by Pearl Solas
With gentle compassion, Father Frank supported Julie through examining what she had endured and reconsidering the experience through the lens of adult perspective. Father Frank bore witness to the intense emotions evoked by such an examination. The process was messy and difficult for both of them, but their commitment to the work increased as they progressed together.
“I thought we were making real progress,” Father Frank told Tavis, with tears running unchecked down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t been such a self-important asshole, I would have seen the writing on the wall during our session last Thursday.”
* * *
“I can’t look people in the eye when I walk down the street,” Julie had told him. “Sometimes I’ll see men and I can tell they recognize me. The worst are the guys whose eyes light up. They bite their lips or smile at me like we share a secret . . . and I guess we do. Sometimes, their eyes just get wide and they look surprised and a little ashamed.”
Father Frank kept his mouth shut. It was therapeutically reasonable to let her continue without offering comment, but his more selfish motivation was controlling the expression on his face.
“Fuck.” Julie ritually ran her bone-thin hands through her dirty hair. “Why do so many people have to know?”
Father Frank cleared his throat and offered, “Have you thought about taking ownership of the fact that it’s public?”
Responding to Julie’s baffled expression, he continued, “Just hear me out. So, you can’t unring the bell—what’s out there is out there. But you can use the fact that it’s public to control the narrative. People will want to hear your story, and your strength in the face of what you’ve endured. You could turn something terrible into something good by using that platform to advocate for and encourage other children in similar situations.”
Julie’s brow furrowed, and she leaned forward in her seat, remaining silent for a few moments while she allowed the suggestion to sink in.
“I get what you’re saying,” she began slowly, “but no fucking way am I doing that. It would be like ripping myself open over and over again.”
“It could be like that at first,“ he agreed, “and I certainly don’t think it’s something you’d be ready for anytime soon. Maybe, though, it’s something to chew on as we continue our work. My constant prayer is for God to show us how he will redeem the double tragedy of your abuse and the fact that troubled souls used your injury for their own purposes. I don’t know, but maybe it’s even possible for God to use your resilience to change the behavior of those men you sometimes happen across. Perhaps, even, it’s worth hoping that your refusal to remain a victim will lead to their reformation and redemption.”
“Uh, Padre . . .” Julie spat, her initial stunned silence giving way to anger. “The last thing I give two shits about is the redemption of those sick fucks. It’s hard enough to care about my own. It’s hard enough to care about getting out of bed in the morning, about brushing my teeth, about putting one foot in front of the other. Most days my first thought is what a relief it would be if this were all over. Usually when I wake up in the morning, I spend a little time imagining how right it would feel if someone just stuck a knife right into my heart. I don’t want to do it myself, but I have this feeling that, if someone would just do it for me, it would be like coming home.”
The words hung in the air between them. Right when he opened his mouth to ask for more information about Julie’s specific ideation, Schelle knocked on the door and popped her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Father Francis, but your 2:30 appointment has been waiting for about five minutes.”
“Thank you, Schelle, please tell him it will be a bit longer, and we’ll make up the time at the end, or we can reschedule if he can’t wait.”
As the door closed, Father Frank steepled his fingers and rested them under his chin as he tried to find the right words.
“Julie, have you ever hurt yourself, or tried to?” he asked, searching her face.
Julie laughed dismissively, and Father Frank knew the spirit of deep sharing had disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to off myself, it’s just a weird thought I have sometimes. There’s a certain comfort to it. Listen, you have another appointment waiting, and I’ll be late for work if I don’t leave now.”
Julie stood, and he closed the distance between them as she reached for her backpack. They shook hands. “Thanks, Father. I feel like shit now, but if I’ve learned anything from hanging out with you, it’s that later I’ll end up feeling relieved to get this stuff off my chest.”
“Julie,” Father Frank said, his voice tight with concern, “as you can understand, I’m concerned about the thought you shared, and I’d like to spend some time with it as soon as possible. I don’t think we should wait until next week to discuss it—please ask Schelle to schedule you as soon as you’re able to come back. We’ll shift other appointments to accommodate you. In the meantime, if you do have any thoughts about harming yourself, please call me right away.”
“You bet,” quipped Julie lightly as she slid her hand from between his, clicked her tongue, shot him finger guns, and moved toward the door. On her way out, she called over her shoulder, “See you soon!”
He did not see her soon.
* * *
Father Frank, arms resting on his desk and cradling his head, looked up at Tavis, anguished and exhausted. “I never should have tried to treat her,” he said in a voice filled with self-loathing. “Every rule of professional ethics told me that, as soon as I recognized who she was, I should have found a way to refer her to another provider. In my self-importance and pride, though, I thought I could fix her, and that there would be a certain divine poetry in someone who had been one of the instruments of her harm being used as a tool of her healing.
