Matter of Trust (2 page)

But Mike never finished outlining those lessons learned, for Father Patrick, obviously no longer able to restrain himself, grabbed him by the collar and attempted to physically shake the insolence from his deeply blackened soul.

The priest was almost hissing with rage, his nostrils expanding and contracting in an animalistic fashion. David and Chris stood anxiously by, unsure how to help their friend without sending their headmaster completely over the edge. But it was Mike himself who put an end to it, by simply standing his ground – his headmaster was so intent on extracting some sort of rise out of the smart-mouthed teenager that he lost his footing and tripped over the tape recorder lying ominously on the floor.

As Father Patrick hit the ground, Mike, David and Chris held their breaths one more time before meeting each other's eyes and breaking into
fits of uncontrollable laughter. And in that moment, all three knew that whatever else happened, they would always have this – the day they stood up to the most powerful man in their lives.

Many years later, some decades after their prank went so horribly wrong, David would see the irony in that strangely wonderful day. For while their ‘sin' consolidated their friendship, it would trigger consequences too brutal to imagine – drawing them back together, before tearing their worlds apart.

Newark, New Jersey; present day

‘B
less me, Father for I have sinned,' she said.

Despite himself, the priest, her friend, felt warmed by her presence. ‘How long has it been since your last confession?' he asked, the muted bulb above him throwing his shadow across the narrow confessional floor.

‘Jesus, Father, do you think I shop my sins around?'

‘I . . . No . . .' he offered, the slightest of smiles on his narrow freckled face.

‘Then it's been as long as since the last time I confessed something to you. You may not have been wearing those fancy white robes at the time,' her shadow shifted as she pointed through the thin wire screen before her, ‘but you were always a good listener, Father – one of the few people I could trust.'

And he took comfort in knowing she was right.

‘What is it you need to share with the Lord today, Ms Maloney?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, do
not
call me Ms Maloney. And I don't have anything to “share” with
him
, Father. I came to talk to you.'

‘You don't need to come to the confessional to talk to me, Marilyn,' he said.

‘But that's where you're wrong, Father. I don't exactly fit in with your congregation. I mean, can you see me sitting front and centre with the diehard regulars at your Sunday morning service?'

And he couldn't, because, once again, she was right.

‘What is it then?' he asked after a pause.

‘It's . . .' she began, and he could have sworn he smelt the slightest trace of bourbon on her breath. ‘I have a decision I need to make and I'm not sure how to make it.'

He heard the quiver in her voice, her customary bravado shaken by whatever she needed to resolve.

‘What's wrong, Marilyn?' he asked.

‘It's . . .' She paused, a breath caught in her throat. ‘I've been offered a proposal.'

‘A proposal?'

‘Some money. A lot of money. To leave him. To walk away.'

The priest closed his eyes.

‘I don't know what to do,' she went on. ‘I was told I'm jeopardising his future. That I'm a thorn in his side.'

More in theirs, thought the priest, but he knew better than to voice it. ‘Does he know?' he asked.

‘God, no,' she said. ‘If he did, he'd have nothing of it.' A pause. ‘Don't you think?'

But the priest realised that he did not want to think on this one at all – because the possibility of it would kill her.

‘The thing is,' she went on, ‘if he
did
know, if he condoned it, then my decision would be easy. He'd effectively be calling me a whore. If I thought he was part of it, I'd beat him senseless with my bare fists before telling him that I was going to tell the world about our lifelong affair. That would hit him where it hurts, wouldn't it, Father? He'd want to
kill
me – in fact he
would
kill me – I am
sure
of it. And then Gloria would cover it up, and nobody would ever know. Except for you Father, you would stand up for me, you and Rob, wouldn't you?'

‘Come on, Marilyn,' said the priest, more than just a little uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. ‘That isn't going to happen. First and foremost because I know you – and you would never tell.'

‘Well, of
course
not.' The smell of bourbon was stronger now. ‘But I'd
take pleasure in scaring the hell out of him before I threw the hundred grand in his face.'

‘
You've been offered a hundred thousand dollars
?' asked the priest, incredulous.

‘Yes. But I've never put a price on our relationship, Father. You know that.'

And he did.

‘You know what, Father?' she went on after a pause. ‘I miss the old times. Back when we were all equal. You know?'

And once again, he did.

‘Do you remember how much we loved
The Outsiders
?' she said referring to the 1983 movie starring Matt Dillon and Tom Cruise. ‘How we used to see ourselves as rebels?'

The priest smiled. ‘I wanted to be Johnny Cade,' he remembered.

‘But we made you be Ponyboy.'

‘Because I was Irish.'

‘Because you were cute – and you were definitely more C. Thomas Howell than Ralph Macchio.'

‘I'd rather have been DC's Rob Lowe or Chris's Matt Dillon.'

Marilyn smiled. ‘You know, even now when I meet with him, at the hotels I mean, we still use the character names – like Dallas or Doyle or Tex.'

The priest was not surprised; he knew that both Marilyn and Chris clung to the old days in their own way – which brought him back to the matter at hand.

‘Marilyn,' he said, so softly he could barely hear himself, ‘I'm not sure that it's my place to offer you any advice here. I've become pretty good at playing priest, but you're asking me this as your
friend,
and I am afraid, the boy that I was, the man that I am . . . I'm not sure I've earnt the right to tell you what to do with your life.'

‘You earnt the right the moment we met at that stupid school thing,' she said. ‘The moment you fell in love with me.'

And there it was, the first time either of them had voiced it.

‘That was a long time ago,' he said.

‘I know. But as far as I am concerned, love is love, and I haven't had enough of it in my pathetic excuse for a life to reject it, however it comes.
I believe you still love me – not in the same way that you used to – but there is love there, just the same. And that's why I am here, because besides you and our old friend in Boston, I have no-one else to ask.'

