Page 17 of Priestly Sins
“And if I do this?”
“I’ll have no memory of any activities you entered into with my father, forget any conversations. Walk away. Won’t even remember what you look like if I pass you on the street.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll find someone who will.”
A long pause follows deep inhalations on the other end of the line.
“By what means?”
“I’m not my father, so I’d prefer disbarment to dismemberment. I want out of this. Assume you do too.” With that I hang up, because this isn’t a social call. Besides, I’ll know soon enough which way it goes.
* * *
To the vieweron the street, a priest’s work is lather, rinse, repeat. For the most part, that’s true. Funerals are the glitches like Sundays are the constants.
I layer the robes and don my most somber, yet comforting, face. This mask is one I know well. Today’s funeral brings the number of times Enzo Calabrese has been front and center at a funeral mass to five in the last four months. I’d swear it’s a body count, but can’t prove it.
Despite my hatred for Calabrese, his wife, Zera, has been nothing but kind. Her father, a young sixtysomething had no history of heart disease, high cholesterol, or any other diagnosed condition. The massive stroke took everyone by surprise.
As I leave the cemetery, I shake Zera’s hand and tell her I’m here if she needs me. The swift shift in Enzo’s countenance belies his stoic façade. He does not like my offer. I don’t like him either, so I decline her invitation to come back to their house for a reception. Enzo noticeably exhales as I do. I’m glad I unsettle him.
That night I get two calls. The first from Staunchley telling me everything is done—all the I’s are dotted; all the T’s are crossed. Email confirmation shows me what I will have in my hands tomorrow from overnight mail.
I am free of my father in every way.
The second call is from Bobby. The property in Knockferry is safe. It’s in my legal name and Uncle Killian, weird to even think that, is safe from my father’s evil machinations.
Eleven
The next morning on my run, I pass Petites Fleurs. Granted, I had to add that damned seventh mile to make it part of the route, but my curiosity gets the best of me and I loop it into the mileage. Five in the morning means street traffic is light and pedestrian traffic even lighter. It means coffee and pastry shops should be readying to open, but Sirona’s looks dark. The back alley has activity that’s peculiar enough for me to take a closer look.
Running by, I see a white box truck with no markings and two burly men closing its roll-up door. Whether delivering or picking up I can’t tell, and I don’t make my interest known. The driver is sloppy and slobby and I hope he washes his hands if this was any kind of food delivery. How do you sweat that profusely when you’re just standing there?
The passenger on the other hand is big and I don’t mean fat. His neck is thicker than my quad, his chest like a barrel, and his black eyes are shifty. If I can tell that while I run, I’m definitely curious about what food or laundry service keeps him as delivery man. He’s better suited for security.
Three miles home would normally give me time to think but I’m so done with it today already. AirPods adjust to Marshall Mathers and I let Eminem’s anger drive me home.
* * *
The day includes confessions.This isn’t something I mind. The sacrament itself is beautiful and holy. To give your burden to another, to ask to be absolved of wrongdoing and be relieved of the guilt. It is my favorite, both as a man and as a priest.
Zera Calabrese is back. She is still lying to her husband. She hasn’t told him that she is making sure she doesn’t get pregnant. She cries when she gets a negative test result but only when he’s looking. She’s a hell of an actress. She’s shrewd. But her husband is more so and he is also heinous, so I hope she is playing this smart. Because, if she’s not, it’ll be her funeral I do next.
Henry comes back too. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since he told me he couldn’t take any more with his dad. That must’ve been three months ago.
“How’re you doing, Henry?”
He pauses. The break is almost too long, but I don’t crowd him with my words.
When he finally speaks, it comes out in a rush, “Sucks, man. I hated him. Hated him. Know I wasn’t supposed to, but still. I wanted him dead and now he is. My fault. I just know it.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait up, now. Don’t say that! I want the Celtics to win a championship but you wanting it to be so doesn’t make it happen.”
“Dude, don’t joke. It was my dad. He was an asshole, but I didn’t want him dead… Well, maybe I did.” He huffs a huge sigh. “No, I did. But now there’s shit to deal with that I didn’t expect and Ma… She’s struggling to pay the bills and some guy offered me a job, but I have to drop out of school.”
“Henry, don’t. Don’t sacrifice your future like that for—”