The Unforgiven

by Alan E. Rose

  Father Scott put the magnifying glass back on the table. “Help you? How?” He was no longer meeting Peter’s eyes.

  “I think I may have been sexually molested at the camp. By you.”

  He turned back to Peter. “No.”

  “Look, I’m really not here to cause you distress. I’m not interested in pressing charges. The statute of limitations has long since expired anyway. And I don’t need the money. I just need to know.”

  The priest was again avoiding his eyes, wheezing heavily.

  “Father, I can remember the way you looked at me in the showers. Or when we boys were swimming naked. I didn’t understand that look at the time, or why I felt uncomfortable, but I do now.”

  He spoke with a slack jaw. “Let it go, Peter. Let it go.” He had the look of the hunted in his eyes. If Peter had any doubts before, they were removed now.

  “Forgive me for saying this, Father, but you look guilty.”

  His eyes met Peter’s. “Who lives without guilt?”

  “What happened that summer? What happened to me?”

  “The past is past. Forget it and move on with your life.”

  “I can’t. I think part of my soul is still stuck in the past, and only you can help me reclaim it.”

  “No,” said Father Scott forcefully, and then he began coughing again, deep, wracking coughs, shaking his frail frame.

  Peter reached for the glass of water, but the priest was coughing too much to be able to drink. A sister entered the courtyard and hurried to them. She leaned Father Scott forward as he struggled for breath, patting him on the back. The mother superior soon followed as he was recovering. “I’m sorry. I think Father is exhausted.”

  “Yes, of course.” Peter turned back to him. “I’m sorry to have tired you, Father.” He picked up the photo, folding it away, and rose to leave as the sister helped the old man take a drink of water. Now recovered, the priest looked back up at him, his eyes searching, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

  Peter thought he understood. “Perhaps I could call again sometime?”

  Father Scott nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’m sure Father would enjoy your visits,” said the mother superior.

  Peter began to leave and then stopped. “If I may, Father. One question that’s always been on my mind: What was the real story about the old cabin?”

  “Cabin?” the priest asked. “What cabin?”

  “The cabin on the perimeter of the camp. The one that was never used and was off limits to all of us. It was said to be haunted. What was the real story?”

  “It had no lights.”

  “Lights?”

  “Electricity,” he wheezed. “It was the only original cabin still standing. When the new cabins were built in the fifties”—he paused to catch his breath—“the old cabins were torn down. Except one that was left for storage.”

  “But the stories—of the boy who had died in it, about his ghost, all that.”

  He saw the slightest smile appear on Father Scott’s face. “Stories. Stories,” he whispered. “Boys love stories.”

  “I’d always thought that something terrible had happened in that cabin.”

  The smile faded on the priest’s face and he once again looked away.

  “Good-bye, Father.” He left him sitting in his wheelchair in the sun. Like his mother, thirty years before, Peter had the sense that Father Scott knew much more than he was telling.

  The mother superior walked him back out to the entrance. “I’m sure Father was pleased to see you after all these years.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said in a distracted way. He stopped at the lych-gate. “Here’s my business card, with my home telephone number, too. If there is anything I can do, or if he ever wants to talk with me again, I would appreciate it if you would give me a call.”

  “Certainly. That’s very kind of you.”

  As he went through the gate to his car, Peter could hear Father Scott again coughing from the courtyard.

  *

  That Saturday, he drove out to the coast. Billy lived in a small logging community about ten miles south of Aberdeen. Peter had decided not to call ahead first. He didn’t want to give Billy a chance to refuse to meet him. And he didn’t really know how he would explain on the phone why he wanted to speak to this man.

  It was early afternoon when he arrived in the town. Clearly a community in decline, it was one of those places that had died years before, after the salmon had been fished out and the timber cut down; the municipal equivalent of Miss Havisham, dressed in her rotting bridal gown, like it hadn’t gotten the idea that there was never going to be a wedding. Half of the storefronts were boarded up. There was a small diner—Rosie’s Café—for which “greasy spoon” would have been a compliment. The elementary school was ancient, derelict and run down, its grounds long neglected. From the appearance of things, only the churches and taverns seemed to be prospering.

  Driving down Main Street in his sporty BMW with the top down, Peter felt conspicuously and insensitively wealthy, and entertained the thought that he should have gotten a rental, a more down scale model, for the trip. It was telling that there were no franchises here—no McDonalds, no Taco Bells, or Walmarts or Pizza Huts. No Safeways or QFCs or Costcos or Lowes. It had the feel of a ghost town, and the people in it, spirit remnants of a community that once had been here.

