I have been asked so many times to tell this story that I’ve decided to write it all down and next time someone asks and I am not in a talkative mood, I can just hand them a hard copy or direct them to my web site.  I’ve been accused of telling stories that are too cut and dried; I don’t embellish the storyline with enough details some say.  Well, that’s the way I do it.  I got the information from the police reports, newspaper accounts and the local folks.  That’s about it.  It’s up to you to believe or disbelieve.
     As the story goes, Father Fabian just vanished.  He was there one day and gone the next.  That is not so bizarre.  A lot of priests get another calling or itchy feet or whatever.  But what is strange about the story is who else disappeared along with Father Fabian.
     Father Fabian came to St. Elmo’s parish after the sudden but expected death of Father Leary.  The latter was eighty-one years of age and his time, as everyone in the parish was expecting, had come at last.  He died suddenly while playing a round of golf on a sunny Saturday afternoon.  It was a heart attack.  It was the perfect death.  He died doing something he loved in the company of friends on a sunny day.  We should all be so lucky.
     Father Fabian was much younger than his predecessor.  No one knew exactly how old he was but he could not have been much more that in his late twenties or early thirties.  He was a handsome man who looked more like a movie star or a professional athlete than a parish priest.  He became the immediate heartthrob of the adolescent girls at the Catholic school where he taught religion and sponsored the swim club.  A lot of parents noticed that it was not as difficult to convince some of their usually less than enthusiastic daughters to attend mass on Sunday.  Some of them even went to evening prayers.  Father Fab, as the girls referred to the new priest, became an instant favorite with most members of his congregation, although some of the boys called him something else – also a three-letter name but ending with the seventh letter of the alphabet.  There may have been some jealousy or some belief in the rumors about the new priest.
     And there were rumors about Father Fabian.  Nothing definite of course but there were hints about some kind of relationship that was not looked upon with favor by the church.  The young priest had developed associations with some of the lads of the previous parish.  Said associations were considered “beyond the proper boundaries” expected of a man in his position and Father Fabian had been dispatched to another parish clear across the country.  Some believed the rumors; some embellished them while others just did not care.
     Allysia Sweeney, or Allie as her few friends called her, was a seventeen year old student in Father Fabian’s Religion 11 class.  She was a quiet girl, a middle child from a family of seven children.  A pleasant child, she had grown up mostly ignored by her busy parents and more outgoing brothers and sisters.  Allie was bright and did very well in school.  Her English teachers found her writing to be precise but also sensitive.  The poems that she wrote for assignments were profound for one so young.    
     The events of September 11, 2001 greatly disturbed Allie.  She only saw the crashing of the jet liners into the twin towers once on television but she could not rid her mind of the horror.  No matter how hard she tried, the images kept replaying over and over in her mind.  She even had nightmares about it as she told her friends.  She needed to talk to someone about this and her teacher in religion class seemed to her the ideal candidate.
     To Allie, Father Fabian was the perfect teacher.  He appeared sensitive, intelligent and open-minded.  He encouraged questions from his students and he discussed other topics besides religious matters such as poetry and music.  She admitted to herself that she loved him but not in the silly, giggly way the other girls were “in love” with him.  She imagined her relationship with the young priest as intellectual, platonic, pure; in short, ideal to her way of thinking.
     One afternoon when Religion was the last class of the day, she went to Father Fabian’s office and knocked on the door. 
     “Come in.  Leave the door open,” said the priest.
     As Allie entered the office, Father Fabian took his eyes off the computer screen. 
     What is known of the conversation between Allie and Father Fabian was obtained from the housekeeper, Mrs. Flannagan.  The latter was meticulous in her upkeep of the rectory and a superb cook; she was also an avid gossip.  Mrs. Flannagan felt it was her duty to “be up on things.”  Thus she listened quietly outside the open door of the office and, according to her side of the story; the exchange between the priest and Allie went as follows.
     Allie told Father Fabian of her feelings for him.  She stressed that her “love” for him was strictly spiritual; an ideal based on purity of emotion and thought.  She stressed that she wanted him as a friend; someone she could rely on to be there for her in times of distress.  She told him of her anguish about the state of the world and of the nightmares that kept recurring.  In short, Allie emptied her soul to the priest, trusting that she was doing the right thing for her own well-being. 
     Mrs. Flannagan states that Allie talked on for at least five minutes before the priest stopped her. 
     “Allie, I appreciate what you are telling me but I am not the girls’ counselor.  Sister O’Leary would be more than happy to be of help to you I’m sure.  I can give her a call right now and set up an appointment for you.  How would that be?” said Father Fabian.
     For a moment there was silence and then Allie began to cry.  She said nothing.  She pulled out a notebook from her knapsack and let it drop on the priest’s desk.  Mrs. Flannagan barely had time to pretend that she had been busily scrubbing the floor as Allie came rushing out the door sobbing.
     Father Fabian took the notebook but did not open it.  He got up, walked down the hall to Sister O’Leary’s office.  He knocked.
 

