“It’s in the papers.”

“You’ll do a press conference at which you’ll graciously and humbly accept Mr. Ferry’s apology and forgive him.”

“And if he doesn’t agree to your conditions?”

“That would suggest that he is a man of principle. But a penniless alcoholic, we both know, cannot afford principles.”

“But if he surprises you, then we go to trial and I’m exonerated.”

“Neither necessary nor desirable.” Mr. Markey walks to the fireplace and leans against the mantle. “Let me ask your opinion, Father, about this epidemic of predatory priests. Not you, of course. The guilty ones like Geoghan and Shanley. That lot. And Father Gale over here at St. Monica’s. The priesthood turns out to be a good place to hide in plain sight. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t call it-”

“Six hundred and fifteen million dollars the Church in the States paid out just last year. That makes two billion total. Fourteen thousand felonies by forty-five hundred pedophile priests. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg, believe me.” He squats and warms his hands over the fire. “I have a theory, for what it’s worth.” He moves his left hand into the flame and leaves it there. “A theory of arrested development.”

“You’ll burn yourself.”

“You go to the seminary out of high school, and it’s all paid for. You graduate and get your parish assignment-no chasing down leads, no job interviews.” He pulls his hand out of the flame and examines it. “Along with the assignment comes food, clothing, and shelter, a salary, a woman to cook, clean up after you, and do your laundry. You get a professional allowance, health insurance, and a pension. You snap on the Roman collar, and you have instant respect without having earned it.”

“That’s unfair.”

“The Church stifles your emotional growth. You’re a boy called Father. Not just you personally, Father. All of you.”

“Are you finished?”

“Then there’s the disagreeable issue of celibacy. Troublesome, am I right? Me, if I can’t release a few times a week, Jesus, I’m impossible to live with. Sure, you can masturbate and remain celibate and sane, but jacking off’s a sin, so what to do?”

“Pray.”

“You can pray away a boner?”

“One chooses to remain chaste, Mr. Markey. It’s a sacrifice, not a curse.”

Mr. Markey puts his hands behind his head and shrugs his shoulders. “But why little boys? That’s what I wonder, and then I think, yes, of course, arrested development. If you’re a boy yourself, you’re comfortable among other boys, and you also know an abused boy would never say anything about sucking your cock for fear the other kids would call him a fag. Shame keeps him quiet. Am I getting warm, Father?”

“You think you know me, but you don’t.”

“Thomas Aloysius Mulcahy, born February 15, 1948, at Mass General, second son to Brian, postal worker, and Kathleen, née O’Sullivan, Mulcahy. Attended St. Cormac’s Grammar School and South Boston High; B student, perfect attendance in eleventh grade. You had mumps, chicken pox, measles, and rubella. You wore corrective glasses and corrective shoes. Your beloved brother Gerard died of spinal meningitis in 1958, and your dad blamed himself, drank more heavily, and abandoned the family six months later. So there you were at ten, alone with a hysterical mother and bereft of affection.”

Father Tom closes his eyes and sees himself lying on the floor by his mother’s locked bedroom door, crying, not knowing if she was also dead. He feels Mr. Markey’s hand on his shoulder and opens his eyes, wipes them.

“So you understood just how vulnerable boys who’d lost their dads were. They needed the love and guidance of an older man, and you reached out to them.”

“You’re making compassion sound obscene.”

“You took them for ice cream, to Fenway, to the beach. Their mothers were so grateful. You were a savior. Lionel even thought you were using him to woo his mom. And, of course, with you being a priest, he was confused.”

“You spoke with him?”

“Last night. He’s still living in his mom’s place on I Street.” Mr. Markey stared out the window at the howling storm. “He said you took him to the movies.”

“I took many boys to many movies.”

“You bought popcorn, buttered popcorn. ‘Butted,’ he said. ‘Hut butted pupcon,’ and you held the box on your lap, and when he reached in for a handful, your fingers touched, and you let the touch linger. He said you licked the ‘buttah’ off his fingers-”

“He’s lying.”

“That could be. Or it could be false memories. That happens. But let me ask you this. Has any priest ever confessed abuse to you?”

“If any had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“What would you do if Father X told you he boinked all the altos in the boys’ choir?”

“I’d grant him absolution if he were contrite and determined not to sin again.”

“That’s it?”

“If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him.”

“Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”

“I might also suggest counseling, therapy, prayer, and avoiding the near occasion to sin.”

Mr. Markey picks up a copy of The Pilot off the coffee table and reads. “Cardinal Law Appointed Archpriest at Vatican Basilica.” He shakes his head, rolls the paper and slaps it against his leg. “Our ex-cardinal here once accused a six-year-old boy of negligence and culpability in his own repeated rapes. Under oath!” He drops the paper onto the coffee table. “I can’t shake this paranoid fantasy I have of a fellowship of child-molesting priests all going to confession to one another, forgiving one another, and moving on as if nothing ever happened.”

“One would need sincere contrition.”

“They confess; they are contrite; they are forgiven.” Mr. Markey checks his watch. “I’m going to need to speak with the monsignor alone. Maybe you should visit the church and pray for strength and guidance. By the time we see you again, everything should be taken care of.” Mr. Markey puts his hand on the back of Father Tom’s neck and squeezes. He pulls Father Tom’s head toward his own until their foreheads touch. “Trust me.”

Father Tom feels a hot current of pain buzz through his skull like his head’s attached to a live electrical wire, but he’s rigid, shaken, and speechless, and he can’t pull away.

Father Tom lights a votive candle and prays for courage and understanding. He’s always savored his time alone in a dark church where he feels hidden away. As a boy he’d arrive at 5 or 6 every Saturday morning, sit beneath the stained-glass window of the Last Supper, and pray the rosary. He wanted God to know that he was no Sunday Catholic; he was a boy God could count on, a soldier of Christ. Father Tom genuflects, walks to the pew beneath the Last Supper, and sits. The world seems far away. He remembers asking God to make him either dead or invisible. Dead he’d be with Jesus and Gerard; invisible he’d be alone.

He looks up at the window. Jesus has a mole under His right eye. The beloved John has his head on his arm and his arm on the table. His eyes are shut, and he’s smiling like he’s tasted the honeyed love of his Lord. The apostle Thomas stands behind the others, and all you see is his single wide eye peering above the heads at Jesus, the way Gerard’s single eye peered above the hem of the blanket on the couch when he ran his foot along Tom’s leg. “Quit it, Gerard, or I’ll call Mom!”

When Gerard lay in his coma at the hospital, the nuns from St. Cormac’s took up residence in his room and kept a twenty-four-hour vigil. They fussed and prayed over him. Sister Brigid saw the Angel Gabriel at the foot of Gerard’s bed, weeping. Gerard was a saint, the nuns were certain. The ones He loves best, God takes first. When Gerard died in his mother’s arms, the nuns hung framed photos of Gerard in every classroom alongside the president and the Pope. Then the stories of Gerard’s sanctity started, how he had healed a starling’s broken wing with just a touch, how he could be both in church and in school simultaneously, how he could smell the presence of sin, how the statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar had wept at the moment of Gerard’s passing.