“An emissary of Christ—what a joke!” Father Frank nearly choked on the words as he tore at his clerical collar and tossed it on his desk. “I didn’t even pray about whether I should proceed with her treatment. It just seemed too perfect to be coincidence, so I jumped right in. I lied to myself and told myself I could help her, but really it was all about me: about how I could ease the guilt I’ve felt every day since I woke up from that dream and knew exactly what she had suffered, and how I had used her suffering to get myself off.”
His haunted eyes hardening with grim purpose, Father Frank picked up a manila envelope from the credenza behind him and slid it across the desk to Tavis. Tavis was surprised to see his own name written in bold Sharpie.
“I’ve kept this drive with me for well over twenty years. I haven’t had the equipment to access its contents for nearly that long, but I’ve kept it to remind me of how dangerous I can be if I let down my guard and forget that I need God’s help. In my arrogance, I thought I was only dangerous in that particular way.”
Father Frank placed his head in his hands. After drawing several deep breaths, he nodded toward the bulky envelope on the desk between them. “Take it,” he whispered.
“You know what will happen if it has the pictures you say are on it, right?” Tavis asked. “And you’ve taken it to other states. That means mandatory prison time.”
Father Frank barked out a bitter laugh. “People like me always know the legal risks. I know the consequences. I didn’t touch Jeremy, but I’m certainly not innocent. It’s time to pay the piper and to give Julie at least a small part of the justice she deserves. I should have done it a long time ago.”
Tavis sat in his seat in silence, attempting to come to terms with what Father Frank had told him. In all his years, Tavis had never encountered an offender who saw himself so clearly or who voluntarily faced the consequences of his actions. His experience had given him the ability to recognize manipulation and the signs of a target’s unhealthy interest in children. Father Frank had not tripped any of those alarms. He had not structured his life around access to children even though, as a priest, it would have been easy for him.
Tavis couldn’t get his head around the idea that, jus
t when his investigation proved the accusations against him were false, Father Frank shared evidence of his decades-old crime. There was no reason that the secret couldn’t have stayed a secret forever, but he chose to share it with someone he knew had a duty to report it to the police. Tavis felt completely unprepared for the direction the meeting had taken.
But there really was no choice to make. Tavis stood, took the package from the desk, and left.
Part III
Chapter Nineteen
“Please sit down, Father Frank,” said Caroline, motioning to the empty seat across the desk from her. The priest entered the room, obediently sat, and looked at her expectantly.
“Getting right to it, I wanted to talk one-on-one about the reactions you’re having when Paul shares during group. It seemed like you had a tough time today.”
“He’s just a disgusting human being.”
“I can appreciate that,” murmured Caroline sympathetically.
“I really don’t understand why you even run group sessions with these types of offenders. Everything I’ve read indicates they have a huge potential for what I’m seeing with Paul. Rather than contributing to a constructive group—where participants share honestly and also gain strength and encouragement from hearing about tools that have been useful for others—some members of this group seem just to be interested in stoking our collective sick fantasies. Paul is completely unrepentant; he just wants to brag about how successful he was in every area of his life—even at hurting boys and getting away with it.”
“I respect your professional opinion, but I’m going to have to ask you to trust my experience in this setting and with this category of offenders. You’re right about the potential pitfalls of groups like this, but we’re fortunate to have an added dynamic that, in this case, makes the possibility of meaningful therapeutic progress much greater. I think you can be my secret weapon.”
Caroline waited a few seconds before wading in again with carefully chosen words, “Frank, I’ll be as straight as possible. I’m going to ask something of you that is not fair, and maybe it’s even a little bit unethical, but I hope you’ll listen to why I think it’s for the greater good, and that you’ll give it some serious thought before deciding.”
Frank nodded for her to continue. She cleared her throat.
“You are right to conclude that this group is not likely to be very helpful to you. Unlike almost every other offender I see in this place, you had developed a healthy means of dealing with your urges long before you came here. And I know you fought hard for what peace you have. Participating in this group is always going to be dangerous to your equilibrium. Even so, I’d like you to keep going. After I explain my reasoning, if you choose not to continue, we can move forward with private sessions, and I’ll recommend that you be permitted to stop participating in the group.”
“Go ahead,” said Frank, leaning forward in his customary posture of attentive listening.
“You are such a rare example of someone who is open about your condition that I think you can be helpful in a way that no other well-meaning mental health expert, who does not share your disorder, can be. I certainly can’t. You are one of the rare proofs that there are exceptions to the stereotype. You can’t be the only person with your condition who has not only found a means of successfully battling your urges, but who has also lived as a well-adjusted member of society. But you are the only one I know who has ended up in prison.
“Usually, the people who seem to be well-adjusted but find themselves in prison turn out not to be well-adjusted at all—they’re just really good at masking how anti-social they are until they’re caught with their collection of child pornography. In your case, the blameworthy portion of your crime happened before you developed the disciplines that enabled you to be a helpful contributor to the world. Even more remarkable, in light of the stigma associated with your condition, you voluntarily disclosed both your disorder and your crime. This almost never happens.”