     “Come in,” called out the nun.
     “I have something you should probably see,” said Father Fabian.  It belongs to Allysia Sweeney.  The girl is clearly upset but frankly, after this business that I’ve just come through, I don’t want to get involved.  Besides she’s a girl and therefore I think that she should be your responsibility.  By the way, she left this with me.” and Father Fabian handed the notebook to the nun.
     “Thank you Father,” said Sister O’Leary.  I’ll look into it.”
     The priest left and as the nun picked up Allie’s notebook, a sheet of paper fell out.  Picking it up, the nun read the following poem:

 

            A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF…

And night found her in the dorm
Tuesday she stayed in her room
The day promised too much gloom
Wednesday she felt a bit better
To her mom she wrote a letter
 

Monday started like the norm
 

Thursday she went back to class
Determined that she would pass
 

Friday she went to the beach
There was no one she could reach
Saturday she was not seen
Anywhere on the campus scene
Sunday shortly before dark
They found her body in the park
 

…A prophecy?
 

     Sister O’Leary put the poem back inside the notebook and made a note in her agenda for the next day.  She’d have to add another to her list of “troubled youth” she thought with a sigh.

 

     Since the members of the Sweeney household pretty much came and went as they pleased, Allie’s absence was not noticed until the next day when the school secretary phoned to ask why she was not in attendance.  Mrs. Sweeney was immediately alarmed since her daughter very rarely missed school.   She called her husband at work.  Other calls were made to neighbors and friends.  No one had seen Allie.  The police were called and shortly thereafter, a search party was organized.  At seven forty-two that evening (according to the police report and so that you know my research is based on fact), Allie’s body was found floating in the Watson Glen pond.  It was said later that this had been one of her favorite places to go to when she wanted to be alone.  The cause of death was attributed to drowning.  No one wanted to mention the “s” word but every one knew the choice Allie had made.  Obviously, some would feel more guilt than others but that is the way of things in such matters.
     The funeral was attended by all of the student body as well as family and friends of the Sweeneys.  Unlike the funeral of Father Leary which had been more like a joyful celebration of a sendoff to heaven, the service for Allie was somber and uncomfortable for the congregation.  There were too many unanswered questions as is usually the case when one so young chooses such a drastic departure from this world. 
 

     Her closest friend, Jenny Howell, read a recent poem of Allie’s. It was entitled, “Different:”

I am different

I was born in captivity

My prison is my body

Misshapen and unresponsive

I am sad when that is all you see of me

My cage

Its ugliness makes you avert your eyes

Look somewhere else

I wish you could see

My beauty

Within

Inside the shell

I am a pearl

Inside the cage

I am a beautiful bird

My spirit is

A breath-taking butterfly

I am happy now

I know my time here is almost done

The bars of my cage are getting weaker

My bones are softening

Soon I will be among the clouds

I will be with the angels

There I will sprinkle stardust in their hair

There’s a reason why I came here

To reach but one person

To see you

see me

As I really am

When I read the words

Upon this page

I know that it is done

          Although the poem was obviously not directly about Allie herself, it revealed her sensitive and caring nature.  She had been a volunteer at the hospital, working with disabled children.  Someone sang Don Mclean’s song, “Vincent.”  It was an appropriate ceremony in all respects as far as most were concerned.
 

     Allie was buried.  Flowers were placed upon her grave.  Everyone went home and it seemed a little more quiet than usual in St. Elmo that night.
     The few parishioners, mostly elderly, who came to early mass the next morning, were surprised when Father Fabian did not arrive on time.  He was never late.  They were still waiting some minutes later when they were startled by cries coming from outside the church.
     It was Mr. Franks, the caretaker.  He was yelling from the cemetery.
 

     “She’s gone!  The grave is open.  The coffin is empty.  Oh, dear Jesus!”
     It was true .  Allie’s grave was indeed open to the faint morning sunlight and the pale blue sky.  There was no body in the coffin.
     And that’s it.  That’s where the story has to stop because there is no ending.  Father Fabian has not been seen since the afternoon of Allie’s funeral.  The police file remains open.  And if you want to criticize my storytelling, go ahead.  I’m used to it.

 

Copyright © 2003 by Regis J. Auffray
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