  He received directions when getting gas, and a little after two o’clock, pulled up to a bungalow on the outskirts of town. Once white, it was badly in need of a paint job. There was an engine torn apart in the carport, with pieces strewn about. The yard was overgrown, the lawn scruffy. A truck was parked in the driveway, behind a beat-up sedan, and a man in a baseball cap and two boys wearing Little League uniforms were getting out of it as Peter pulled up. He couldn’t believe that this was his friend from thirty years ago. If so, time had not served Billy well. Although six months younger than Peter, he looked six years older. His face was creased and weather-stained, and he carried a large beer gut spilling over his belt, making him look like he was in his third trimester. But the two boys, probably around ten or twelve, resembled Billy as a kid—skinny little black-haired moppets.

  The man looked at Peter and came toward him as the boys disappeared into the house. He walked with a slight limp—that was about all that Peter could connect to the friend from his youth.

  “Nice beamer,” he said, looking over Peter’s BMW.

  “Thanks. Bill Dawson?”

  “Yeah?” He looked like he expected Peter to be selling something.

  “I’m Peter Braddock.”

  They shook hands, but he could see it wasn’t registering with him.

  “You probably won’t remember me. We knew each other when we were kids.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t remember you. Sorry.”

  “No, I really didn’t expect you to. It was over thirty years ago, and we only knew each other for a couple of weeks at church camp.”

  “Thirty years? Jeez, that is a long time ago.”

  “Here, I’ve got a photo of that camp.” He removed it from his shirt pocket and unfolded it.

  When spotting himself, Bill Dawson broke into a toothy grin. “Jeez, look at that, will ya?”

  “And that’s me.” He pointed.

  Dawson’s eyes widened. Now it was registering.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. I remember now.” Peter sensed a sudden wariness in him.

  “We were good friends for that time, I think.”

  “Sure. Good friends.” He handed the photo back. “What can I do for you?” he asked. Yes, he was definitely on guard.

  “I was hoping I could talk with you. It will only take a few minutes.”

  He studied Peter, then said, “I guess that would be okay. C’mon in.”

  As they walked toward the house, the two kids came bursting out the door, shouting and flying past them.

  “Your boys?” said Peter.

  “Youngest two.
I got five. You got any kids?”

  “No.”

  Dawson opened the screen door. “They’re in Little League. I coach their team.”

  The two of them went into the kitchen. There was a crucifix hanging on the otherwise barren walls.

  “Wanna beer?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “I think the wife’s got some strawberry spritzer if you’d like.”

  “No. Thanks, really. I don’t drink.”

  “Have a seat.”

  He took off his soiled baseball cap and tossed it onto the kitchen table—he was balding, his head a sweaty, matted fringe of hair—then got himself a beer from the fridge, popping the can and drinking as he came back to where Peter was sitting.

  They sat, looking at each other. Peter was still trying to see the slight, winsome friend with the mischievous grin in this man.

  “I saw Father Scott this week.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’s he doing?”

  “Not so good, actually. He’s dying of congestive heart failure.”

  “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good guy. I liked the father.” He took another swig.

  “Yeah. Good guy.”

  Dawson eyed him. “Looks like you’ve done okay for yourself. Nice beamer,” he repeated.

  Peter nodded. “Okay, I guess. I realize this is a little strange, to suddenly drop in after all these years. I’ve come here because I need your help.”

  The hirsute eyebrows arched in surprise. “You don’t look like you need no money from me.”

  “No. Actually, I came to ask for some information. That’s why I was looking up Father Scott.”

  “What kind of information?” he asked, and then took another drink. He sat in the kitchen chair, his stomach stretching his shirt and straining the buttons, with his belly poking through. Was this really the skinny, elfin kid who had introduced Peter to sex?

  “This is kind of awkward to talk about.”

  Dawson stared at him. He set his Budweiser on the table.

  “Did something happen to us at that camp?”

  “Happen? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Something sexual? I mean, I remember you grabbing me one day while we were swimming, and I think there were some other times as well.”

  “Jeez, you turn out a fucking queer?”

  “No. I’m not,” Peter said hurriedly. “Really, I’m not. I’m married.” Three times, he thought. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but it’s important.”

  Dawson got up and closed the door to the kitchen. He sat back down, looking very uncomfortable, and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper.

  “It was just kid stuff. Fooling around, okay?”

  “We were friends, right?”

  “Yeah, sure, we were friends. Good friends. We did, you know, boy things.”

  “Sure, but...did you do anything else to me—or maybe you and Father Scott?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he looked like he did.

  “This is difficult, and I’m sorry. But it is important.”

  Dawson was becoming increasingly uneasy and defensive. “Look, it was no big deal. Okay?”

  “What?”

  “All of it. It didn’t mean anything,” he said with a look of distaste, and he picked up his beer. “Let’s just drop it.”

  “No. I have to know.”

  “It happened a long time ago, okay? So forget it.”

  “I need to know. I’ll pay you.”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “It was something sexual, wasn’t it?”

  He set down his can. “I think you better go, mister.” His voice was rising.

  “It’s just, I think you did something to me—you and Father Scott.” Dawson looked at Peter with a mix of embarrassment and disgust. “Look, I’m not going to press charges. I just need to know.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” There was an edge to his voice. One step away from anger. “It’s in the past. It’s over. Okay?”

