And what was the alternative, after all? Calling a cab and leaving in the middle of the night to pick up his car? The drive back to Brighton, to the lonely apartment and empty bed, another night filled with doubts and dreams? This can't be wrong.
"Of course I'll stay," he said.
Her face lit up, as if he had just offered to save her life. "Joe," she said, "for me—there's never been anything like this."
"I think I can safely say the same thing."
She smiled at him and turned out the light.
Morelli fell asleep easily in the crook of his arm. It was harder for him, though. He had made a choice. Every step of the way, he had acted of his own free will. And what would happen tomorrow, and the day after? He had cast aside his priesthood, but he hadn't given it up, and that would be the hardest choice. If this was a sin, it could be forgiven. But it didn't feel like a sin, and the Church was not going to accept that feeling. One or the other. You can't have both, without being the worst form of hypocrite. Plenty of priests chose that path, had ignored their vows and abused their power, but that wasn't the kind of priest Joe Hurley wanted to be.
Hurley leaned down and kissed the top of Kathleen's head. She stirred and wrapped herself more tightly around him. He caressed her naked back and stared out into the darkness, wondering if he would still be in the priesthood by this time tomorrow.
Chapter 23
When Morelli awoke, Hurley was already getting dressed. Gray light filtered in through the window. She glanced at the clock: five-thirty. She noticed the empty beer bottles and the plate of chicken bones on the floor by the bed. She had to go to the bathroom.
She sat up in bed. She wanted to take him in her arms, murmur endearments to him, make him stay. But the gray light seemed to require something different, something serious. "Last night was real, Joe," she said to his back. He turned to face her. "We are real," she went on. "Just because it's morning and we have to get on with our lives, that doesn't mean it was all a dream, or a mistake, or a sin. You've got to believe this."
He sat down on the edge of the bed. He look rumpled, unshaven, and scared. He took her hands. "I know," he said. "I know. Pray for me."
"I think I need to pray for myself, too. I don't want to lose you, Joe."
Hurley brought her hands to his lips and kissed them. "That can't happen," he said.
"You know it can," she replied. "But thanks." She reached forward and hugged him. They held each other for a while, and then he moved away from her and finished dressing.
"Can I drive you?" she asked.
Hurley shook his head. "I called a cab."
"Will you call me today—no matter what?"
"I will."
He stood in the doorway finally, and they gazed at each other without speaking. Then they heard the soft beep of the cab's horn out front, and he was gone. She listened to the door close, then the sound of the cab driving off. When she couldn't hear the cab anymore, she buried her face in the covers and wept.
* * *
Hurley got his car and returned to his apartment, then took off his clothes and showered. Everything felt backwards, upside down. Should he go to work? Should he go to church? Or should he just sit here and think?
Get it over with, he decided. He had to talk to Larry Doyle. He couldn't pretend this hadn't happened. He had to tell the truth and face the consequences.
It wasn't going to be easy. He'd have to face the "Good morning, Father's" from fellow residents on the elevator in his apartment building, from the secretaries at work. Showing respect for his collar, for his calling. Respect he no longer deserved. I'm only human, he thought. But he was also supposed to partake of the divine, he was also supposed to set an example for others. Too many priests had disgraced the collar over the years; he couldn't let himself become one of them. He could argue that its demands were impossible, but clearly they weren't impossible for everyone. If they were impossible for him, then it was time to leave. And if he left, Kathleen would be waiting for him, warm and impulsive and feminine...
At work, he sat unlistening through the morning staff meeting. Then he returned to his office for a while, staring out the window, summoning his courage. Finally he made his way to Monsignor Doyle's office, which was even more ornate than his own, paneled in dark wood, with a thick Oriental carpet covering the hardwood floor. Doyle wasn't there, so Hurley steeled himself to wait, sinking into a wingchair by the door.
"Hello, Joe," Doyle said when he bustled in a few minutes later, holding a sheaf of papers. "What can I do for you?"
Hurley stood up. "I need to talk, Larry," he replied. "It's important."
