So, then, why was she there? After Manny dropped her off at her apartment that morning, she felt a compelling need to walk down to Main Street when she heard the bell tolling from the steeple of the church, signaling the beginning of 10:00 a.m. worship. Maureen had come with the crowd, taken up her place standing in the entryway, and watched. That was that.
Father Preston, now at the pulpit, was droning on about the Gospel reading they had just heard. She could tell that he didn’t have the oration skills that Father Patrick clearly had. His tone was almost businesslike, as if focused more on the accuracy of the words than on inspiring any kind of spiritual awakening in his audience. Maureen couldn’t even zero in on a central message. It seemed to her like he was just restating the chapter they had read. Mark, if she heard correctly. Something about an argument with the Pharisees over hand washing. She had no mind for biblical details.
Father Preston finished his sermon and stepped down from the pulpit as she continued to stand in her place and observe the holy display in front of her. The crowd’s constant shift from standing to sitting to kneeling and back brought to mind the physical urgings of her mother when she was a small child to comply when all she wanted to do was sit in the pew and color. She shuddered with the memory. Four-year-olds shouldn’t be held to the standards of adults. She found herself searching through the heads of the crowd, looking for families with small children to see if these people subscribed to the same method of spiritual enforcement. She didn’t see any, though she heard a sharp shush from a mother near the back.
“And now at the Savior’s command,” Father Patrick’s voice shook her from her thoughts, “and formed by divine teaching, we dare to say . . . ,”
At this, the congregation joined in with their monotone chant, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done. . . .”
Maureen knew the prayer well enough. She followed along with her own inner monologue, but didn’t allow her lips to move. She folded her arms across her chest, stared behind the altar at the crucifix, and reflected on all the shit that was allowed to happen in the name of that man hanging on the cross.
“The peace of the Lord be always with you,” Father Patrick intoned to the crowd.
“And with your spirit,” they responded and began to walk about, shaking hands and greeting their neighbors.
No one gave Maureen a second look, though some may have recognized her as the woman who accompanied the detective. She was fine with that. She didn’t want to be noticed. And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to walk away. She was, yet again, rooted to the floor.
The throng began to assemble in the aisle for the Eucharist. She watched them line up to receive a wafer from Father Patrick and then a sip of wine from either Father Preston or another similarly dressed man on the opposite side of the altar. It was an efficient assembly-line type of system that had the whole mass through in only a few minutes. Organ music from the balcony above her played until everyone was sitting again. Maureen knew the end of the Mass would be coming soon. Father Patrick stood at the foot of the altar and for the first time, made direct eye contact with her. Maureen froze.
“May Almighty God bless you,” he said, holding her with his gaze as she felt the color drain from her face, “in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” the congregation cried out.
Maureen swallowed hard and turned away from the oncoming procession out of the church. She pushed through the outer doors and, as calmly as she could, descended the outside steps, taking a seat on one of the last ones before the sidewalk. She kept herself off to the side and stared out at Main Street while the crowds of people began to trickle past her.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you here on a Sunday, Ms. Allen,” Father Patrick said over her shoulder.
Maureen turned and looked up at him. She scrambled to her feet to stand in front of the priest, surprising herself with her knee-jerk reaction to the sight of a robed authority figure after all these years. “Well, uh, I was walking around and got curious.”
“About?” he said, breaking into his familiar soft grin.
“I wanted to know if your Mass is as boring as I remember mine being when I was a girl.”
“And?”
“Worse.”
Father Patrick actually laughed out loud at this, longer than she thought was necessary. He even put a finger to his eye to wipe a tear as he calmed himself. “Thank you for keeping me humble, Maureen.”
Maureen shifted her weight uncomfortably, unsure if he was purposely laying it on thick.
“So, you spent the entire Mass standing in the entryway. Any reason for that?”
“I like to stand?”
“And you didn’t want to come up for communion?”
Maureen sneered at the question. “Look, Father, I can appreciate the pageantry and symbolism of what you do here, but it’s not my thing. Besides, I may be able to set foot in a church without bursting into flames, contrary to what some might think, but what would your little flock do if they saw a woman get burned from the inside out after taking a sip of the Blood of Christ?”
“I don’t believe such a thing would actually happen,” the priest chuckled.
“Yeah, well, you’re just too taken with my sparkling personality to be objective.” This banter with the priest was actually beginning to annoy her. She turned and began to leave.
“I’ve heard whisperings around the church that the detective from the police department has been questioning our parishioners,” he called after her.
Maureen turned around to face him.
“There’s been quite a bit of tongue wagging as well about the mysterious woman he brings with him.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” she growled at him.
“Not at all,” Father Patrick told her, breaking into a sly grin once again. “But I needed you to turn around so I could firm up our dinner plans for Wednesday.”