  Peter sat back in his chair, suddenly calm. He could see that this was as much information as he was going to get from this man. “Yeah, but the past has a funny way of bleeding into the present.”

  Dawson’s sweaty brow creased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m trying to face the past, and maybe you need to as well.”

  “I don’t see what happened back then has anything to do with now.”

  “I guess I’m thinking that maybe you shouldn’t be around young boys.”

  His eyes flared. “Get the hell out of my house!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to—”

  He jumped to his feet. “Now!” he shouted. “You got some fucking nerve coming here, talking this shit.”

  His wife appeared at the door to the kitchen. She was short and round, dressed in jeans and a stained sweatshirt. “Honey?”

  He looked at her, embarrassed, then back to Peter, pointing at him. “This man is leaving!” And he clomped out of the kitchen, brushing past his wife.

  Peter stood. “I’m sorry for all this. I’ll go now.”

  She looked perplexed as he left the house.

  On the drive back to Seattle, he was so upset, he had to pull over and walk along a stream, trying to calm himself before he could continue.

  *

  Peter returned to the office on Monday and attempted to lose himself in his work. He was now resigned to the fact that he would never know this part of his past. Neither Father Scott nor Bill Dawson was going to confess what had happened, and there was no way he could force them. He met with Lucia on Tuesday. As she had said, he didn’t have to know the details to do the work that was needed.

  It was near the end of the week that he received a call from the mother superior. Father Buchanan had gone to meet his Heavenly Father, and she wanted Peter to know that the priest had left a letter for him.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to hear of Father Buchanan’s passing.” Why do we express condolences on hearing of someone going to heaven, he wondered. Is it that we don’t really believe there is a heaven? “I would appreciate it if you could send me the letter.”

  “Father requested that I deliver it to you in person. I would be happy to travel down to Seattle next week sometime, at your convenience, of course.”

  “No, that’s very kind of you, but I can drive up and get it. Would tomorrow morning be all right?”

  The next day he arrived shortly before ten. He entered the gates and was again shown into the mother superior’s office and served tea.

  “For the two days following your visit last week, Father was very depressed. He spent long hours in prayer. I could tell that something was weighing on him. On the third day, he unburdened himself of his concerns, telling me about your visit and why it had upset him so. He told me about that summer camp. He was never able to forgive himself.”

  “I’m sorry. I sincerely did not intend to upset Father Buchanan, or make his final days miserable. I just wanted to know what happened.”

  “Yes. And it was his last wish and task on this earth that you should.”

  “How did he come to change his mind?”

  “I think he realized that for someone to be forgiven, his actions must be remembered and faced. You cannot forgive that which you cannot remember.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “As he lay dying, he told me...everything, and he asked that I convey it all to you. He was too weak to write the letter himself, so I transcribed his words. We worked on it over two days, writing for an hour or so, until he was too weak and needed to rest. It was important to him that he finish this before he died. He made me promise that I would deliver the letter to you in person. He did not want you to read it alone. That’s why I could not just mail it. I would like to share it with you now, if I may.”

  “Please,” he said, holding his cup and saucer.

  She put on her reading glasses and unfolded the handwritten pages.
>
  “‘Dear Peter,

  “‘I have ill-served you, and must correct what I can in the time remaining to me. I now believe that you honestly don’t remember what happened that night. I once thought the forgetfulness that trauma can bring was a blessing. But I was wrong. I now realize that what is forgotten cannot be healed.

  “‘No, Peter, I did not molest you. You or any other boy. I admit here, as I have in confession over the years, that I labored under the temptation and the desire all my life. But I can go to our Heavenly Father, confident in knowing that I never touched man or boy with lust in my heart.’”

  Peter was perplexed. I did not molest you? He sat forward. “But…I don’t understand.”

  The mother superior continued reading. “‘The guilt you saw was for a different reason, one for which I have not forgiven myself. I failed you once. I pray that I do not fail you a second time.

  “‘At first, I didn’t believe you—that you couldn’t recall what happened in the cabin that night. It was only after you had left that I realized the truth of it, that you honestly did not remember. And then I had to search my soul for whether I should tell you. Was it better that it remain buried there in your subconscious, or that you once again face the horror of that night? I prayed over it for several days. Even now, I am not certain whether it is best for me to write this letter. But since you seem sincerely intent on remembering what did occur, I must assume that there is some part of your soul that is seeking the truth so that it might be healed. I could not go to my grave, knowing that I had in some way hindered such healing. So I will tell you of that night. The truth is, once long ago, a boy did die in that cabin, Peter. You were that boy.”‘

  Peter had become feverish and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing his brow with the uneasy sense of one who has swum out too far and knows it’s too late to turn back.

  “‘It was near the end of camp, when the boys were planning their talent show for the last night. I had been making the rounds after all the campers were to have been in their beds. It appears that the older boys had somehow brought alcohol into the camp and had been drinking.’”