Caroline took a deep breath, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I also know you chose a life of service before coming here. You’ve demonstrated you can make the difficult decisions your conscience demands. I think you can hack this if it will make a real difference to the quality of life of these men. It should also go a long way toward protecting children when these offenders’ sentences are complete. Basically, I’m asking you to continue living a life of service.”
When Frank finally spoke, his voice was husky and dark, “What if I don’t want to serve these men? Would God really ask me to get this close when I’ve fought so hard for distance? I dedicated my life to God and to serving others in his name to keep myself from thoughts that these men share. I know we’re not supposed to bargain with God, but that’s what I did. And I was fine for so long. You’re just asking too much . . . surely God’s not so cruel! I don’t want to spend a minute more with those men than is absolutely necessary—especially with that fucking animal Paul Peña. Of course I believe, intellectually, that God is willing and able to forgive them and to redeem their sins, but surely he can do it without me. How effective can I possibly be if, every time I’m near Peña, my skin crawls?”
“Maybe it’s about modifying your perspective. One reason your practice was so successful was because of your empathetic gifts. I’ve done this work for a long time, and I still have to consciously put a damper on my own empathetic responses so I can keep doing the work without burning out. I can only imagine the strain that giving free reign to that empathy must have placed on you during your practice. In this case, it might be time to open those taps again. Like many of us who interact with those who offend against children, you’ve probably tried hard not to place yourself in their shoes. Your foot is the right size and shape, though, and I think you’re strong enough to handle the consequences. If you do, you won’t be able to help seeing past the horrible things they’ve done to the broken people they are.
“Take Paul, for example. I’m not talking out of school here because he has shared much of this in group. Unlike you, he doesn’t have an innate sexual preference for children. Also unlike you, he did not have the cultural or environmental training to understand exactly how unacceptable his behavior is. In fact, his own history of sexual abuse as a child probably led him to believe that it is just a part of life that powerful men impose themselves on those weaker than they are.
“Paul was raised by a family that emphasized the surface of things—as long as the public image is maintained, all manner of horrors can happen in the dark. He didn’t internalize the concept that society works best when individuals value the good of the community more than they value satisfying their own desires. So, Paul appreciates avoiding scandal, but he sees no incentive in the general concept of avoiding antisocial behavior. If he sees an opportunity to take something he wants at a nominal risk, his background has conditioned him to take it regardless of how it may negatively impact others.
“Because your family raised you to value community and service, when your condition manifested, you came to the conclusion quickly that what you desired is antisocial, you understood the potential criminal implications of acting on such desires, and, most importantly, you appreciated the impact that acting on your temptation would have on the children involved. Paul understood the criminal implications of his behavior, but he lacked the other socialization tools that you took for granted.”
As Caroline finished her pitch, Frank picked up the stress ball on the desk between them and examined it with unwarranted intensity for several seconds. “My impulse is just to say ‘no,’ and leave it there. I heard you, and who knows, maybe you’re offering me a way to continue to serve God, even if it is in the most uncomfortable possible way. Give me some time to think and pray about it? I promise to work on shifting my attitude toward Paul to a genuine ‘There but for the grace of God . . .’ approach.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else,” said Caroline, whose warm smile and even teeth lent beauty to her otherw
ise plain features. She stood, opened the door, and nodded to the guard, who accompanied Frank out of the medical wing.
Chapter Twenty
Frank fought through the paralysis of deep sleep, attempting to surface. A strong hand shook him insistently, while a strained voice occupying the singular range of a shouted whisper urged, “Father Frank! Wake up! Wake up!”
Frank struggled to find his bearings as he bolted upright in his cot. The urgency of his rouser’s tone caused him to bypass his waking ritual of, first, realizing where he was, then why he was there, and finally, experiencing the despair that accompanied those realizations. Daniel, the young new guard, was in his cell. “What’s happening?” Frank croaked.
“The doc needs you in the infirmary right away,” Daniel said, eyes wide and voice breathless.
Frank did not waste time asking for a reason. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the cot, put on his pants, and splashed some water on his face. Then he and Daniel trotted through hallways and courtyards toward the infirmary, their quick pace punctuated by short pauses as the guard station buzzed them through locked doors.
When they arrived in the infirmary, Frank was surprised to see Yvette, the resident physician, sitting in a chair with her head in her hands. When she heard Frank’s and Daniel’s approaching footsteps, she raised her head and quickly assumed her customary expression of professional impassivity.
Yvette rose from the chair and extended her hand to Frank. “I’m glad you’re here, Father,” she said. Her habitually calm voice contained a strained quality that betrayed her anxiety.
“How can I help?” Frank replied.
Yvette cleared her throat. “Paul was brought into the infirmary a short while ago with severe injuries. Our team has done what we can to address most of his discomfort, including setting a few broken bones and stitching the deeper cuts. He doesn’t appear to have any serious internal injuries, and he’s conscious and alert. He asked to see you. If you’re willing to sit with him, I’ll just remind you that because of his injuries, it’s important to avoid agitating him. Will you visit with him?”