Page 73 of Priestly Sins

It feels like it was all too easy. New Orleans feels miles away and Thanksgiving week like a memory whose edges want to blur. I can almost sense the end of my angst and worry as it drifts away. For some reason, I want to sing Dobie Gray and reach into my coat pocket to grab my phone to find “Drift Away” on YouTube when I notice a text from Bobby. No, not a text. Three.

Bobby:Where are you? Need to talk.

Bobby:This is not a drill.

Bobby:Call me.

Bobby:[Picture Message. Unable to Load]

I stop dead. These came in almost an hour ago. The last, thirty minutes ago, is simply a box around an image that hasn’t loaded since my signal isn’t strong enough and I need Wi-Fi.

I dial Bobby only to get a fast busy signal. Staring at my phone it shows the call unable to connect.

I make my way to the house, constantly trying Bobby to no avail, until I hit the outskirts of my Wi-Fi range and am able to connect.

“What’s up?”

“Seriously? An hour later and that’s your greeting?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Bobby. Just seeing your messages and called as soon as I could.”

“Then you haven’t seen it?”

“Not yet. Looking now.” I pull the phone away from my face and stare down at my phone. Ice slides from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet, freezing my blood, and killing my Dobie Gray mood.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Bobby?”

“That’s what I thought. Came in today’s mail. It has a New Orleans postmark, but no return address. Sent to your house in South Carolina and forwarded here as we’d arranged.”

“But that’s…”

“That’s a series of photos of you with Clara on your lap. The envelope included a news article about pedophilic priests being sought by the NOLA PD and the Diocesan offices for questioning. It also discusses the murder of another priest within the diocese who was being counseled on his behavior.”

“Counseled. Yeah, well—”

“Sean...” He drifts off for just a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. “It came with a note.”

“Betting I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

“It simply says, I know what you’ve done.”

Fuck!

“Betting you never thought you were taking on all of this when I dropped that two-fifty on your desk.”

“Sean, I love you like a brother, but, no, never saw all this coming.”

We sign off a few minutes later and I stare back up into the sky. That peaceful gray now seems oppressive, angry, and aggressive.

I barely fall asleep that night. Shit is bad. I have no idea who knows what, but someone followed me enough to have pictures, too many and over many weeks, of me with Clara. Holding hands, sharing cupcakes, all of it.

A simple Google search reveals that NOLA TV stations are all over the disappearance of a priest and a young girl that he checked out of her preschool, and that her mother has vanished. Foul play is suspected. My picture is everywhere, as are others of Clara and me, many without Sirona in them.

This shit just keeps getting worse and worse.