Doyle gazed at him for a moment, then nodded and closed the door. Hurley wondered if he had any idea what was coming. Priests were used to serious conversations; they came with the territory. Doyle motioned for him to be seated and sat down opposite him. He leaned forward, his attention focused on Hurley. "Yes, Joe," he said. "What is it?"
"I've... become involved," Hurley began.
For a second Hurley thought Doyle was going to laugh. What was so funny? But perhaps he misconstrued Doyle's reaction. Doyle finally nodded, as if he were expecting this, as if he heard this sort of thing every day. "Tell me," he said. "With a woman?"
Hurley nodded and told him everything, as dispassionately as he could. He tried not to justify or excuse his actions. He tried not to overstate what there was between him and Kathleen, but he also tried not to diminish it; it was more than sex, it wasn't just momentary passion. The story came out sounding tacky and familiar, but he knew that couldn't be helped. It happened all the time; now it had happened to him.
Doyle scratched his bald head at the end of Hurley's recitation. "Joe, do you have a spiritual director?" he asked.
"Yeah, but he's on sabbatical for the year."
"So you've been muddling through this on your own?"
Hurley nodded.
"And you're not asking me to hear your confession because you don't know if you can repent—you're not convinced you've even sinned, perhaps."
"I've broken my vows," Hurley said. "I know that's a sin. But yeah, I can't say that I have a firm purpose of amendment. So I can't expect absolution. So that's a problem."
"Joe, do you want to continue to be a priest?"
Hurley closed his eyes. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?
"I love being a priest," he said.
"Except for the hard parts."
"If I loved the hard parts, they wouldn't be hard."
Doyle chuckled. "Good point. So what do you want me to say, Joe? I'm not terribly surprised at this, to tell you the truth. This is fundamentally about obedience, and you seem to have more trouble with obedience than I had hoped when I hired you. I like people with strong opinions, who aren't afraid to disagree with me, or even with the Church, but at some point you've got to toe the line. I sense that you think toeing the line is a sign of weakness. But for someone like you it's one of the hard parts—probably the hardest part. To do it will take all the self-discipline you can muster—maybe more than you can muster. But you've got to do it. There's no alternative, if you want to stay in the priesthood."
"Do you want to fire me?" Hurley asked, a little frustrated by the direction the conversation had taken. "It sounds like you're as concerned by the other stuff—you know, me looking into Ed McAllister's murder—as you are about the sex."
"They're two sides of the same coin," Doyle responded. "They spring from the same belief—that you're different, that the rules don't apply to you. Well, they do, of course."
Hurley flinched. The words were harsh, but he couldn't disagree with them. "So where are we, then?" he asked softly.
Doyle shrugged. "It's your call, Joe. What's the priesthood worth to you? You need to give up the woman, and, just as important, you need to give up pretending to be a private eye. Just get out of that whole situation. You understand that. You need to figure out how to toe the line. Focus on your job, focus on God. And, Joe, you
need to remember that it's worth it. Being a priest is a great blessing, and it's not given to everyone who asks for it. You've been a good priest, and you have the capacity to be a good priest again. Look inside yourself. Find the courage to put this all behind you."
"And if I can't?"
Doyle heaved his bulk up out of the chair. "Joe, you should also reflect on those who have left. Are they any happier, any more fulfilled than they were in the priesthood? Have they found the answers they were looking for? Every day they have to wake up with the recollection of what they've left behind, of what can never be theirs again. You became a priest for a reason. That reason doesn't go away just because you've found a woman, just because you think you know better than your boss. Now take the day off and try to clear your head."
Hurley stood up as well. "Thanks, Larry," he said. "I—I'll be in touch."
"I'll be waiting."
Hurley went back to his apartment, changed into his running gear, and went for a long jog through the city streets, down to the Charles River, sparkling in the summer sunlight. It occurred to him as he ran that he might be doomed to a life of unhappiness and regret no matter which path he chose. Perhaps he had poisoned every alternative through his actions. A leggy girl wearing a jogging bra, running shorts, and earphones gave him a wave as she ran past. Hurley grimaced and slowed to a walk.
