by Hadley Finn
“Not licensed in Louisiana, but I can give counsel.”
“Where are you licensed?”
“Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan and South Carolina. Talk to me.”
“So, if I own property in one of those, you could be my attorney?”
“Yes, but…”
“Which one is best?” I cut him off by asking.
“What?”
“Given any budget, where should I buy so you can represent me?”
“South Carolina has the cheapest property taxes.”
“I’ll have something under contract by the end of the week, escrowed by month’s end. Actually, can you handle that for me?”
A bark escapes him. “Sure, Daddy Warbucks. Now”—his gaze turned serious and levels me—“what the hell is going on?”
I tell him everything. Everything. Everything I lied about. Every bit of truth, except for the justice I’ve taken, the moments of vengeance I’ve created. And then continue about my dad, his homes, his estate, his business dealings, why I chose my career path, even my future dreams. I swear him to secrecy which, despite his slack-jawed mouth hanging open and too-round eyes, he is bound to due to the two hundred and fifty dollars on his conference room table.
I tell him that Eliza Beth and Trey will have college funds established in their names as part of my new estate plan and that their creation and funding is nonnegotiable.
I explain I’ll need tax shields for the wealth I’ve just inherited. I tell him I want as much as possible to be done with as little attention as possible, that I’ve pissed off some very powerful people in Boston, and I do not want my involvement with him professionally known until we can mitigate the threat they pose.
I sign a contract with him and place a two-million-dollar retainer to cover expenses—any that he may have, personal or professional—as he helps me navigate my fucked-up life.
I look down at my jeans, black tee, and black hoodie.
“Can I meet your family now?”
He smiles for the first time in several hours and nods.
Ten
Monday morning might as well be a sledgehammer to the senses. I put six miles on the streets of New Orleans, instead of my typical four, but only add ten minutes to my time. Apparently, the last week has fueled more muddled thoughts and frustrations and I take it out on the Riverwalk path. I could’ve pushed for a seventh, but choose to head back to the rectory and begin my day.
I’m in the office before Evelyn arrives, planning. Part of that planning is getting with Bobby on loose ends in Ireland. Of all the things I failed to secure when I was in his office, this one is the most pressing in my mind.
Me: Need a favor.
Bobby: Sure. What’s up?
Me: Can you find a reputable real estate attorney in Ireland and make sure Killian O’Shaughnessy is protected on the land there?
Bobby: Barrister.
Me: What?
Bobby: They’re called barristers. Never mind.
Me: I’ll get you the docs but best I can tell, my dad’s will would evict him.
Bobby: Such a stand-up guy. {Sarcasm}
Me: The word you’re looking for is asshole.
Bobby: Truth.
Me: And will you draw something up that we can provide to him assuring him I am not my father and he has legal rights so long as he’s living? There is more than enough land for me to enjoy and for him to live. Make sure he knows he’s protected and that the gift returns to me upon his death.
Bobby: Will do.
Me: Thanks!
“Father?”
I try not to act surprised when Evelyn pops her head in. I was so lost in my conversation with Bobby that I didn’t hear her come into the office.
“Good morning, Evelyn. How was your week?”
“You surprised me. In earlier than usual. All okay?”
“Absolutely. It wasn’t a great week dealing with my father’s will. I appreciate you holding down the fort.”
“Of course. There’s another funeral this week. Sorry you’re coming back to that. It’s tomorrow. I wanted you to have a heads-up before you see it on your calendar.”
“Who?”
“Enzo Calabrese’s father-in-law.”
“Oh? What time?”
“One. The burial is at Green Acres.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t get confirmation from Staunchley before noon that day. Nor by close of business.
The next morning, I call him from my cell. Our brief conversation does not settle my concerns that he is doing what I’ve requested.
I make a second call on my way to the office. Ibrahim Al-Hamani, a former associate of my father’s, who assumed he was relieved of the debt he owed upon my father’s passing, takes my call, but is hesitant to speak. His reticence doesn’t bother me.
“Ibrahim? This is Sean, Patrick O’Shaughnessy’s son.” I pause to wait for some kind of assent. His grunt will do.
“I’m prepared to forgive the debt you owe my father. I want nothing to do with his business. Unfortunately, I need a favor.”
Silence.
“It’s the easiest one you’ll ever do. Hal Staunchley has been slow to dissolve my father’s last legal enterprise. I want this done yesterday. He’s dragging his feet. Some encouragement from you would be welcome.”
“And if I do this?”
“I’ll have no memory of any activities you entered into with my father, forget any conversations. Walk away. Won’t even remember what you look like if I pass you on the street.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll find someone who will.”
A long pause follows deep inhalations on the other end of the line.
“By what means?”
“I’m not my father, so I’d prefer disbarment to dismemberment. I want out of this. Assume you do too.” With that I hang up, because this isn’t a social call. Besides, I’ll know soon enough which way it goes.
To the viewer on the street, a priest’s work is lather, rinse, repeat. For the most part, that’s true. Funerals are the glitches like Sundays are the constants.
