by Pearl Solas
“About confession, I have to hope you’ve worked through this in therapy and on your road to ordination. Just in case it is not clear: I was the one who needed to confess—not you. In every aspect of our shared history, Sam, you had nothing to confess because I sinned against you. I have made my confession to God. I hope it doesn’t cause you more pain to hear that I am secure in knowing that the redemption secured by his son extends even to me.”
Sam remained completely motionless, thunderstruck. Finally, Sam turned his entire torso toward Angela. Shocked, he couldn’t adjust his expression or his posture more than absolutely necessary. Angela’s eyes, wide as saucers, mirrored his. Obviously, Paul’s insights had struck home—they had been a topic Angela and Sam had discussed at length in therapy.
Sam shook his head to clear its daze, and replied, “God tells us over and over who he is, but it still blindsides us when he directly touches our circumstances. What you just said has haunted me for years. Hearing those words come out of the mouth of the man I’ve hated helps me believe that God knows me. Completely. He knows the most secret, shameful parts of me, and when he shines his light in those places, he reacts differently than I expected. Instead of convicting me, he moves mountains to comfort me.” Sam looked at Paul wonderingly, “What a strange tool to accomplish his purpose . . .”
The guard who had been standing just outside the room opened the door and informed the group that the time the warden had allotted for their meeting was nearly up. Father Matt asked for a few additional minutes.
“We’ve used a lot of emotional energy today. I’d like to end with a prayer to ask God to renew us, and to give us guidance about what to do with what he’s done here today.”
As they all bowed their heads, Father Matt’s melodic voice invoked the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and adopted the warm tone of gratitude, familiarity, and adoration characteristic of mystics:
“We are awed by your presence and your perfection, Holy Father. Thank you for giving us eyes to see, ears to hear, and that unnamed sense that recognizes your presence and your movement to foster powerful reconciliation in this place today. Thank you for blessing each of us with the knowledge that we have been willing tools to accomplish your just and compassionate purpose. Thank you for infusing us with your forgiveness and joy, and for your creative genius as the ultimate re-purposer. Thank you for using us, just as we are, and for assuring us that we are valuable tools in spite of our wear and decay. We delight in your compassionate mercy, and we find peace in your promise of restoration and your work to refine us into new creations. Thank you for loving us and for making us capable of love. Continue to bring us into communion with you, and with your body the Church, and to inspire us with the will to continue to seek you and to offer ourselves for your use. In the name of Jesus Christ and all your saints, especially Father Francis Muncy, we humbly pray. Amen.”
No one in the group spoke as they raised their heads, but everyone, including Father Matt, shared expressions of surprise about the words he had used to close the prayer. As they went their separate ways, each of them replaced their astonishment with the realization that Matt’s unexpected words merely acknowledged the obvious truth. Each of them struggled with the implications. Had God actually included an admitted pedophile into his canon of saints?
Chapter Thirty
As her mentor Andy had predicted, the state supreme court made short work of Veronica’s appeal. Her hopes of airing her grievances against the Church’s decision-makers in a courtroom, before a jury, were snuffed out fully and finally. Her lawyer’s brain, which had primarily thought about justice in terms of the redress available through the courts, and accountability in terms of hitting institutions in the only place they felt pain—their pocketbooks—foundered. Searching desperately for a satisfying outlet for her frustration and rage, Veronica had found an activist group of Catholic mothers whose children had been sexually abused by priests. Most of these devout women believed that the inadequate response must have been a regional communication failure, and that if the higher authorities within the Church—the archbishops, the cardinals, the Pope—simply heard, firsthand, the stories of these mothers and their children, heard their suffering, then surely things would change. Surely the highest levels of Church leadership would be moved to compassion and repent the failure that had caused the abuse to flourish. They would apologize; they would mean it; and they would institute measures to identify and remove predators, and to care for those who had been injured.
Her crusader’s vigor renewed, Veronica worked tirelessly with her local group to lobby for a meeting with the archbishop of their ecclesiastical province, to lay their grievances before him, and to ask him to intercede on their behalf. The group eventually became such a squeaky wheel that the archbishop could no longer ignore it and agreed to meet with the women. Women from throughout the three-state ecclesiastical province had booked travel to be present at the conference center the archbishop designated for the audience, and the Colberg chapter had asked Veronica to speak on their behalf.
As the appointed date grew closer, Veronica wrote and rewrote her remarks, practicing tirelessly in front of the mirror, avoiding any statements or body language that could be written off as female hysteria.
The Saturday before the audience, Veronica sat in her favorite window seat puzzling over a paragraph that wasn’t sitting quite right with her. As it was wont to do, her hand had traveled up to her scalp, searching for a strand of hair of just the right texture and length. When her fingers found a likely candidate, they separated it from the surrounding strands and plucked it out by the root with a satisfying pop. Still deep in thought, Veronica ran the wiry strand through her pinched fingers, subconsciously pleased by its irregular ridges.
Tom interrupted her reverie by handing her a glass of wine. “Almost finished?”
“Getting close,” she sighed, accepting the glass with a smile.