It wasn't the sex, he decided; it was the fried chicken. When had he felt that sense of closeness to another human being since his ordination? He had great conversations with Rick Kelliher, but could he really say the two of them were close? He thought of himself and Kathleen growing old together, sharing private jokes, joys and grief's, knowing each other so well that they scarcely needed to speak. Creating a home, a family...
But surely he was romanticizing it all. One night doesn't create a shared future. He would probably scare Kathleen off with his intensity. Doyle was right, after all. Ex-priests didn't always settle easily into domesticity. They had their share of breakups and discord, looking for something that wasn't easy—that was perhaps impossible—for them to find.
If he were married, would he end up longing to become a priest once again?
Doomed. A misfit.
"Yo! Father Joe! Watcha doin'—playin' hooky?"
Hurley looked up. A young Hispanic man driving a delivery truck was grinning at him from the street. Hurley grinned back and walked over to the curb. "Just trying to stay in shape, Ramon. How're you doing? How's Lisa?"
"She had twins, Father! Tuesday night—this is my first day back to work. Want a chocolate cigar?"
Hurley accepted the cigar through the passenger-side window. Ramon was slim, with a wispy mustache and a small earring in his left ear. "That's great, Ramon," Hurley said. "And everyone's okay?"
"Couldn't be better. You should see those two little—well, you are gonna see 'em. You're gonna baptize 'em, right? You promised, remember?"
"How could I forget? Of course I'll baptize them." The cars behind Ramon started honking. "What are their names?" he asked as Ramon put the delivery truck in gear.
"Susanna," Ramon said with a big smile. "And José—so maybe he can grow up and be like you, Father Joe! See you Sunday at Mass, okay?"
Hurley waved to him as he drove off. Twins, he thought happily —and getting baptized! Who would have imagined it?
He sat down on a bench and unwrapped the chocolate cigar. When Hurley first arrived at Saint Jerome's, Ramon was an unemployed high-school dropout, dealing a little drugs on the side, heading nowhere except maybe prison. He didn't go to church, but he hung out at a basketball court nearby, where Hurley occasionally joined pickup games. For some reason Ramon took a liking to him. Advice that he ignored from everyone else he seemed to welcome when it came from Father Joe. And slowly but surely he straightened himself out—passed the high-school equivalency test, found a job, got engaged to a wonderful girl who wouldn't have given him the time of day before his transformation. Hurley had officiated at their wedding about a year ago.
He bit into the sweet cigar. Sunday Mass at Saint Jerome's. Baptizing Susanna and José. Not supposed to do those sorts of things when your soul's in a state of mortal sin.
He wondered if God was being a bit blatant here. "There's no job that's harder than being a parish priest," one of his teachers in the seminary had said, "and none that's more rewarding." Hurley would be greeted by dozens of people when he jogged through the streets of Dorchester. So how could he say he was lonely?
The cigar tasted wonderful. Which was better, chocolate cigars or fried chicken?
He was happy for Ramon and Lisa, delighted by the two new babies they had brought into the world, proud that he had something to do with their productive lives.
He couldn't stop the memory of Kathleen pressing his hand to her breast, gazing into her green eyes, both of them knowing that the moment of intimacy had finally arrived. This can't be wrong.
It was a beautiful day, and the Charles River sparkled in the sunlight. Please God, Hurley prayed. I could use a little wisdom. I won't stop loving You and Your creation, no matter what I do. Just give me some guidance.
A long time later he trudged homeward, still unsure what to do, but knowing that it was time to call Kathleen.
* * *
Morelli had to call in a couple of favors to get the fingerprinting team to promise to dust Bandini's apartment in Jamaica Plain. Who was this guy? they wanted to know. What was the crime? Just trust me, she had to say. But she was never sure how much people in the department actually did trust her. Still, she had some influence, and they grudgingly agreed to do what she asked.