I layer the robes and don my most somber, yet comforting, face. This mask is one I know well. Today’s funeral brings the number of times Enzo Calabrese has been front and center at a funeral mass to five in the last four months. I’d swear it’s a body count, but can’t prove it.
Despite my hatred for Calabrese, his wife, Zera, has been nothing but kind. Her father, a young sixtysomething had no history of heart disease, high cholesterol, or any other diagnosed condition. The massive stroke took everyone by surprise.
As I leave the cemetery, I shake Zera’s hand and tell her I’m here if she needs me. The swift shift in Enzo’s countenance belies his stoic façade. He does not like my offer. I don’t like him either, so I decline her invitation to come back to their house for a reception. Enzo noticeably exhales as I do. I’m glad I unsettle him.
That night I get two calls. The first from Staunchley telling me everything is done—all the I’s are dotted; all the T’s are crossed. Email confirmation shows me what I will have in my hands tomorrow from overnight mail.
I am free of my father in every way.
The second call is from Bobby. The property in Knockferry is safe. It’s in my legal name and Uncle Killian, weird to even think that, is safe from my father’s evil machinations.
Eleven
The next morning on my run, I pass Petites Fleurs. Granted, I had to add that damned seventh mile to make it part of the route, but my curiosity gets the best of me and I loop it into the mileage. Five in the morning means street traffic is light and pedestrian traffic even lighter. It means coffee and pastry shops should be readying to open, but Sirona’s looks dark. The back alley has activity that’s peculiar enough for me to take a closer look.
Running by, I see a white box truck with no markings and two burly men closing its roll-up door. Whether delivering or picking up I can’t tell, and I don’t make my int
erest known. The driver is sloppy and slobby and I hope he washes his hands if this was any kind of food delivery. How do you sweat that profusely when you’re just standing there?
The passenger on the other hand is big and I don’t mean fat. His neck is thicker than my quad, his chest like a barrel, and his black eyes are shifty. If I can tell that while I run, I’m definitely curious about what food or laundry service keeps him as delivery man. He’s better suited for security.
Three miles home would normally give me time to think but I’m so done with it today already. AirPods adjust to Marshall Mathers and I let Eminem’s anger drive me home.
The day includes confessions. This isn’t something I mind. The sacrament itself is beautiful and holy. To give your burden to another, to ask to be absolved of wrongdoing and be relieved of the guilt. It is my favorite, both as a man and as a priest.
Zera Calabrese is back. She is still lying to her husband. She hasn’t told him that she is making sure she doesn’t get pregnant. She cries when she gets a negative test result but only when he’s looking. She’s a hell of an actress. She’s shrewd. But her husband is more so and he is also heinous, so I hope she is playing this smart. Because, if she’s not, it’ll be her funeral I do next.
Henry comes back too. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since he told me he couldn’t take any more with his dad. That must’ve been three months ago.
“How’re you doing, Henry?”
He pauses. The break is almost too long, but I don’t crowd him with my words.
When he finally speaks, it comes out in a rush, “Sucks, man. I hated him. Hated him. Know I wasn’t supposed to, but still. I wanted him dead and now he is. My fault. I just know it.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait up, now. Don’t say that! I want the Celtics to win a championship but you wanting it to be so doesn’t make it happen.”
“Dude, don’t joke. It was my dad. He was an asshole, but I didn’t want him dead… Well, maybe I did.” He huffs a huge sigh. “No, I did. But now there’s shit to deal with that I didn’t expect and Ma… She’s struggling to pay the bills and some guy offered me a job, but I have to drop out of school.”
“Henry, don’t. Don’t sacrifice your future like that for—”
“For what? My family? To put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads? What else is worth sacrificing for?”
“But, Henry—”
He cuts me off again, the words tumbling out of him. “Don’t, man. Need you to understand. He’s beating me from beyond the grave, and I’m still getting fucked.”
The door slams open and smacks shut and I fall into self-loathing. Hank Tremaine was a fuckwad and didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as his son. I’m glad he’s dead, but now I’ve got to figure out how to save Henry from the fallout I caused.
All I’ve done is created a mess and made myself into a son Patrick would be proud of, all in one fell swoop.
I’ve spent years plotting to get out of my father’s empire, avoid his sins. Finding a way to not just not be like him, but dismantle him and smile doing it. And all I’ve done is become a version he might’ve celebrated—ending people, ruining the survivors, destroying families.
Self-loathing doesn’t begin to come close. How have I let this happen? I feel the revulsion swirling like vomit in my gut and…
“Forgive me, Father.”
That voice is music to my ears. Sirona! And then the sobs begin.
“Shhh, Sirona. Tell me what’s going on?”
“I-I didn’t know. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Didn’t know what, sweetheart? Can I help you?”
“Can’t fix it. I’m stuck.”
“What can’t you fix?”
“I can’t tell you.” Her soft cries rip at my heart.
“Talk to me, please. Let me help.”
“I w-won’t bring you into my this. Can’t bring you into my mess. You wouldn’t understand. ”
“There’s got to be something I can do, some way I can help.”
“Sorry. I’m just sorry.”