The priest sat there – silent, unmoving – the shadow of his friend's perfect profile cast against the thin screen that separated them.

‘Please, Father,' she said, before referring to him again – this time using his given name – effectively stripping him of the comfort of detachment the religious robes offered, and leaving him vulnerable, bare. ‘I need to know what you think I should do. I have been smart enough to make one decision in regards to this, and that is that whatever you say, I'll follow.'

‘That's not what priests are for, Marilyn.'

‘Of course not,' she said, not needing to explain that the role of an old friend was different.

‘Tell them to go fuck themselves,' he said then, knowing there was no other way to say it.

‘You think I should throw away a hundred thousand dollars for the sake of my pride?'

‘I think you threw away a lot more than that, years ago, when you decided that being in his life was more important than
being
in his life.'

‘You're calling me foolish,' she said.

‘I'm calling you courageous.'

She nodded. ‘You're right, Father. The money can sit forever on my living room dresser for all I care. What do I need with a hundred grand in any case? I already have that Park Avenue penthouse he puts me up in,' she said, her tongue firmly in her cheek. ‘Even if I am talking 5 Park Avenue, Newark, not Manhattan.'

‘He doesn't own you, Marilyn, never has. But if you take the money . . . they will.'

She nodded again, before leaning into the screen one more time.

‘I love you, Father,' she said. ‘Always have, always will.'

And despite himself he answered, ‘Me too, Marilyn. Me too.'

Boston, Massachusetts; nine days later

‘T
his was a really bad idea,' said David Cavanaugh as he crawled out from underneath the scrum and picked himself up off the snow. ‘I've lost all feeling in my entire body, which might explain why I keep dropping the goddamned ball. Sorry guys.'

‘No problem,' said his team mate and fellow Boston College Law School grad Tony Bishop, hanging his head and placing his hands on his thighs in an effort to catch his breath. ‘That lack of feeling might explain why you haven't complained about the gash on your right cheek, which is going to need at least eight stitches by the way.'

‘Great,' said David, touching his cheek to feel the gaping cut just below his right eye. ‘At least I can take a dive on the anaesthetic. At this point, I don't think I'd feel it if they operated with a chainsaw.' He grabbed Bishop by the arm and dragged him toward the ref who was calling for a line-out ten yards into the opposition's half.

‘I always knew you were one of those “grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it” men, DC,' grinned Bishop.

And David could not help but return the smile, as he slapped his friend on the back and glanced toward the sideline where his wife and baby
daughter were waving in encouragement.

It was early January and the boys from BC and Northeastern were undertaking their annual ritual of insanity which included a New Year get-together on the BC rugby field. The official old boys' season did not start until April, but this midwinter match had become something of a tradition – a sort of run-yourself-stupid-so-you-didn't-freeze-to-death tackle-fest which also gave the gang of old law school buddies a chance to catch up after Christmas and the busy New Year break.

And it had been busy. In the past five months, David had become a first-time father to the most beautiful little girl in the world, and husband to his aqua-eyed partner, fellow criminal defence attorney Sara Davis. The first event assuring that he would not sleep more than three hours a night at least until the spring, and the second giving him the courage to get through it.

Lauren's birth had given David a new perspective on life – one that was full of promise. It had made him realise just what a huge responsibility being a parent was; a responsibility he'd taken on gladly, making a commitment to himself that his tendency to sometimes neglect those closest to him, to live solely for a case, would now be a thing of the past. He would never forget how he had put his life – and, as a consequence, Sara's and that of his unborn child's – at risk while trying the Logan case last year. And he had no intention of doing anything like that again, even if it meant knocking back cases he felt compelled to take on.

Moments later, Northeastern won the line-out and made the most of their advantage by driving the ball a further ten yards toward their line. Then David got lucky when the Northeastern half-back allowed the ball to slip through his fingers, giving him the opportunity to scoop up the icy piece of pig skin and run it hard back toward the halfway line. After breaking the tackle of a broad-shouldered full-back, and beating the cross-defence from a red-faced prop whose large wet hands luckily lost their grip on his ankles, David weaved around the last of the Northeastern defenders to score in the far-right corner – his fellow team mate Jay Negley topping off his victory by converting his try and securing the BC team a solid seven-point lead.

Soon after, the ref blew the whistle for half-time and David and his buddies left the field for a much-needed drink before returning for another forty minutes of self-inflicted torture.

‘David, your face!' said Sara as soon as he reached them.

David smiled to see the roses in her mocha-coloured cheeks and the equally crimson face of his blonde-haired, green-eyed, five-month-old daughter who looked like an Eskimo wrapped in her pale pink snow gear. ‘I'm fine,' he told Sara. ‘Tony here says the cold will freeze it in place until I can get stitches.'

‘That's a lie,' said Bishop reaching down to take a bottle of water from the cardboard box at their feet. ‘Your husband said he wanted the wound to look as gruesome as possible so that he could impress you by refusing anaesthetic before the stitches.'

‘David thinks I'm impressed by stupidity?' asked Sara.

‘Well, you married him, didn't you?' Tony replied.

They all laughed.

Despite the cold and the almighty gash in his cheek, David felt that for the first time in his life, he had finally found some form of contentment. He could not remember a time when he had not been subconsciously looking for an elusive ‘something' – when he did not feel the need to keep moving, learning, to bury himself in work.

He'd left the family home in Newark immediately after high school, choosing to study law at Boston College rather than go to Rutgers or follow his older brother's footsteps into their father's shipping business. He had married his college sweetheart, gotten his heart broken when she left him for somebody else, and basically spent most of the next decade ploughing through case after case with his boss, mentor and friend Arthur Wright and their irreplaceable office assistant Nora Kelly.