That was about all she had managed to accomplish today. There was still a lot of run-of-the-mill stuff she had to coordinate for the pope's visit, but she found it difficult to focus on any of it. Only Joe Hurley mattered.
When he called she was staring into space; she had been staring for half an hour, for all she knew. "Hi," he said.
"Hi, Joe," she replied softly. She swiveled around and shut her door. "I haven't been able to do anything all day but think about you."
"Kathleen," he said, "Last night was one of the most glorious experiences of my life."
She closed her eyes. The line felt rehearsed, unpromising. "There's a 'but' coming," she said. "I can feel it."
"Okay, you know me too well. I need to sort this out, Kathleen. And I can't see you while I'm doing it."
"Why not?"
"Because it wouldn't be fair. To my vocation. To the commitments I've made."
Morelli fisted a tear away. "If I don't see you, Joe, I'm going to lose you. I just know it. They'll demonize me. They'll demonize us. I can't let that happen. I can't let you turn your back on what there is between us."
"No one's demonizing anyone, Kathleen," Hurley replied, his voice taut and nervous over the phone line. "It's all on me. And I can't have both you and the priesthood. I have to turn my back on someone—or something—that I care about very much."
"But you're going to start with me," she protested.
"Because that's where I am now. I'm a priest. I'm a good priest—at least, that's what everyone keeps telling me. If I'm going to leave—"
"Okay," she broke in, unable to bear the conversation. "Fine. I understand, Joe. Well, no I don't, but I'll pretend. Here's what I do understand, though—and you can't disagree with me about this. If you stop seeing me, it's over. I'll fade into your memory until I become just a—a youthful indiscretion. A minor stumble on your spiritual journey. I can't stand thinking about that, Joe. It's too much for me right now. Do what you have to do, but I won't stay behind hoping you'll come to your senses and choose me. I have too much self-respect."
"I understand, Kathleen," Hurley responded softly. "And I wouldn't ask you to do that. I just—" He stopped speaking, and she wondered if he, too, was fighting tears. "I just hope you'll find happiness," he said finally. "And I hope I'm not hurting you too much."
You couldn't possibly hurt me more, she thought.
But she simply said, "Thanks, Joe." And she hung up, fearing more pain if they said another word to each other.
Had she expected anything different? Not really. She had just allowed herself to hope. She could still hope, she supposed, and maybe tomorrow morning, or the next day, she would wake up with a totally different attitude. But right now she felt drained, defeated, a loser yet again. Her private life was a train wreck, and her professional life wasn't much better. She had probably gone as far as she was going to go in the department, no matter how much the commissioner liked her. She had screwed up the search for Bandini, which she wasn't supposed to be involved in anyway. No, there wasn't much to feel good about right now.
Morelli struggled through the rest of the day, then returned to her empty apartment. She saw the remains of the fried chicken in the trash and had to fight back tears yet again. She thought she could still smell Joe here—his deodorant or shampoo, some lingering scent that still managed to arouse her. Had it only been last night that—
Damn it, she thought abruptly. What I said to him was right. I can't live like this. She went into her bedroom, stripped the bed, and threw the sheets into the washer. She opened a window to air the place out. She took the trash downstairs and dumped it into a barrel.
Screw Joe Hurley. And screw the Catholic Church, which wasn't going to defeat her yet again.
And screw Bandini, she thought. You're not going to defeat me either, you son of a bitch. If she couldn't get Hurley, then she would give everything she had to getting Bandini.
He was out there. And she wasn't going to rest until she found him.
Chapter 24
To Monsignor Fieri, Miranda Cromwell seemed like a different woman.
The two of them sat in the same café where he had first recruited her for his investigation. But instead of the shy, confused little mouse he had encountered then, there was a young woman brimming over with confidence. She drank espresso instead of mineral water and devoured an almond biscotti as if it were her first food of the day. "I have no information yet," she admitted to him, "but I do have a plan. It will take a little while, however."
Pontiff (A Thriller) Page 25