Tom hesitated before saying, “I just wanted to make sure I have your travel plans straight: The audience is supposed to be over by 1:00 p.m. You’ll go straight to the airport to catch the 3:00 p.m. flight back to Colberg and will be back in time to drive with us to Avery’s graduation ceremony at seven.”
“That’s right,” she said, standing up onto her toes to kiss her husband’s cheek. “Worst case scenario, I’ll catch the 5:00 p.m. flight and go straight to the ceremony. It’s only an hour-long flight and I’m not checking any bags.”
Tom nodded. “Cutting it pretty close. Do you think that maybe, um, it would be better to have someone else speak, just to be sure, you know, that you don’t miss Avery’s ceremony?”
Veronica stepped back and looked at him. Hard. Incredulous.
“I’ll be there, Tom. I’m not going to miss it.”
“The graduation . . . or the audience?”
“Both! We’ve worked so hard for this opportunity! I have to see it through!”
“Avery’s worked hard to make it to this graduation.”
“And I’ll be there! Jesus!”
“We need to make sure Avery knows how proud we are of her achievement.”
“I feel like you’re accusing me of not being a good mother. How dare you!”
Tom’s slow fuse finally reached its terminus. “Oh, you’re an incredible mother . . . to Sean. The thing is, Ronnie, he doesn’t need your mothering anymore. He doesn’t know everything you’ve been doing for him. The girls know, though. They know. And Avery’ll know if you’re not at her graduation because you need to prove how much you love the child who’s not here to feel it.”
Veronica doubled over as if she’d been punched in the gut. Suddenly full of regret at what he’d just said, Tom tried to lay an apologetic hand on her back. The instant he touched her, she shrugged him off and bolted upright, furious eyes glistening with tears. “Just because it’s been easy for you to move on doesn’t mean I’m doing grief wrong, Tom.”
He reeled back and stood very still. He forced
air out through his nose. He pursed his lips wryly and then nodded slowly, as if he was seeing something he recognized. “You’ve always had such a knack for hitting the jugular. I know you think you’re the only one who grieves for Sean, but he was ours too. Mine and the girls’. You’ve put yourself out on an island and the girls and I just have to find our own way. You’re such a fucking martyr, aren’t you? You do all the big, showy acts of anger and righteousness, and you think that means you loved him more than we did. Than I did.”
“He was mine! He was my only kindred spirit in this world! I never expected it, but that night when he was born, when he and I were alone in that hospital room, I looked down at him and he looked back at me. Those lovely, double-lashed eyes looked directly into mine, and he saw me. We recognized each other and I thought, ‘Oh, there’s my friend!’ And he was my friend, my truest friend, until somebody made him feel too worthless to live.” Veronica had been pounding at her chest and was forced to stop speaking until she could breathe again. “I won’t stop trying to hold everyone to blame accountable. I can’t.”
Tom looked at his wife of twenty-seven years with a mixture of weariness and hurt. But still, love. He turned around and started walking away. “Make sure you’re there Friday night,” he called over his shoulder.
Chapter Thirty-One
Veronica’s leg bounced impatiently as she sat in the stiff, uncomfortable conference room chair. She looked at her watch again. 2:14 p.m. Only three minutes since she’d previously checked it. She was already too late to make it to the airport for the 3:00 p.m. flight, and the archbishop had yet to make an appearance. Veronica had no idea what the order for the representative speakers was, so she decided to seek out the event organizer to see if Prudie could make sure Veronica was at the top of the list. She would leave for the airport immediately after speaking.
“Ladies,” said a voice through the microphone at the front of the room. Veronica recognized the voice as Prudie’s. “Ladies,” said Prudie more loudly to carry over the din, “thank you for your patience. We’ve been in touch with the archbishop’s office to get more information on the holdup. When we know more, you’ll know more. In the meantime, let’s bow our heads and pray for the wisdom to say what needs to be said, and that the archbishop will have ears to hear and the will to act.”
While everyone prayed, Veronica weaved her way to the front, until she was near enough Prudie to intercept her as soon as she finished leading the prayer.
Back in her seat, Veronica looked again at her watch. 2:46 p.m. Veronica had practiced her remarks so many times that she knew that if she stuck to the right pacing, they would take seven minutes. To get to the airport on time for the 5:00 p.m. flight, she needed to leave the conference center no later than 4:10 p.m. Assuming it would take five minutes after the archbishop arrived to introduce him and to set the context for Veronica to begin speaking, she calculated that she would only be able to leave by 4:10 p.m. if the archbishop arrived by 3:56 p.m. Seventy minutes. Surely he would make it before then. Veronica closed her eyes and whispered silently, “please, please, please.”
At 3:56 p.m., Veronica again glanced anxiously at her watch. She heard a commotion at the front of the room and thought, Oh, thank God. Cuttin’ it pretty fine though, Lord.
Veronica craned her head and saw Prudie Holmes standing near the podium, speaking to a black-suited priest, looking displeased. Eventually, she held out her arm to direct the priest toward the podium.
