“I’m sorry to have rattled you, Tiar,” he said sincerely. He wanted to reassure her, to put her back in the neat box she had been in when he sat down. Why did I have to ask? “You are okay. You are right. You are not going back there. So, it doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.” Pat watched as Renee did two cycles of a breathing meditation Dr. Colton had taught her. When finished, she smiled at him, almost back to the calm baseline he had witnessed earlier. She nodded.
“I am safe now,” she agreed. “I really am.” Pat looked down at his beeper which vibrated on his belt. Renee already knew he had to go and was almost grateful. “Go… it’s fine.” He got up, smiled at her reassuringly, and was off.
51
Max carefully folded the purificators and put them in the closet in the back of St. Rocco’s chapel with the other alter linens. He looked around the sacristy and made sure he had put everything away. Flicking off the lights, he walked back across the alter into the main part of the church. The church, which had been packed for Christmas Vigil Mass, was now empty except for Father Armemen, Max’s spiritual advising mentor, who was sitting in the second pew. Max walked around the small chapel picking up bulletins, mittens, crayons, and teething crackers left behind by the parishioners, avoiding making eye contact with his advisor.
“Decided not to go home for Christmas after all, Mr. Franklin?” he asked. Max put the items he collected in a pile on the first pew.
“It’s a long drive,” Max answered plainly.
“Surely it would be nice to go home to celebrate the holidays?” Max gave the middle aged priest an eerie sideways glance.
“Celebrate? What is there to celebrate?” he asked, as though genuinely not knowing the answer.
“The birth of our Lord.”
“Jesus was probably born in March or April,” Max stated evenly. “So, I figured I’d just stay here this year.” Father Armemen motioned for Max to sit down and the student reluctantly obliged him.
“I always forget you started out as a history major,” the middle aged priest commented. Is this kid human? he wondered to himself. Everyone else at the seminary without exception was impressed with his young charge. But, to Father Armemen, it seemed like this boy’s soul had vacated, and his body was now inhabited by an unfeeling robot. He put his hand on his pupil’s shoulder. “You know, sometimes tradition can help us see Truth more clearly than actual fact.”
“Of course, sir,” Max said without emotion.
“Don’t you think your parents will be upset that you didn’t come home?” Father Armemen asked curiously.
“My parents will barely even speak to me anymore,” Max admitted, looking down at his feet.
“Why do you think that is?”
“If I knew, don’t you think I would do anything in my power to fix it?” Max said pointedly.
“Surely you have some idea,” the priest insisted.
“With all due respect, Father, you’re the one with a degree in psychology,” Max said, trying to sound polite. “Maybe you can help me figure it out.” Father Armemen interlaced his fingers and cupped them around one knee.
“I imagine they want you at home more than you think,” the priest postulated. “The question is, why do you think they shouldn’t want you home?”
“I suppose they’re ashamed of me,” Max speculated.
“Ashamed of you?” the priest asked incredulously. “Max, you’re the poster child of this seminary. They couldn’t possibly hope your grades would be better.”
“I haven’t told them my grades since I was a sophomore in college,” Max informed his advisor.
“I’m sure they assume you’re doing incredibly well,” the priest went on.
“I suppose.”
“You suppose,” the older priest said, trying to affect a chuckle in his voice to lighten the mood. “Come on. I thought every Catholic mother wanted one of her sons to become a priest.”
“’One of,’” Max pointed out in a level voice. “Is very different than, ‘her only son.’”
“I suppose it is, Max,” the priest considered. “You think your parents were counting on you to carry on the family name, fulfill your traditional duties as the oldest son?”
“It’s possible,” Max speculated. “I don’t think this is what they had in mind for me.”
“You think they expected you to be a police officer like your father?”
“No,” Max said remorsefully. “I think they expected me to be a history professor like my mother.”
“I thought your mother was a medical transcriptionist,” Father Armemen recalled.
“She is,” Max clarified. “She was a college history professor. She has a Ph.D. Her thesis was about the ancient city of Babylon. She gave it all up when she had me. She said she wanted a job she could do from home.” Father Armemen detected regret in Max’s voice; it almost seemed as though he were speaking of his own dream that had been set aside. There must be more to it than that, though, he thought to himself.
“And you think she’s disappointed you didn’t live her dream for her?” Max shrugged. His mother was too strong a person to have to live vicariously through others to feel a sense of worth. But, he got the distinct sense she was furious at him for something since he switched academic tracks and found him harder and harder to tolerate with every passing year.
“So, you don’t really miss your parents,” Father Armemen concluded. “But, this is also the big Y2K new year. Certainly, you have friends at home you want to celebrate with?”
“I guess.”
“What are your friends at home like?” he asked.
“They’re good guys for the most part,” Max said non-committal. “Just ordinary guys.”
“Well, what would you be doing with them right now if you went home?”
“Same thing I do with my friends here. Drink beer, play darts, and talk about basketball. Except, since I am usually in Hectortown in the summer now, I drink beer, play darts, and talk about baseball.”
