Page 12 of Priestly Sins
Well, that’s news to me.
An hour later, he’s on the back foot as I stand to leave his office.
“So, we’re agreed?” I press.
Staunchley has blanched of all color and has been stuttering for more moments than I care to relive.
“I don’t think you understand, Sean—uh, I mean, Father O’Ryan.”
“I understand fully, Mr. Staunchley. Please make the arrangements immediately and get me the documents to sign. I’ll get back to you within forty-eight hours as to when I’ll be back in Boston to sign the paperwork.”
“But your father…”
“My father is dead. I know my mind and I’m your client now. I have given you direction as to how to proceed. I expect it to be done when I see you next.”
With that, I let myself out the door to his office, walk down the long dark hallway to the front door, and push open into the Boston sunshine.
* * *
Beep.
“Evelyn. I’m sorry for the early message. Looks like my trip will be longer than I expected. Can you ask Father to fill in for me through next Monday, please? I’ll make sure the Bishop is apprised. And thank you so much for all you do. See you soon.”
At nine on Tuesday, I disembark my flight in Dublin and leave the voicemail for Evelyn for whom it is just four in the morning. Once through the rental car process, I am on my way, map in hand, to just outside of Galway on the west coast. A train would have been easier, but I’d rather be in control; that is, as in control as one can be with these crazy drivers.
Folded into this car, too small for my six-four frame, I have three hours to ponder my discussion with Hal and subsequent spur-of-the-moment trip to the Emerald Isle. Louisiana’s backward policies mean our drivers’ licenses are invalid for FAA purposes. You need a passport to fly home from most major airports, so I had mine to be able to return from Boston. Score one for Louisiana being in the dark ages, at least in this case.
Three hours also allows me think about the seminary and my life as a priest. My collar is conveniently in my luggage. Here I am just Sean.
I also think about my last summer in New Orleans as a kid.
That summer—the summer everything went to shit—I was in New Orleans as I had been every summer prior. As a boy of barely fifteen, I wished I was allowed to drive, like the Louisiana kids could at that time. Massachusetts wasn’t as lenient. Hell, no state was ever as lenient as Louisiana about almost everything, not just driving.
Not to say I didn’t, just that I wasn’t allowed. Whether it was strictly legal or not wasn’t my concern.
Two neighborhood boys, Will and Tom, and I would roll around—on bikes if we needed, in cars when we could—to look for girls or look for fun or look for trouble. Our best days were when those three were one and the same.
Ma was different that summer. As if the weight of the world tried to rest on her shoulders. She would shrug it off when I’d study her, but when she didn’t see me noticing, she folded under the heaviness of some unknown thing.
One night, I returned home after swimming and playing baseball and joyriding with the guys to see a copper-colored Cadillac in our driveway, and a man leaving our back door. He was heavyset with black hair and seemed to walk with an air of a man who could not lose. He hiked up his pants—ones that sagged under his rotund belly—and continued to his car, head held high, eyes always scanning.
He never saw me. I came from the alley behind the house, where the guys dropped me off since I was late. I knew it was late because the streetlights were on and I could hear their hum as I bounded toward the back door, knowing I’d be reprimanded for my tardiness.
I opened the back door and walked into the kitchen and a scene I would not ever forget. Ma lay face down, hair splayed out around her face, blood surrounding her head like a crown. Her white dress was rumpled and stained with her blood and her legs were bent in ways that weren’t natural. Her right hand was clenched in a fist.
I rushed to her side and called for her. “Ma? Ma! Ma, can you hear me? Ma, are you all right?” I fell to my butt on the floor beside her and cradled her head, stroking her, crying, praying, hoping I was wrong—that my eyes didn’t see what they saw, that I didn’t hear the silence in the kitchen, that the blood at her forehead was not turning cooler and cooler. When I jostled her, her right fist opened and a silver doubloon rolled to the floor. I must’ve been dreaming. This couldn’t be real.
Eventually, and I had no idea whether that was minutes or hours, I stood, grabbed the bloody coin, and called nine-one-one.
The police came.
The medics came.
The coroner came.
And when they wheeled her out after zipping up the body bag, I ran. Ran through the back door, down the alley, out onto the street, and then continued. Eventually I found a pay phone. I had a cell in my pocket but that didn’t dawn on me.
“Collect from New Orleans. Will you accept the charges?” I heard before my father launched into the price of calls and did I know what I interrupted and why hadn’t I called from my cell and …