He stepped up to the microphone and tapped it a couple of times. Satisfied it worked, he said, “Ladies,” in a smooth, patronizing voice. “I’m Father Michael, one of the Archbishop’s private secretaries. The archbishop asked me to express his sincere thanks for your efforts to make it here today. He knows how much you have suffered because of a few misguided souls, and he grieves for you and with you. Unfortunately, the archbishop has been called away on urgent business . . .” as if to quell the rising murmurs, the priest pushed his palms down on the air in front of him. He raised the volume of his voice, “and so he is unable to be with you here today. He is very interested in what you have to say, and he has asked me to come in his stead to record our conversation, and report back to him. It looks like the first lady scheduled to speak today,” he looked down at the paper in front of him, “is Mrs. Veronica Matthews from the Colberg diocese. Mrs. Matthews?”
He looked around at the sea of faces.
Cheeks burning, Veronica stood. She walked into the center aisle, looking back at Father Michael as he regarded her from the podium. Just as the silence and lack of movement became oppressive, Veronica ripped the quiet with a vulgar hawking sound. She spat on the floor, then turned and strode toward the door at the back of the room, holding her arm up at a right angle as she walked so that her middle finger faced the podium at the front of the room.
* * *
Veronica had redistributed her purse to join the strap of her carry-on bag so that she could turn the key while simultaneously pushing up on the door with her shoulder to cajole the persnickety deadbolt. Too late, she realized the door wouldn’t be locked. There was a celebration inside.
Rearranging her defeated face into a high-cheeked, open-mouthed expression of pride and delight, Veronica turned the doorknob and kneed the door open. She deposited her bag near the collection of shoes by the hall closet, and placed her keys and phone in their dish on the console beneath the family portrait. Her fingers, in their well-practiced routine, moved to her lips and then to the glass over the image of twelve-year-old Sean’s face.
Voices, laughter, and clinking glasses led Veronica through the living room and kitchen to the patio doors. She slid the glass frame and stepped through. Avery was smiling prettily, head bowed in blushing modesty as her favorite professor raised a champagne flute toward her and gushed over her talent and work ethic. When Avery raised her glass at the end of the toast, her gaze fell on Veronica. Her smile tightened and her brows drew together. Twitching off her sour expression, Avery fixed her attention on her professor and increased her smile’s wattage. At her side, Tom looked over to see what had dampened Avery’s mood, and he spotted Veronica near the door.
Tom’s jaw clenched as he set his half-full champagne flute on the table behind him and lifted a full glass from the collection remaining there. He eased his way through the celebrants, and thrust the champagne into Veronica’s hand without speaking. She started to speak, but he had already started off to return to Avery’s side, placing a steadying hand between her shoulder blades.
* * *
After the toasts and the cake cutting, Veronica rummaged in the freezer for the pack of Marlboros she kept there. She could leave the pack there, undisturbed, for months, but if ever a day called for a stress-relief cigarette, this was it. Pack in hand, she settled herself on the large, comfortable swing in a dark corner of the yard and tried to light the cigarette with the cheap plastic lighter she had found in the junk drawer. After a few failed attempts, Veronica shook the lighter and discovered it was out of fluid. She threw it in frustration, and it clanged satisfyingly against a planter.
A soft laugh sounded from the darkness behind her, and Veronica turned just as a lighter flared, illuminating a young man’s face.
“Here, let me,” he extended the lighter toward her.
Gratefully, she raised the cigarette to her lips and leaned forward to meet the flame, inhaling deeply. When the cherry was firmly established, she inhaled the toxic smoke into her lungs, holding it there, simultaneously soothed and revolted. Then she leaned back on the swing’s deep cushions, sinking into them.
“Mind if I sit with you for a bit?” Her white knight moved around the side of the swing’s frame, lit only by the glowing ember of his own cigarette. Veronica responded by opening her palm and gesturing, Vanna White style, toward the seat beside her. The balance of the swing shifted as it accepted his weight.
“Rough day, then?” he asked.
She exhaled. “The roughest.”
The
y sat silently for a few beats before she asked, “So did you graduate today too?”
“Not this year,” he smiled. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m a pretty good listener, if you wanna talk about it.”
She returned his smile ruefully. “That’s very kind of you, but I think maybe I’ve talked about it too much. Can’t stop talking about it, even when—especially when—people don’t want to hear. I’ve let it take over.”
“I know a bit about unhealthy obsession.” The weariness of his voice, coming from someone so young, surprised her.
She expected him to expand on the statement, but when he didn’t, she asked, “Have you found any tricks that work?”
“I don’t know if I’d call them tricks, but yes, I did find help. It might be a little woo-woo for some people, though.” There was a compassion and confidence in his voice that belied the self-deprecation.
Curious in spite of herself, Veronica bit. “I’m not opposed to a little woo-woo, if it helps. What did you do, then?”
“I prayed,” he answered simply. “I told God it was all too big for me, that I didn’t want to put my obsession before the well-being of others, but I wasn’t strong enough to fight it alone.”
“And that worked, did it?” Veronica could not completely erase the skepticism from her voice. “Easy as that?”
“It was never easy,” he pushed back. “But I also asked for constant reminders about why I was fighting and who I didn’t want to hurt. Focusing on those priorities led me to keep asking for help.”