to hurt themselves to make up for it. Is that meant to please God? Do you think He revels in your pain? That He’d rather see two people suffer than one? Do you think you’re making up to God for offending Him? Believe me, son, He’s much too self-assured to take offense from the likes of you and me. In His book your self-inflicted pain is an exercise in futility ― and may all the martyrs forgive me for saying that. If you think masochism is therapeutic, go ahead, only don’t expect your patients to pay.”

“What can I possibly do for Eden Avery ? I can’t bring her back. She’s gone.”

“No, you can’t. She’s gone. Is that it?” Father Conley was becoming impatient.

“You mean the family?”

“Yes, I mean the family. Their daughter’s gone. But their grief isn’t. They’re mourning for their child, and I bet they’re also consumed with anger. Forget how you feel, put yourself in their shoes. What’s life like for them right now? How are they going to be healed?”

“What can I do?” Calvin’s tone was pathetic.

Father Conley’s voice softened. He leaned across his desk till his face was almost level with Calvin’s. “Loss occurs in everyone’s life, son. What makes it tolerable is the support of others. Without it, we become numb, we lose our ability to feel. With it, we can recover and be whole again.” He looked into Calvin’s eyes for recognition of his message.

“I can’t support them. I killed their daughter. They’d never accept anything from me.”

Father Conley nodded slowly, straightened up, and smiled sympathetically. “It’s not easy. But if you want to do something meaningful, there’s your task. If you succeed, you’ll have helped where you thought no help was possible. And even if you fail while trying in good faith, you’ll have earned forgiveness for whatever sin you’ve committed. Your debt can only be paid by offering something of value, not by withdrawing from your calling.”

“I am ― we all are ― under instructions not to talk about this to anyone.”

“Oh yes,” Father Conley nodded, “the lawyers. Well, they’re doing their job.”

“But even forgetting about our lawyers, how am I going to get near the parents? They must have instructions from their lawyers too. I know how this stuff goes. The lawyers talk with each other and the parties keep quiet till the lawyers tell them what to say.”

“Breaking that barrier won’t be easy. But then, nothing meaningful ever is.”

“How, Father? I don’t have any idea.”

Father Conley frowned. “You say four days? Maybe they haven’t had the funeral yet. If it isn’t strictly private, go. Maybe someone will be there who’s close to them and still willing to speak with you. A little faith can’t hurt. God tends to help those who help themselves.”

Calvin nodded, suddenly calm. “I’ll try. May I call you about the funeral?”

“I want you to. And may God go with you.”

Putting his arm around Calvin’s shoulder, Father Conley walked him to the study door. “One last word. Let your parents in on this. They’re going to know sooner or later anyway.”

Next morning Calvin went to Mass. After the service he greeted Father Conley. “There’s a memorial service on the thirty-first. Sunday, two p.m., at a Unitarian Universalist church on Stenton Avenue. It was in yesterday’s paper.”

Father Conley smiled. “Would you mind if I came along?”

“But Father, a Unitarian Universalist church? And on a Sunday?”

“Just remember what I told you. God’s too tough to be offended. Besides, if I have to explain myself, I can always say that I was doing His work. That’s true, isn’t it?”