Father Tom wakes up when the book drops to the floor. He takes off the sleep mask, picks up the letter, unfolds it, and reads in the window light. I’ll slice off your junk and stuff it down your throat, you worthless piece of shit. I’ll drench you with gasoline and strike the match that sends you to hell.
While he’s waiting for the monsignor to finish up in the bathroom, Father Tom considers the painting he’s been staring at all his life. It hung in the front hall of the family’s first-floor apartment on L Street when he was a boy, and he was sure it must have been called Sadness or Gloom. His parents had no idea what it was called. The painting was a gift from an Irish cousin on his mother’s side was all they knew. One of the O’Sullivans from Kerry. Now it hangs on the wall above Father Tom’s prie-dieu. As a boy he saw this ragged, barefoot woman sitting on a rock in the middle of an ocean with her eyes blindfolded and her head bandaged and chained to a wooden frame that he assumed to be an instrument of torture, but turned out to be a lyre, of all things, and the rock was really the world itself, and the title was actually and inexplicably Hope. He’s been trying to understand the aspiration, the anticipation in this somber and forlorn study in hazy blues and pale greens all his life. Hope is blind? Does that even make sense? The lyre has only one string. So the music is broken. The dark sky is starless. All he’s ever felt looking at the picture is melancholy and desolation. Hopelessness. Is that it? If you are without desire, you are free?
He hears the bathroom door open and Monsignor McDermott descend the creaky staircase. The bathroom reeks of Listerine and bay rum aftershave. He folds the monsignor’s pearl-handled straight razor and puts it by the shaving brush and mug. He starts the shower and lets the room steam and warm while he shaves. He stares in the mirror and wonders what people see when they look at him. He cuts himself in the little crease beside his lip and applies a tear of toilet paper to the bubble of blood. He looks at his face and sees his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s weak chin. He removes the toilet paper and dabs the cut with a styptic pencil. Gerard was the handsome one.
Mrs. Walsh, bless her heart, has already brewed the coffee and filled his cup. “Will it be eggs and toast, Father?”
“Just coffee this morning, Mary.” He stirs his coffee, lays the spoon in the saucer. “The monsignor left for Mass already, I see.” For just a second there, Father Tom forgot that today is not like other days. “I never did what that man said, you know.”
“That’s between you and the Lord, Father. It’s no business of mine.” She walks to the sink and peers out the window. “Sixteen inches already, and no sign of a letup. There’ll be snow on the ground till Easter.”
“I can’t even remember the boy very clearly.”
“He was one of your favorites, Father. Altar boy, he was. Tim Griffin’s nephew. You called him ‘Train.’ He had the vocation, you used to say.”
“But didn’t become a priest.”
“Became a drunk and a burden to his dear mother, may her soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Walsh sets the dishcloth to dry on the radiator and straightens the braided rug by the stove, a rug she made herself thirty-some years ago from her husband’s and children’s discarded clothing. There’s Himself’s blue oxford shirt right there and little Mona’s corduroy jumper. When she sees the shirt, she sees her dear Aidan in it and his gray suit and red tie on their honeymoon on Nantasket Beach. “There have been other accusations, Father. Other men have come forward.”
“I did nothing except be kind to those boys, give them the love and attention they didn’t get at home. I never-”
The doorbell chimes. Mrs. Walsh says, “That’ll be Mr. Markey from the cardinal’s office. He’ll be wanting a word with you.” She walks to the front door and adds over her shoulder, “He’s a merciful Lord, Father.”
Mr. Markey unsnaps his earflaps and takes off his storm hat. He holds it by the visor and slaps it against his leg, then hangs it on a peg and toes off his shearling boots. He hands his gloves and scarf to Mrs. Walsh and hangs his wool car coat on the hall tree, claps his hands together, and rubs them. He takes Mrs. Walsh by the shoulders and plants a noisy kiss on her forehead. “And how’s my favorite colleen today?”
Mrs. Walsh blushes. “Enough of the blarney, Mr. Markey.”
Mr. Markey holds out his hand to Father Tom. “Francis X. Markey.” They shake hands. Mr. Markey points to the parlor. “Care to join me, Father?”
Father Tom sits on the edge of the sofa behind the coffee table, his hands folded on his knees. Mr. Markey drops into the upholstered armchair, leans his head back against the antimacassar, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I gave the monsignor five bucks and told him to get a forty-five-minute coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s the only thing open between here and the expressway.” He leans forward. “You know why I’m here.”
“I’ve been threatened, Mr. Markey.” Father Tom slides the vicious letter across the coffee table.
Mr. Markey leans forward and reads it, steeples his fingers, and brings his hands to his face. “It won’t be the last, I would guess. I should make one thing clear, Father. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. I don’t particularly care what happens to you. I don’t care about you in any but the most Christianable way. I care about Holy Mother the Church.”
“I didn’t do what I’ve been accused of.”
“You’re up to your neck in shit, my friend.” Mr. Markey walks to the French doors and closes them, then turns back to Father Tom. “You attended O’Connell Seminary, am I right?”
“I did.”
“Yes, you did. You guys had a regular fuck show going over there, didn’t you?”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
“Yes, you do. I’m the only guy who can keep you out of Concord.” Mr. Markey takes a handful of Skittles from the bowl on the coffee table and eats a few. “You do not want to go to prison.”
“I’m innocent. I won’t go to prison.”
Mr. Markey smiles and shakes his head. “They’ll put you in protective custody, of course. What you need to understand, however, is that the guards are scarier than the inmates when it comes to pedophiles. They’ll piss in your food, shit in your bunk, and they’ll sodomize you with a control baton if you complain. They’ll degrade you in every way they can. And then one day while you’re playing cribbage with another kiddie diddler, the guards will turn away when some trusty goes after you with a lead pipe.”
Father Tom puts his head in his hands. He takes a deep breath and sits back, stares at the ceiling. He hears Mrs. Walsh whispering-her prayers, no doubt-as she climbs the stairs. “Why has His Eminence sent you here, Mr. Markey?”
“I make problems go away.” He shows Father Tom his handful of Skittles, rubs his palms together, holds out two fists and says, “Which hand has the candy?”
“The left.”
Mr. Markey opens his empty left hand and then his empty right hand. He turns his palms to show he’s not hiding anything. “Do you remember a priest named Dan Caputo?”
“Died last year. Had a parish in JP and did all that social justice work. ‘Speak truth to power,’ and all that-he was an inspirational leader.”
“But he had a secret, as so many of us do. The cops found his battered corpse in an alley in Chinatown, his pants down to his ankles, a cock ring on his dick, and what would prove to be semen on his lips. When they checked his ID and found out who he was, they called the cardinal, who called me.”
“I didn’t hear about any of this.”
“Exactly. We got rid of the porn magazines and videos in his car. He died a hero.” Mr. Markey sits in the armchair and looks at Father Tom. “The Catholic Workers named their new place after him. The Father Dan Caputo House of Hospitality.” He laughs. “Nothing is ever what it seems to be, Father.” He reaches in his pocket. “Weather alert.” He takes out his BlackBerry. “This event has all the makings of a Storm of the Century.” He reads his text message. “Calling for three feet inside 128.” He puts the BlackBerry away. “Now this is what we’re going to do. First, I’m going to offer our Mr. Ferry a handsome settlement in exchange for a signed statement admitting that he has been lying about the molestations due to his profound depression and anxiety. He’ll agree to check himself into a mental health clinic; you’ll be reassigned to a desk job at the chancery for the time being, and in a while this aggravation will be forgotten.”