Page 39 of Priestly Sins

Tonight, I need to plan. There are too many loose ends that need tying, but I can’t concentrate to see how they’re frayed or how they’ll come together.

So, I sit and debate whether Rocco should live or die.

Never have I taken a life for jealousy or anger or personal vengeance.

Child abusers?

Check.

Rapists?

Sure.

Murderers?

Of course.

The man who has the woman I cannot?

Never.

That would make me something that I’m not. I am not petty or weak. I’ve come to see myself as “Justice” or “Righteousness.” It sounds corny. In truth, it is corny. But I have an opportunity to right some wrongs and provide peace to victims who should never have been on the receiving end of these maniacal fucks.

I don’t get pleasure from the task; I’m not some psychopath who gets off on the kill. Hank Tremaine’s death has fucked with my head longer than he ever deserved to be considered. I don’t want Henry to have to live this life: dead father; worried, grieving mother, scared sister and now, after all of that, to feel he needs to man up to be the breadwinner. That kill sliced me deep. How does one choose between beatings and abuse or grief and repercussions for someone else? Not lightly, that’s for sure.

As for Father Terry… Frankly, God, Himself, might not even mind that one.

My ma, God rest her soul, I will get vengeance for her death. For my loss. For this fucked-up path I’m on. And for the choices I’ve had to make to get here and to make it happen strategically...

Enzo Calabrese is a dead man. It’s just the date on his tombstone that’s left to be determined.

That last one is my conundrum, and it’s two-fold. One, it will happen. Period. End of. Two, it only cements that I am my father’s son and that, well, that is the ultimate fuck you on my life. That the very thing I’ve despised, the man who disgusts me, will be looking back at me in the mirror every day.

The metallic clinking of the doubloon hitting the hardwood floors during my melancholy just doubles my anger.

Sirona isn’t mine. I can wish. But, when it comes down to it, I have no claim to her and she’s made her decision. Not only does she not want me, she’s making a conscious choice to marry that man, to bring him into Clara’s world, to build a life and a family with him.

At that thought, I drain the dregs of my whiskey and hurl the lowball at the exposed brick wall in my rectory. It shatters into a thousand crystal shards that mock me from where they land.

That’s it—she’s chosen him. And for that reason, he’ll live. Removing him from the picture won’t make her want me. So be it.

I grab the decanter and, without a second thought, turn it to my lips. Turns out you can feel the burn, it just takes enough. And there’s enough here for me not to give a fuck that my life begins and ends with Enzo fucking Calabrese.

Twenty-Three

Iwake the next morning with a hangover the likes of which I haven’t had since college. And, even then, I don’t remember my head rebelling and my stomach roiling as it is now. How does a priest call in sick?

I don’t. I sit in my misery all day during confessions, sipping water as I sweat out the alcohol drenching my robes. A peppermint is my constant companion for the nausea and smell oozing from my skin.

The regulars come and go and I give them the peace they need. Who am I to judge? I mean, technically, they asked for that, but I’m chief among the sinners and today I can easily offer absolution for their transgressions.

For the first time that I can remember, Henry’s mom, Gloria, comes to confession. I wish my brain weren’t so fuzzy so I could process all she says. It’s not good. It’s so not fucking good that my anger and my alcohol-infused brain can’t make sense of it all.

He’s not coming home. At times for days. When he does, he hands her cash and speaks in riddles. She’s over his cryptic language and came here, not to ask for absolution, but to ask for help.

“Need you to see what you can do to help my boy.”

“Mrs. Tremaine?”