“A decent enough pastime,” Father Armemen agreed. Max grumbled an incoherent response. “Well, you might as well get used to it, because you’re going back.” Max looked up, startled. Father Armemen thought this would get his full attention.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Parish internship assignments have been decided. Everyone else will find out theirs when they get back. But, I might as well tell you now, you’re going back to St. Jude’s.” Max’s mouth literally fell open, the first sign Father Armemen could detect betraying him to have any human emotion.
“I’m going back to St. Jude’s?” he protested. “How is that even possible? I was sponsored for the seminary by this diocese. I can’t leave central Ohio. How could that be unless I was excar….”
“Excardinated,” Father Armemen finished. “Yes. And you were incardinated back to your old diocese. Some… circumstances have come up that changed that plan.” Father Armemen’s vague answer omitted a story that had begun at least a year earlier when the seminary staff began debating amongst themselves what to do about their star pupil who, despite his unparalleled academic success, appeared to be dying in front of them. They decided, after deliberation, to assign Father Armemen, a former clinical psychologist, to be his spiritual advisor to figure out why the young man appeared to be starving himself and to fix the problem. But Max was a harder nut to crack then anyone had expected. After four months, there was no progress. The board agreed Max didn’t seem like the type of person who would be amenable to seeing a psychiatrist formally. They could have dropped him from the program but had no grounds and no proof of a psychological problem other than his weight. In the end, they hoped returning to his family would give him better support. It had taken extraordinary convincing, not only to their own bishop, but the bishop for Hectortown, that the “trade” should be allowed. The clandestine meetings and secret deals were something the middle-aged priest had never seen before and hoped he would never have occasion to see again. They weren’t cou
nting on Max being estranged from his parents, who they had been assuming would intervene on their son’s behalf.
But Max didn’t know any of his. All he did know was that he had changed his diocese his senior year in college for the express purpose of applying to St. Andrews and being incardinated two states away from his family. By every reasonable measure, he had ensured that he would never accidentally encounter their former foster child, their charity project, his Achilles heel, his kryptonite. As he sat in the chapel absorbing the news, he felt the muscles in the back of his neck tensing with rage. He was indignant but controlled his outward appearance.
“But, I thought…. But… how?” Max objected, for once, his prodigious mind stumped.
“It turns out there was a priest in New York who was looking to move out here to be near his aging parents. We had to send someone, and it seemed most fair to send you, since you are from there. Father Neman was delighted at the news that he would have you back.” Max shook his head. The name of his former pastor made the news seem suddenly real and inevitable—like something he could not possibly fight.
“It’s just one of those things,” Father Armemen said lightly. “My advice, just be thankful for how lucky you are and don’t give it a second thought.” Max had nothing to say. He wouldn’t describe the news as “lucky.” Father Armemen stood up. “Come have dinner with me,” he said casually.
“Thank you, sir, but I’m not hungry,” Max said. Father Armemen put his hand once more on Max’s shoulder. Max had foiled his clinical acumen for six months, but he wasn’t going to give up so easily before turning Max back over to his parents to feed. I’ll get this kid to eat if I have to put a gun to his head, he thought.
“Son, it’s Christmas eve. And I wasn’t asking.”
52
The sky was blueberry milkshake, beautiful light blue with streaks of whipped cream white. The bell jingled on the front door of Original Ray’s Coffee, heralding the entrance of a customer and a pulse of fresh May air.
“Pat?” Renee said excitedly. The young doctor awakened from a deep concentration, recognizing the voice. Pat’s face lit up. After their brief discussion in the park outside his office the previous fall, he hoped her absence from the clinic was because she no longer needed therapy and was, in fact, okay. He admitted to himself with some embarrassment that he did check the hospital’s computerized admission logs every few months… just in case.
“Tiar?” he said, dropping his briefcase and white coat at an empty table and walking up to the counter. “I didn’t know you were working here.”
“Yeah. You didn’t think I worked for just any coffee house, did you?” she asked sarcastically. There were a dozen coffee houses in town, and there was no reason for Pat to know which Renee worked for. “I can only work for the best coffee house. Apparently, I have a rare skill.”
“What’s that?” Pat asked with interest.
“No one else can make quite such perfect cones out of whipped cream,” she said.
“It is a lost art,” Pat played along. “Just imagine the tragedy for hot chocolate drinkers everywhere if anything were to happen to those hands.”
“What would you like, Doctor?” Renee asked, laughing.
“For you to call me Pat, Tiar. And a cappuccino.” Renee got a clean cup and started working on his drink. A few minutes of screeching and clanking later, she handed him a steaming cup of foam.
“You may be crazy, Tiar. But you make a great cup of coffee,” he said flippantly. “I’ve been wasting my time across the street for years.”
“If I had known this was how to get your attention, I would have blown up the place years ago,” Renee joked. The chain coffee shop across from Ray’s had been burned and looted in a flash riot months earlier and was still under repair.
“That was you?” Pat asked with feigned horror.
“Who else?”
“Did the police ever figure out a motive?” Pat asked seriously.
