by Hadley Finn
Henry’s father has been a fuckface too long. Beating his wife and kids ends now.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
I’m not alone as I thought I was and I don’t know how long she’s been sitting there. I sit up straighter and listen to the small breaths and the hesitancy in the words that stutter from her lips.
“When was your last confession?”
“Oh, well, the last time was the first time. I became Catholic when I married my husband and had to convert.”
“So, how long has that been?”
“Three years.”
“What made you come today?”
“I’ve been lying.” She drags in a huge breath. “Lying to my husband.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I, uh… Well, he wants children. And I’m making sure we don’t have them.”
“So, you’re deceiving him and you plan to continue doing so?”
She gasps and then stutters as she says, “Um… yes.”
“What’s going on?”
“He’s not a good man. I don’t trust him. It’s hard to put my finger on, even harder to articulate, but it’s not safe.”
“For you or for children?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice drops as she continues, “At least, I think I’m fine. Enzo isn’t violent.”
My spine stiffens.
This is Zera Calabrese, Enzo’s wife.
Twenty-seven confessions later, and after pre-marriage counseling for my soon-to-be-wed parishioners, I pour two fingers of Kilbeggan and slide into my red leather recliner. It’s my only possession—only thing in this world I take with me. It’s old and worn-in. I moved it from Boston to South Bend and from there to the seminary in Mundelein and then to Chicago. Now it sits in New Orleans in this rectory fully furnished with fine luxuries.
I sit here to think.
I sit here to remember.
I sit here to plan.
But I never sit here to relax.
Tonight, I need to remedy Henry’s problem. He’s a good kid in a shitty situation.
It’s not a matter of whether the situation could be made better. I’ve made my decision. Aside from the pesky details, his father is dead. First, I need to control the setting. Second, I need to lay the trap. Later I’ll figure out how to help Henry grow up into the man he will become.
Hank Tremaine is a drinker, as am I. He gambles; same with me. He does it with his paycheck. Me? I do it with my life.
Tonight, he will too.
He exits the bar and walks out onto St. Peter. This is a tourist area for sure. Drunk patrons engulf him but I follow, back by several paces, blending in. Collar off, Mardi Gras mask on. It’s Carnival time, after all.
As he stumbles into an alley, the fool is stupid enough to turn his back to take a piss.
“Hank?”
“Who’s askin’?”
One hand up on the wall, cock out in his other, his blurry vision never catches my kick to his left knee, dislocating it. He screams and crumbles, but I stop both by catching him by the back of the neck and smashing his face into the brick wall he’d been using to hold himself up. Urine flows and the stench rises. I move around out of its flow, still holding him by his neck.
I slide my knife from my pocket and have pulled it from ear to ear before he even feels a thing.
“May the God of Righteousness and Purity forgive your sins—and me, mine. Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Almighty Father and sleep in eternal rest. Amen”
He slides to his knees and I lean into him, shielding his body with mine, all the while folding the knife and sliding it into my sock.
He never looks up, never fights.
Sliding my left hand into my pocket, I grab my collar, and fit it in place. By the time I hit Royal, my adrenaline is gone, my mind is clear.
I need a drink—whiskey. But as I let myself get absorbed into the crowds, I decide instead on a beer. The job is done and I don’t need whiskey to brood. I drop my mask around the doorknob of the bar as I enter, flag over the bartender, and order up whatever’s on tap in a to-go cup. I savor the smooth hops as I head home to shower.
Four
Groundhog Day. Again.
Then again, almost every day is Groundhog Day in this line of work.
My morning run is muggy and stinky. I’ll change my route by the time Ash Wednesday gets here. The main streets in this city are disgusting. The sanitation department needs a raise for the stench they encounter and the work they do during parade season alone, and it’s not much better the rest of the year. Urine, vomit, and stale beer are the highlights. Even worse lurks in the darker corners and alleyways. Hank Tremaine’s lifeless body comes to mind.
I put in an extra two miles since last night set me on edge. I need a clear head and fuck if I’m going to do yoga to get it. Running has always done it and will have to suffice.
I enter my office and am greeted by the parish secretary. She’s been my saving grace since I moved here and made New Orleans my home.
“Morning, Evelyn.”
“Morning, Father.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“Nope. No births, no deaths, so far.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Coffee is on your desk.”
“You’re a good woman. How’s Tom?”
She smiles. That woman is in love—good thing it’s with her husband of thirty-four years. “He’s good. Home tomorrow after his annual hunting trip. Said he’s ready to be home.”
“Praying for safe travels for him.”
I turn and walk to my office. It’s refreshing to watch people who love each other actually like each other and want to be around each other, especially in this day and age.
A phone ringing almost has me turning.
“St. Micah Catholic Church, how can I help you?” she asks as I make my way around my desk to begin my day.
