The life story of one human being: caring, fallible, tempted, who happens to be a priest.
Tales from the Wrecktory, the story of one priest's forty-three years in an inner-city parish. takes the reader through a whole career.
Fr. Frank Beckett has a president of his parish council who is determined to oust him; a housekeeper who does not know how to clean or cook, but is great at solving real-life murders; his mother who tries to use her influence to get him made bishop; a half-sister who is on trial for killing her lover; and a Juliet in a high school Shakespearean production he is directing who is sure she's dying.
These are just a few of the problems Frank faces in his life's work.
He dabbles in politics; helps a fellow priest who is convinced Satan is coming to take him to hell; and solves the mystery of the bones found hidden in the rectory basement.
What gets him through all life's petty or grave problems is the thing hanging on the wall over his desk, a thing his assistant ('It's sacrilegious, that's what it is.') his housekeeper ('Be more than my job's worth to touch it.'), and especially his mother ('As a priest, you should be ashamed of it. I've put it where no one will see it.) insist should be taken down.
As he nears the end of his career, Frank finds he is about to pass the clerical baton to a young priest who wears a pony tail, drives a motorcycle, and doesn't always have time to bother with church red tape and traditions.
Excerpt
"Lord," he prayed, "I know you'll give me the strength. Just help me handle the guilt. I'll be getting more of that dumped on me the next couple weeks than anyone should ever be forced to deal with." After that improvised prayer, Frank lectured himself: Today is Friday. The next day will be Saturday, followed by Sunday. Then Monday. He could see the drama unfolding before him, as though he were an audience of one about to see himself on stage. Time: Noontime. Place: St. Timothy's Rectory. Curtain goes up. He sees himself alone, center stage, waiting in the downstairs hall. Offstage, there's the sound of a taxi door slamming shut. The sound of sensible shoes coming up the front steps and across the porch. There would be a pause, the last few seconds of silence left in this world (in his world), then the long shrill blast of the doorbell. He'd open the door.
"You made it," Frank nearly shouted. He threw his arms around his guest. "Here, let me take your bag. How was your trip"
"Don't ask. Just let me sit and catch my breath. Still got that lazy old woman working here? Is it possible she could fix me a cup of tea? No, I better do it myself. Here, take my coat. I know only too well where the kitchen is." She left Frank standing in the hall, a look on his face which it was well he himself could not see, as she disappeared through the two swinging doors at the end of the hall which opened onto the kitchen. Instantly, the sound of pans banging and cabinet doors slamming filled the air.
There could be no doubt in Frank's mind. His mother had arrived.
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