Maureen let out a frustrated groan. He had played her like a fiddle. “You could have just asked.”
“You’re a very difficult person to gauge, my dear.” He took both of her hands in his. “I feel the need to throw the occasional curve ball with you. Just to ensure that your responses are, how do I put this, less guarded? A snappy response to an unexpected question is usually the most honest one in my experience. So, dinner?”
“Yeah, fine, I guess,” Maureen said, giving in. “It’s a nice thing you’re doing, by the way. Offering extra time to talk to people and all. Do you think it’ll help any?”
“I wouldn’t offer services that I didn’t think I could provide,” Father Patrick said. “Very often, people who are struck by some sort of tragedy, even if only by proximity, find comfort in speaking to a trusted adviser.”
“What if someone spills something about the case?” she asked. “Like, say someone knows something about what happened, and they tell you. Do you have some sort of confidentiality thing with your congregation, or would you call Manny and tell him?”
“You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you call the detective by his first name.”
Maureen responded with an eye roll.
“I believe it would be my duty to lead them on the righteous course,” he answered.
“And by that, you mean make them go to the police with the information?”
“I can only lead. I can’t force them to follow.”
“You’re a priest. Don’t people usually do what you tell them to? Aren’t they afraid they’ll go to Hell if they don’t?”
“My view of the priesthood is not to dictate. Every sheep in a flock requires something different. For some, they need their shepherd to be a hard-handed disciplinarian. Others seek to unburden themselves in the confessional, and that is enough for them. Still more just need the love and understanding that our Lord can
provide. But, if pressed, yes, in that specific situation you have just described to me, I would indeed encourage them to take their information to the authorities. And if I believe they do not intend to, you may rest assured that I will personally speak with your young Mr. Benitez.”
“He’s not mine!” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“Maureen,” he said softly, “take it from an old man who knows. The worst thing one can do is throw away something that could be wonderful simply because of fear.”
Maureen didn’t have any words. Her and Manny? Sure, she’d come around to the idea that he was her friend, but any more than that? Impossible.
“It looks like you have some other people who want to talk to you,” she said to the priest, nodding in the direction of a man and woman standing behind him.
“I got the address, I’ll see you Wednesday,” she said as she walked down the steps.
Maureen ambled down Main Street back toward her apartment, her thoughts consumed by the old man’s words. What did he see between herself and the detective? Whenever the priest spoke to her, it always seemed like he could peer right through her into the parts that she kept from the world. She didn’t understand how he did it, and why it bothered her and made her feel safe in equal measure. She admitted to herself, as she turned off Main and headed south toward her building, that she was most likely going to have to go through with having dinner with the man.
Manny was sitting on the tailgate of his truck waiting for her as she walked up. He had a half-finished bottle of soda in his hand and another unopened one next to him.
“I came back around 10:30 and you weren’t here,” he said, standing and handing her the unopened bottle. “What were you doing?”
“I just needed to go for a walk,” she said. “You know, clear my head a little.”
“Well I was banging on your door for ages,” he replied. “So here.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a small, red flip phone. He grabbed her free hand and pressed the phone into it.
“What’s this?” she asked, surprised.
“Well, if I’m going to start letting you out of my sight from time to time, I’m going to need to be able to get a hold of you. So I went home quickly and got my personal phone. I mainly use my work cell anyway, so there probably won’t be anyone but me calling you on this one. And you can get a hold of me, too, if you need. My work cell is speed dial two.”
“Uh, thanks, I guess?” She didn’t know what else to say, so she gave him her best approximation of a grateful smile and slipped the phone into her jeans. Then, to drive the point home, she cracked open the bottle he’d given her and took a big sip of cola.
“And sorry,” he said. “About the soda, I mean. I was so full after brunch that I didn’t think to grab you any actual food.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I can hold out until dinner.”
“Well, good news there, my ma gave us a heaping plate of her famous empanadas.”
“That was nice of her, I guess.”
“Yeah, she gets really into cooking when she thinks I have a girlfriend.”
“But you told her you don’t, right?” She was taken aback by how much her heart rate had climbed at the mention of that word.
“Take it easy, I just told her a little bit about you on the phone the other day, and she got carried away. Don’t worry, I set her straight this morning.”
Maureen stared at him for a moment. His posture mirrored the awkward conversation and she assumed she looked no better.”So, I’ll just pop up and get myself some clean clothes?”
“Right. And I’ll just wait here.”
Not daring to say another word, Maureen turned and dashed inside and up the flight of stairs to her apartment. She felt her face flush, and her heart was still pounding as she entered. Tossing her empty cola bottle onto the couch, she made her way over to her bed. The pillowcase with her clothes inside was lying at its foot, where she had left it that morning. She knelt down and pulled a duffel bag out and rummaged around for more clean clothes, placing them on the bed. She then pulled out the dirty clothes from the pillowcase and shoved them into the duffel.