Several days later, there is another funeral. Wish I could say it was for Hank. That one would hurt me and heal me at the same time. To know he can’t hurt Henry or his sister or his mom allays my guilt a bit. But just a bit. I hate that I did it. No, I hate that it needed to be done, but I did what was required.
This funeral is for Chad Dugas, a man of fifty with no known health issues, who had a massive seizure and died within minutes. I never knew him.
Another thing people wish they didn’t know about priests is we don’t know everyone we bury. I’m supposed to stand up and speak of the beauty of this man’s life, the purpose in his calling, the joy that we had him this long, and God’s perfect plan.
And I’ve never once met him.
I have facts. One daughter, one grand-daughter, one ex-wife who is here only because of said daughter.
The young woman’s head hangs low. Her stillness is worrying. If her foot wasn’t fidgeting, I’d wonder if she were comatose. She must be mid-twenties. The only word to describe her right now is dead. And I don’t mean grieving, distraught, confused, angry, in denial, or sad, but lifeless.
Dead.
She is blanched of all color; her eyes are red, swollen, and practically lifeless. No tears, just a blank stare.
When she looks up during the homily, I stutter over my words. It’s the baker with the cute shop and the precocious daughter—Sirona.
Five
I came to Mardi Gras only once as a boy. Ma lived here then, so I spent most of my summers here. The heat was dreadful and the mosquitos were worse. But that one Mardi Gras—the one prior to the summer she died—was an eye-opening experience for a boy of fourteen.
It must be said that I was mostly sheltered for a kid growing up in the early nineties. Most kids I knew were latch-key and grew up on weird microwave snacks.
My parents divorced when I was three. Thank God. With those two I can only imagine how volatile life could have been. I don’t remember our lives then. My father stayed in Boston.
Ma moved to New Orleans. Ever the hippie
, she loved the vibe of this city and its live-and-let-live attitude. She loved the art, the culture, the music, the food, and the fact that making your own bread was seen as gourmet, not as cheap or odd. She wore her flowy skirts and peasant shirts, even when they weren’t in fashion. Same with woven sandals. Her hair was always loose down her back, except when she was baking or working with clay, and then it was twisted into daring shapes and held back with whatever utensil or gadget or pencil she could find to keep it up and away.
I’d run in the house when the streetlights came on after playing, riding bikes, tossing footballs, or getting up to no good on New Orleans’ long days. Many summer evenings, I’d see flour or clay on her cheeks and under her nails and Ma would have a dreamy look in her eyes. She could see the creation or taste the flavor combination before it ever came to pass. I’m fairly certain it was her superpower.
One of two.
The other was showing me what love and family were all about.
Claire Goodman O’Shaughnessy knew what it meant to be a mom. She was present and funny and held me tight when I needed reassurance or was afraid. She held me loosely when I was becoming a man and needed to show I wouldn’t be babied. But when that screen door slapped each night, she would smile in a way that I knew I was the greatest joy she’d ever felt, the greatest love she’d ever known, and the greatest thing she had ever accomplished.
So, divorced or no, summers and occasional holidays or sometimes otherwise, Ma made up for all the crap in life—the divorced parents who couldn’t stand to be in the same time zone, the fucked-up family that couldn’t tolerate each other’s predilections, the kid shuffled across the country to spend time because my father’s business was unsavory or because he wasn’t a full-time dad—with a smile and a reminder that I was everything.
That year, she gave me a taste of New Orleans—of Mardi Gras and hedonism—but not a full serving. She went with me, hanging back enough that I was safe and protected, but not so much that I was out there with my mom at this kind of party. I watched parades. I got flashed for beads and was promptly reminded to close my mouth and avert my eyes. When she wasn’t looking, I drank things that no fourteen-year-old should’ve. I watched men fall over from too much drink and drunk women show more than anyone should see because they had too little respect for themselves.
I didn’t know it then, but Ma was showing me how to be a man. How to remember who I was and what I stood for, even in the most egregious of situations.
She never saw my track medals. She never saw me graduate high school or get accepted to Notre Dame. Never made it to my finishing there in three years and being accepted into the seminary as one of the youngest students.
She never knew the man I became.
She would never know I became him because of her.
Six
The four days before Ash Wednesday are either the epitome or the antithesis of Catholicism. One doesn’t have to look hard to see all manner of lewd, crude, and disgusting behavior. There’s indulgence and overindulgence in food, drink, drugs, and anything else that celebrates debauchery.
If people haven’t noticed, those parades and their associated krewes are named after Greek or Roman gods and goddesses.
It is the celebration of the flesh.
It is repulsive and it is beautiful.
It is made more so by the fact that, without instance, it means that this city’s residents will lay aside all of it—save the cuisine—for weeks to come as penance for the weeks prior. There will be no parties, no parades, no balls, no intoxication. There will be no weddings or bridal or baby showers. There will be somber, penitent, self-reflection, a reminder of the baseness of our humanity.