The slap of the door reminds me where I am. And for the second time today, I’ve been left unable to help. Unable to absolve. Just sitting on my hands when two people need help and I’m powerless to do anything. Impotent.
“Forgive me, Father.”
I’m rarely caught off guard but this confession does. For one, I didn’t know anyone was in here with me. For two, I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here. For three, this is a priest in the diocese at a small church to the west.
“Yes?”
“Sean, I need help. I need forgiveness. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need to unburden my soul.” His rich baritone voice starts and I can almost hear the homilies in his voice. But when his words continue, the timbre of his voice is the last thing on my mind. “I … I’m one of them… one they’re investigating… one that did it. I did it. God, I hate myself and I hate that I would do such a thing. I… I… They never tell you about how lonely this life is. They don’t explain how loud your brain is when your house is that quiet. They don’t tell you that forever is so damn long when you’re by yourself. Or that it starts to seem normal. Your hand, then the pictures and videos, and then… them. I—”
This time it’s me who cuts him off. “Terry, tell me you didn’t.” My stomach roils and anger crawls up my throat until I’m choking on it.
“Oh, Sean, I didn’t mean to and I hate myself for it. And I don’t know what to do or how to stop.”
“How to stop?” I pause only so I don’t scream inside these walls. “You mean you’re still doing it? I thought you were here because you were repenting and wanted forgiveness? Wanted to be free?”
“Oh, God, how I want to be free.”
That’s the last thing I hear. I’m sure we continue our back-and-forth but I’m on autopilot. By the time the door closes, I’m out of the booth, not seeing if anybody else was even in line.
I skip going back to the office. Henry and Sirona were enough—too much actually. Now Terry. Fucking Terry!
I wish I boxed. I wish I could do something to get this frenzied, vibrating energy out of me. A run won’t cut it. If I’m alone with my thoughts any longer, I’ll go mad. I get home and change into street clothes… anything to not look like that prick who deserves to rot in hell.
As I head to my Benz, I grab my phone and call Bobby. I need him to get with Killian on a few things and I need to see where the South Carolina house stands.
I drive the streets for way longer than needed. Metallica and a little speeding on the interstate and I’ve calmed myself. The rage simmers and I return from Baton Rouge where I’d driven just to keep moving.
I cruise through the alley and around the block before parking out front of Petites Fleurs. It’s nearing closing time when I walk in. The clinking bells announce my arrival.
Clara bounds up from the back, only to stop yet again, frozen by my presence in the shop. “Miss Clara Bell, what do you have on special today? How are the petits fours?”
“Dee-licious,” she singsongs as she skips toward the glass case.
She grabs my shirt and tugs, giggling, all while trying to drag me to the case. Now I’m frozen in my tracks and rendered mute.
When she finally succeeds in budging me from my spot, one little hand smacks the glass down low. “No more pink petty-floors today, but we have pink cupcakes. Want one?” she begins and drops my hand, making her way around the corner.
“Clara, where’s your mom, love? Think she can help us?”
Just as quickly, she tears toward the back screaming, “Momm-my!”
A harried Sirona rushes out and, like last time, stops dead in her tracks.
“You’ve got to stop that,” I say, gesturing to her almost tipping over from being rooted in place.
“What?”
“Freaking out every time you see me here.”
“I’m not…” but she trails off and averts her eyes.
> “You are and I’m asking you not to. Just Sean, remember?”
“You’re dressed... differently.”
“Rough day. Went out for a drive. Didn’t want to feel confined.”
“Ah.”
“Clara tells me you have pink cupcakes today.”
She comes unglued and goes all businesswoman on me. Remembering where we are and assuming why I’m here. “We do.”
“Do you still have coffee?”
“Just the dregs but I can make some more.”
“No, don’t.” I turn. “Clara, are the pink ones your favorites?”
“Yup.”
“If I cut it in half, will you share it with me?” I glance at her mother expectantly, but not apologetically.
“Yes!” she squeals.
“Okay, it’s settled then. One pink cupcake, please.”
While Sirona and Clara run around getting things together, I grab a seat at the indoor table, my back to the windows. While I normally hate being that vulnerable and at the mercy of whomever can best me, tonight I feel exposed and I’m not interested in curious eyes that might look through bakery windows.
As Clara and I sit and munch on our cherry cordial cupcake—leave it to her mom to skip the strawberry-strawberry combination—Sirona moves around behind the counter doing close of business duties, emptying the cases, wiping down counters, and the like.
Finally, she asks, “Why was today rough?”
“Can’t say. Wish I could, but I can’t. Let’s just say it’s hard to not to be able to help when people are hurting.” She can take that as she wants, assume it’s about her or not, but her confession today is just one more thing I’ll let my mind spin on after I get home.
“Are you a doctor? They help people who hurt themselves,” Clara pipes in. From the corner of my eye, Sirona goes immobile.
“No, sweetheart. I am not a doctor.” Switching the subject, I ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
And that is that. The melody of her little voice and the enthusiasm in her words fill the empty space. By the time I leave, with a half dozen end-of-day cookies in tow, I feel lighter than I have in a while. I drive away, but only after the lights switch off and the Honda Accord rounds the building heading away from uptown.