Father Sweet

by J. J. Martin

  “You say you’re doing this for Antonio,” she said to me, without looking up from her phone, “but you really are doing this for yourself. You must realize.”

  “I’ve been hearing people say that a lot. I don’t like it.”

  “Why not? It’s okay for you to be selfish in this case. You’ve earned a little selfishness.”

  “I don’t trust selfishness. Not even my own.”

  As I put on a Band-Aid, I said, “I really want to go over to that liquor store and buy some booze.”

  She did not look up from her phone. After a moment passed she asked, “How long has it been since you’ve had a drink?”

  “Three days.”

  My words sat between us. She gave no impression that she would comment.

  “You know, just to calm my nerves,” I said. “But I won’t.”

  “Good,” she said, looking up and giving me a smile. “Because they’re here, and we need to head over.”

  The time had come. It felt like sticking my finger in an electric socket.

  Stepping outside was like stepping out of time. It did not seem like there was any wind. The sound vanished from the air but for our footfalls to the car and the sound of Melody turning the ignition switch. Melody may have talked, but whatever she said she had no audience. My heart thumped.

  We rounded the corner and I saw four cars boxing in the driveway of a bungalow. We parked, and Melody waited for me to gather the courage to step out to approach the onlookers and the police. It all seemed kind of peaceful. No flashing lights or yellow tape.

  Father Sweet stood there in a short-sleeved clerical shirt, smiling broadly, conversing with a uniformed San Diego police officer. He came up to the shoulder of the cop. His beard had become glittering white, but otherwise here was the unmistakable outline of the Pied Piper I remembered.

  He gabbed chummily, as if it were a picnic.

  Melody led me by the hand toward the senior detective, clearly a friend of hers. I don’t recall what they said. Father Sweet’s gravity pulled at my eyes. I was absorbed, transfixed, watching Father Sweet, who was not in handcuffs. From a distance you might even think it was merely a friendly discussion.

  Father Sweet kept trying to stand to the side, rather than facing the police. It was a mug’s trick he was using; a charm offensive. I’m one of you, he seemed to say. Let’s face this together.

  “Oh my! Piano is a wondrous, wondrous instrument,” I heard him exclaim. I could just make out his words. He’d found his angle with the cop. Music. “How I would love to hear you play, my boy. I can see you have a sensitive, artful soul.”

  Charisma has gotten him out of this, I thought. He’s charmed his way out of this. We didn’t get him. Of course, he’s gotten out of this. He’s convinced them it’s a misunderstanding. He’ll be giving that cop piano lessons before sundown.

  “Isn’t he under arrest?” asked Melody, as if reading my mind.

  “He is,” said the detective. “We don’t believe him to be a flight risk. The boy is with protective services over there.”

  I heard Father Sweet chuckle. “Oh, marvellous! How marvellous,” he said.

  I had the sense of dropping even more deeply out of time. A large bubble engulfed me, but for Father Sweet’s murmuring words and his laughter it would have been silent. I could hear every ounce of breath as it passed in and out of his body. With dream-heavy, cautious steps, I drew closer.

  He turned and saw me.

  As though onstage, we stood opposite each other in a darkness that sucked away everything but us into dead air.

  “You remember me?” I said, finding my mouth hard to work and my voice barely stronger than a whisper.

  The light in his eyes dimmed as he examined me head to toe, searching for something recognizable. A parishioner? A colleague? A stagehand from the movie? Father Sweet’s magnetism was still strong and he affected friendliness, but as he saw a stoniness in my face, he twitched with nervousness.

  Finally, his eyes flashed with recognition. And then he frowned with disappointment. He shook his head slightly.

  His lips curled into a smile. “Ah!” he said and brought his hands together, glancing at the police officer at his side, back to me, back to him. He looked like he’d just had a great idea. Obviously, he was concocting something.

  “I’m so glad you are here,” he said. “This happy coincidence of God’s Own Doing! Perhaps, you can witness my character to these good people?”

  His tone was that of a beggar on the street, asking for spare change. The circumstance seemed lost on him. I was astonished. He was asking if I could help him out of a jam.

  “For old times!”

  When I spoke, my tongue was fat and uncooperative. It took concentration to force my mouth into the words I wanted to say. Beads of sweat erupted at my hairline.

  “To everything there is a season,” I said slowly. “A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.”

  His head drew back and he chortled nervously.

  “Do you know the movie Scarface?” I asked.

  His smile died. He pointed his face up at me like an axe blade. It felt like the opprobrium of my own father. I straightened my spine so I could look down on him.

  “Scarface says his motives were to get the money, then the power, then the women. Those were his priorities. The end goal was only to satisfy his sex drive. To get his rocks off. Is that all it is for you? All this charm, talent, and brains? All this theology? Just to blow your load on kids?”

  He paused, and I saw a bit of the old parish priest. The kindly eyes that could comfort the bereaved, the eloquent baritone that assured children not to be frightened in the night.