But that will come Wednesday. It is still Mardi Gras and I plan to play and indulge.
I walk from the rectory to Jackson Square. I rarely go out without my blacks and white collar. It’s expected. It’s easy. And there’s no downside. I love watching the tourists. Watching them laugh or cry or stumble or puke. I grab a beer and wander, enjoying one of the best things about being assigned to a church in the Archdiocese of New Orleans.
On Bourbon Street and Canal, I get high fives and “What’s up, Padre?” floating toward me. In these streets on these days, all men are equal.
None more holy. None more raucous.
We are one city, protected under her wings while we celebrate life and its finer things.
“Forgive me, Father.”
“When was your last confession?”
“I don’t know. Nothing huge to confess, really. Just wanted to be here and be absolved. And…” He leaves the sentence dangling.
“Go on.”
“Well, I just wanted to have the peace of forgiveness and a coming home, I guess.”
“So, what brought you here?”
“To New Orleans? My job. Same thing that brought me to church today. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe in Divine protection?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Boy, that’s not helpful.” He snorts out a laugh.
“What are you really asking?”
“Ever think your life was spared because your mission isn’t finished?”
“I do.” Absolutely. I do.
“Think God protects you from yourself so you can get on with it?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What happens if we don’t?”
“That’s a good question and one I don’t have an answer to.”
“I’m Matt.”
“Nice to meet you, Matt. I’m Sean. You’ve got good questions. I’d suggest you pray until God reveals the answers. Then let me know what you find out.”
He laughs again, and we conclude with the standard prayers. But after we finish, I leave the confessional to shake his hand. Unusual for me, but I appreciate his candor and his desire. He’s a former Marine and relocating to DC soon to start a new job.
“Wish you all the best, Matt.”
“Thanks, Father.” With that, he leaves. Bright sunshine haloes around him as he opens the church doors.
Later that night, I sit in my red chair — no whiskey this time — recalling the day and the other confessions I took.
There are the young children, scared every thought will send them to hell. They confess being angry or back talking parents or stealing at school. I want to remind them that they are children and inherently innocent, although it is nice to see kids with a conscience.
There are the twentysomethings whose transgressions are far beyond their younger selves. Most, we learned in the seminary, underplay their real lives, the vastness of their depravity, the heights of their cruelty. They don’t have any real sense that their lives have purpose or value.
It’s the fiftysomethings that are the most worrisome, though. Their brash, in-your-face, it’s my life and I don’t give a fuck attitude is the scariest. They confess to affairs, rape, theft, and murder, and then wait for a penance that can never atone for the irreparable damage they create in the name of self-glorification.
It is the innocent that are refreshing. The rare Catholic who truly reveres the faith and the Almighty and fervently desires to be better.
Only one today fell into this category. On a somber day, he’s a ray of hope.
The one that has me pondering, though, was the woman who came in, sat down, and silently heaved sobs until she could finally pull in lungfuls of air. After several minutes of gasps, whimpers, and deep breathing, she whispered, “Thank you,” before unlatching the door and slipping out.
Sirona Dugas has more story to tell.
Seven
I’d love to think, despite the indulgence surrounding me, that I’m a man of great self-restraint. In some ways, that’s true. In other ways, I’m simply a man whose job has specific limitations and boundaries.
But I’m a man nonetheless.
To say I hadn’t thought of Sirona Dugas after the encounter at her shop would be folly. To say I hadn�
�t wondered about her after her father’s funeral and her subsequent confession would just be patently untrue.
Priests don’t really make house calls, and we never follow up on confessions. How awkward would it be to have someone considered an authority figure show up and ask how life is going? How’s the gambling addiction treating you? Cheated on your wife again lately? Keeping that porn stash full?
I can scarcely think of anything more panic-inducing than having that surprise visitor.
But I’m going to do it anyway, but with a hint more grace and a lot more charm. At least, I hope.
I pull up to Petites Fleurs and quickly notice the pinwheels are gone. Breezy Louisiana springs would be perfect for them to spin, but they’re noticeably absent. Their pink pots sit empty, worn by the weather. The flower boxes on the windows have dried up soil and dead plants below their corners. Once cared for, they’re now nothing more than an afterthought.
The bells ring as I enter, but the formerly airy space feels more muted.
Sirona comes from the back and swallows hard before throwing on a small smile that looks fake to its core.
“Hello, Father. How can I help you?”
“Do you have any coffee?”
“Sure. Black?” She pauses between the words like there are tacks scraping down her throat.
“Please. May I sit?”
She looks around, confused, and then nods before turning back to the machine and pulling out a gray mug and filling it with coffee before placing it on a tray.
She brings the coffee and sets in front of me.
“Anything else?”
I gesture for the chair. Confusion passes over her face for a moment before she schools her features and scrapes the chair back and rests in it.
“How are you?”
The confusion returns and this time she doesn’t bother to hide it.