Last of all, she pulled out Manny’s pistol. For the first time since she had taken it from his dresser, she examined it closely. The manufacturer’s name was etched into the coal-colored barrel. Browning. The grip was the standard brown, cross-etched style. She’d fired several guns like this one over the years at shooting ranges in the backwoods of some hick town. She’d never owned a gun in her own right, but she knew how to handle one, even if she wasn’t a proficient marksman.
Besides, you don’t have to be accurate if it’s your own head you’re firing at.
The glum thought overtook her as she tucked the pistol into the bottom of her duffel and slid the bag back under the bed. If things took a bad turn as she continued to stay in this town, she had to know she had at least one sure way out.
“But,” she said aloud as she scooped her clean clothes into the now empty pillowcase and headed back down to meet Manny, “we’ll just keep that as a last resort.”
TWENTY-NINE
“You’ll call me as soon as you’re done, right?” Manny asked as they sat in his truck in front of the red-brick Cape Cod that served as St. Mary’s rectory.
Maureen sat in the passenger’s seat, staring at the house and wondering why she had ever agreed to have dinner with Father Patrick. The days had passed uneventfully since she had last seen him on the steps of the church. She and Manny had continued to run down the church parishioners day in and day out with no success. She hadn’t had a chance to think about tonight until just before leaving the detective’s home less than half an hour before. Now that she could reflect on her position, she was sure she was in for an evening of the priest’s ceaseless positivity and friendly conversation. She honestly didn’t feel in the mood for that, but she had made a promise, and for some reason, she couldn’t go back on it.
“Yeah, we’ve been over it. I’ll call.”
“And you have the phone, right?”
Forget the damn thing on the coffee table once, and the guy can’t let it go. Refusing to reply, Maureen simply gave him a sideways look, pushed her door open, and hopped out, smoothing her shirt as she walked up the sidewalk toward the front door. She turned around to see Manny watching from the car. She shooed him with her hand, and he drove off down the street. She turned back to the house, walked the last few steps to the door, gathered herself, and rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately. As usual, Father Patrick wore his friendly smile, along with dark slacks and a button-down shirt with a sweater vest over it. Maureen felt instantly underdressed in her jeans and flannel shirt, but she tried to push away the thought.
“Right on time,” the priest chirped as he held the door open for her and motioned with his hand for her to enter. “Please come on in.”
The dark wood of the crown molding and baseboards swallowed some of the light from the two antique lamps that were in the front room, causing the house to have a dim glow. Maureen could smell what she thought was furniture polish mixed with the certain smell that told her a person over the age of sixty lived there. It reminded her of her grandmother’s home in Massachusetts when she was a child. She was actually relieved, thinking that maybe the inside of priests’ homes smelled like their church office, and that smell would uncover memories she couldn’t handle while sober.
Father Patrick led her past the staircase and through a hallway toward the rear of the house. Though she couldn’t see it, she judged by the smell of hot oil and rich spices that the kitchen lay to her right. The priest opened a door at the end of the hall. It opened into a carpeted den that was decorated like a reading room or library. One full wall was taken up by an enormous bookshelf, filled to capacity with an array of leather-bound tomes, paperbacks of contrasting size, an
d other hardcovers placed on the shelves in whatever order they would fit. On the wall opposite this, there was a drink cart with several glasses and several decanters holding various liquids. Whiskey, wine, and either vodka or gin, Maureen guessed. Either Father Patrick liked his liquor, or he was eager to impress his guest.
A round card table draped with a plain, white tablecloth took up the middle of the room. Upon it was a basket filled with a loaf of bread wrapped in a linen napkin, a tray of butter, two plates with another napkin folded on each, and two sets of silverware. It looked like the type of setup she imagined a fancy restaurant would have. She began to wonder if the old priest saw this as some kind of date. It was an uncomfortable thought.
“Would you like a drink?” Father Patrick asked.
“Uh, sure, what do you have?” said Maureen, turning to find him standing next to the drink cart.
“Plenty of choices,” he replied indicating each bottle with his hand. “I’ve got vodka, gin, and vermouth if you’d like a martini. I’ve got a nice port, though I might recommend that as a dessert drink. If you’re a wine drinker, there’s other wine, both red and white. I’ve got scotch, and there’s beer in the refrigerator.”
“Scotch, I guess,” she said. He sounded like a man who actually knew a thing or two about the finer things. Maureen felt out of her depth, but scotch was whiskey and whiskey was always her choice, so she went for that.
Father Patrick nodded and pulled out the stopper from the decanter and grabbed a short glass. “Do you like it on the rocks or neat?”
“What do you recommend?” she asked.
“It’s a fair scotch, but I like this particular one better on the rocks.”
Maureen waved her hand at him, indicating that he should go ahead and pour.
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