  “The holy man does not break his life into fragments,” said Father Sweet. “But rather keeps it whole, so that all his thoughts, his actions are of one whole — the sole effort of praising God and building his kingdom.”

  “Right. So, the kids, then?”

  “Anything else is sin,” he said.

  “And the kids?”

  I expected him to become icy and haughty, but he kept up his beatific persona. “You know as well as any that I would never, ever hurt a child.”

  “It’s not the same, is it?” I said. “They’re the same words, but you mean something totally different.”

  He seemed confused.

  “Anyone who brings down one of these little ones would be better drowned in the depth of the sea with a millstone around his neck,” he said.

  “We’ll see what the judge says about your millstone.”

  “No, you don’t understand. You see, I —”

  “Words can’t minimize what you do!” I shouted.

  “Faith always is simple and outside of words,” he replied, spreading his hands as if delivering a sermon on a divine truth. “In the end.”

  “For you — it’s just a way to get your cock out. That’s all it is. That’s all any of this is.”

  He winced, and then looked at me with pity. “We ought to pray together.”

  “All right. I pray you get a judge who doesn’t fall for your pious horseshit, and you do the same. Deal?”

  “I need to give Antony a message,” Sweet said. “Will you deliver it for me? Tell him to always to remember that no matter what anyone might —”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me, my boy, I wasn’t finished.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He cocked his head at me.

  “Nobody cares what you think,” I said.

  “Don’t be rude. Please give him the message. The boy will be confused by all this,” Sweet said, restarting. “It’s important that he knows I am —”

  “No, no message. He doesn’t need to listen to you ever again.”

  He recoiled at my rudeness.

  “Nobody will listen to you ever again. Good riddance to you.”

  My finger was dabbled with blood, and I reached forward to wipe some on his arm.

  “Remember that,” I said. “Remember.”


  He shook his head sadly. “I will pray for you,” he said.

  I felt a gentle hand touch my arm. It was Melody. The policeman remained at Father Sweet’s side, holding him by the elbow. He led Father Sweet to a police car and placed him in the back.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Melody said, gently pulling me toward a minivan. “Before they go.”

  I felt an early morning disorientation, as if I had just woken up. “Where are they going?” I asked.

  “Someplace safe. It’s all right.” Melody leaned into the minivan. Inside there were two women, and a thin boy of twelve or thirteen with dark hair. One could just make out the downy fuzz of a pre-pubescent moustache. He stared straight ahead through the windshield.

  “Antonio,” said Melody, “this is my friend. He wants to say hi.”

  I bent over, supporting myself by leaning on my knees. Between me and Antonio sat a child services agent with a ponytail.

  “Antonio, my name is Jacob,” I said, and smiled. “And I want to tell you you’re not alone. I understand where you are. Because I was also a … an altar boy of … of Father Sweet.”

  The boy did not move, but slowly rolled his eyes toward me, not quite getting there.

  “Antonio,” I said. “Listen to what I’m going to say now.  You don’t need to say anything. Just listen.”

  The agent shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Melody was nearby, near enough to hear.

  “You’re going to get a lot of advice in the next few days,” I said. “And you’re going to have all sorts of questions of your own. I bet he gave you a lot of instruction about who you are and what you are. He said a lot of those things to me, and to other boys. When I was your age, I didn’t know what was right and wrong. For me, I wanted someone to talk to me honestly.” I took a breath. “So, I’m going to tell you what I wish someone had said to me, when I was your age and in your position.”

  Antonio looked down, gazing at my chest rather than looking me in the eye, but we seemed to be getting closer to connecting.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “None of what happened was your doing, even if you think it was. You had no control over it. Today’s a new beginning. This is your life. Your life. Entirely yours. Not his. Not your parents’. Make your life what you want it to be. Your life is your own. You do not owe anybody anything. There’s nothing stopping this from being the day you decide to be someone else. Nothing sticks to you. You are in control of your own life.”

  Antonio made eye contact with me. Emotionless, but he made eye contact. I smiled and nodded.

  Almost imperceptibly, Antonio’s head nodded the slightest amount.

  “Antonio, kids can’t sin. They can’t. When I was in your place, I was terrified about good and evil and getting trapped by it. None of that is true. If you ever want to talk with someone else who’s been on your road, I am one hundred percent in your corner, and I don’t want anything from you in return,” I said. The ponytailed agent winked at me and gave a confident nod.

  “My name is Antony,” he said in a faraway voice.

  “Well, I’m very glad to meet you,” I said.

  I backed up. Melody and I stood side by side as the door closed and the minivan drove off.

  Father Sweet — I nearly forgot — was still in the back of the police car, which had not yet left. I could see his tiny outline, gesturing and speaking and trying to persuade the cop in the front seat, who filled out paperwork. Father Sweet was performing a show for him. Trying to charm him. The cop seemed unmoved.

  “So, you said your piece to that priest,” said Melody. “How does it feel?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “I’m not sure it feels like anything. But I guess we did what I came for.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I noticed something. He was telling you something I don’t think you quite understood.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think he was being honest, that he doesn’t separate the different parts of his life. So what he does with children, which he doesn’t see as wrong, is inseparable from his belief system.”