“Eh, they said it had something to do with anti-globalization or the world bank or something,” Renee said with a sigh. “I don’t get teenagers. They’re even more confusing than the big ‘what if?’” Pat put down his cup. Renee sat down in front of him, for the first time, not smiling. He didn’t want to push her, but she had spontaneously brought the topic up. What will you do if you see him again? He stared at her silently to see if she would continue.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently. Renee looked around the empty coffee shop, gauging how much time and privacy she had to speak.
“Nah,” she said. “I don’t want to impose on you.” She started to slide back her chair to stand up when Pat put his hand on hers.
“You’re not imposing,” he assured her. She sat back down. She took a deep breath.
“It’s just…. This year went by and it was fine,” she began. “I mean, I was really fine. For a whole year. I can’t really remember that happening before. I don’t want to upset the apple cart. I want to just be okay. I think I could. I think I could just go on for the next four years and go to school and I would stay fine.”
“But?” Pat asked pointedly.
“But, I am graduating this year. And no one will be there to notice. I keep thinking, shouldn’t I call home and tell someone? Should I? Wouldn’t Jack and El be glad I graduated? They aren’t really my parents. But still, they invested so much time in me. Wouldn’t they be glad to know it was not for nothing? Shouldn’t I say thank you? Not just to them, but to my teachers? To my friends?” Pat nodded. Renee looked away again, staring at the door, hoping no customer would chose this moment to need caffeine. “And I tell myself that these people have moved on and probably don’t need to be reminded I used to be there. I tell myself that I brought shame to them…. And have forgiven myself! But brought shame to them none-the-less and I should stay away just to spare them thinking about it.”
“But?” Pat asked again. Renee looked him solidly in the eye.
“But, am I really just a chicken who doesn’t want to see my ex-boyfriend who broke my heart and drove me to three admissions on the psych ward? Am I strong enough to see him now, and that not happen? What if I saw him again? Would I stay okay?” Pat knew this was the last stuck point for Renee, the last vulnerability, the last big challenge to her mental health. He was glad Renee had finally verbalized it herself. She resisted his attempts to ask, leading to their private shorthand.
“If there is one thing you are not,” Pat said with certainty. “It is a chicken. But, it would also be foolish not to acknowledge this is a vulnerability you should prepare for. Someday, you may go back…”
“I won’t go back.”
“You might go back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” Renee said stridently. “I don’t want to. I don’t need to.” Pat paused a moment to let her back away from her rapid-fire defense mode.
“Didn’t you just…”
“I know,” she admitted, dropping her head into her hands. “I know. I don’t know if I want to. But, realistically, I won’t. It is a long drive. I could just work… save up money for next year. What am I going to do there? Not work, get a hotel, waste all that gas. Economically, it doesn’t make sense.” They sat in silence for a moment. Pat looked down at his pager and then into his empty coffee cup.
“How much do I owe you for the coffee,” he asked, pragmatically.
“On the house,” Renee said, casually. Pat began to shake his head in protest. “As barter then… for listening to me. It helps me. It really does.” Renee stood up and took the empty cup and saucer. “I’m okay. I really am. I don’t want you to worry about me. But, I just needed someone to listen to me.” Pat looked at her, concern obvious on his face.
“Are you going to be okay after graduation?” he asked. “Do you want some company?” Renee thought about it. She didn’t want to admit she cared that no one would be there for her. She suspected, however, that she would care. She increased her hours at work that day to force herself to
rush back after the ceremony and not linger among the crowds of families, embracing in celebration.
“I’ll be here,” she said simply. “So, if you want to check up on me…” Pat nodded, looked down at his pager again, and slipped out.
53
Officer Jack Franklin walked slowly up the stairs, his service revolver drawn. He had passed this house a hundred times before and always been curious what it looked like on the inside. He was surprised to find there was almost no furniture in the whole house. The first floor was nearly empty except for a kitchen table and chairs. But, he was not here to critique the interior decorating. He had been summoned to the scene by a call to 911 reporting gunfire. There were no neighborhoods in Hectortown where gunfire was a regular occurrence. If there were, this house would not have been in one of them. Every squad car on duty was racing toward the house and Jack, who had been at the Freezy King behind St. Jude’s elementary school getting a cup of coffee, had gotten to the house within minutes.
Jack reached the top of the stairs and turned left into the master bedroom where he heard his two subordinates talking. He was immediately amazed by the amount of blood that was splattered across the walls and floor. He was the third policeman on the scene, and the most senior officer present. The two officers junior to him had already surveyed the area to insure there were no other victims, perpetrators, or witnesses in the house. What they had found so far were the victim, shot in the head at close range with a large caliber hand gun, and the presumed assailant, who appeared to have been knocked unconscious by a blunt object, the presumed murder weapon in his hand. The officers ensured that the victim was in fact dead, that the assailant was in fact alive, hand cuffed the later, and called for an ambulance and back up. A crime scene unit was dispatched. There were women’s clothing strewn on the floor and no females on the premises, leading them to suspect that whomever had knocked the assailant unconscious had fled and was presently roaming the streets scantily clad. Jack put his weapon back in its holster and put out an all points bulletin for any suspicious women wearing only bathrobes, sheets, or other states of undress in the local area.
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