  “He’s doing what he thinks is right?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Some people believe they are on a mission to change things for the better by either restricting or loosening freedom, other people think only of helping themselves, and then there are some who manipulate only for the sake of manipulating. It’s an unexamined instinct.”

  “Like a bear rummaging through garbage out of hunger or boredom.”

  “Or a bird knowing the time to crack through its shell.”

  I contemplated this. “Who cares?” I said, finally.

  “Guys like him don’t think they’re hypocrites. He’s convinced himself he’s a good person, doing the work of the Lord. Even while he abuses kids.”

  With her warm hand on my back, she led me back toward the Highlander. “And I think it was good you didn’t tell Antonio about what you’re doing for his parents.”

  “I just didn’t see how to say it without freaking him out.”

  “Let him find out later. It’s enough to absorb for today.” She smiled at me. “Now, let’s go get a cheeseburger and a milkshake.”

  five months later

  1

  Spring came early after a warm February, and the sun baked the air perfectly for a walk. The ice was gone from the pavement, and snow had hardened into dirty moraines curbside. We had just returned from circling the block around the residence. But Mother had grown fussy and angry, and although we had had a positive visit, she needed a nap. Like a toddler.

  “Here, Mother,” I said. “Take my arm, just like we’re walking the red carpet together.”

  This made her smile and I guided her back to her room. Clare had given me the new school pictures of Kitty and Harry to update the frames and I almost forgot. Mother sat on the edge of her bed and wheezed a bit as she removed her cream-coloured cardigan. I fetched the pictures as I hung my jacket.

  “I nearly forgot about Kitty and Harry’s new pictures. They’re absolutely adorable.” I showed her each picture one by one.

  Each photo held as much interest to her as a label on a can of soup.

  “That’s Kitty, Jamie’s daughter. Your granddaughter. Look at that huge smile. And here’s Harry, Jamie’s son. Your grandson. The twins are in grade one.”

  She moved to the window, staring with her mouth slightly agape, as if she might say something, but there was nothing. I watched her curved shoulders at the window, then put the photos into their frames, updating Mother’s decor with a new look at the best parts of her life.

  Jamie entered the room, eating one of the donuts we’d brought for the nurses. His hair was growing in well. It had lengthened to the point now as if he’d had a trim, professional haircut. He had lost fifteen pounds, but otherwise looked healthy as a wolf.

  “Now, Mum,” said Jamie. “Lie down, and we’ll tuck you in for a nap.”

  She lay back, and Jamie helped settle her with the afghan. She stared up at us as we tucked her in.

  Jamie leaned in to kiss her cheek and she recoiled from him. He kissed her anyway.

  “I love you, Mum,” Jamie said.

  Without saying goodbye, I moved to the hallway. It was not my idea to come back, but Jamie wanted to see her. And there wasn’t anything I would not do if he asked me. Jamie’s decency flattered her, and I admired him for it in spite of myself. She was not really there. Only the shadow of her resentments and frustration lay in that bed, I figured.

  “Why do you bother?” I asked. “There’s a point where you’ve got to get real, no?”

  “She’s my mother. I just hope a little tiny part of her recognizes she still has family, and that we love her. If not, then it’s a part of me and you that we’re looking after.”

  As we walked to the elevator, Jamie asked, “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I’m just happy you’re here.”

  2

>   Once Father Sweet was charged with five counts, the PR and tabloid gossip machine rumbled awake. Griff Kelsey was embroiled in a new scandal, thanks to his pastor. Not only was he accused of being an anti-Semite, a racist, an out-of-control addict, and a violent bully, he now was the sponsor of — allegedly — a pedophile. Father Sweet himself was unable to post bail for his kidnapping charge and all the other charges, yet Kelsey left him rotting in jail. Moreover, once he was in the news, seven other survivors came forward with stories about him.

  But not Father Danny Lemieux. Danny had all but dissolved into Tijuana.

  Melody encouraged me to testify, even though no charges could be laid in my case; it would help the overall process against Father Sweet. I agreed.

  I agreed excitedly, because it was another excuse to visit Melody in Los Angeles. She had taken a new job within the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, but I still checked in with her from time to time via text. She had a positive effect on me. Each time we connected, whether by text or the odd phone call, I felt like I was getting closer to hope, farther from the trainwreck.

  We spoke by phone.

  “Did you get everything set for the Paquimes?” asked Melody.

  “I did.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “It’s not that,” I replied. “Firstly, I think it was a good idea you had, Melody. A great solution. Again, thank you. I wouldn’t have come up with it. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate or respect the solution.”

  “But,” she drawled.

  “Well, I feel like I’m displacing them. Like I’m taking them from their lands someplace else. ‘For their own good.’”

  “But, they didn’t want to go back to Mexico.”

  “I know that, but they were being forced into that choice. And I feel like I’m doing, not the same, but … manipulating … I mean, who am I?”

  “What does that mean?”