The Gospel of Winter (25 page)

I started to pace. Everything in my room looked breakable. The keyboard and the wire music stand could be busted over a bedpost. The photo of two women on the Brooklyn Bridge could be burned at the spark of a match. The old, faded copy of
Frankenstein
that had slid across the floor could be ripped up, shredded, and sent flying out the window like ashes and debris floating down from a great height. My room was no longer safe.

Mother called my name from down the hall and knocked on my door a moment later. She came in without waiting for my response. “What happened? I heard a crash.”

“I tried to move my bookshelf without taking everything off.”

“What?” She had her hands on her hips.

“I wanted to make more room by the armchair so I could bring up a footrest.”

Mother looked exhausted and older. I realized she wasn't wearing any makeup. She sighed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“I'm here for you, Aidan. You can ask me for help.” She stood there for another moment, and then her lips finally pushed up into a smile. “I know a thing or two about feeling betrayed.”

“I know.” I hesitated. “It's just . . . I guess I can't help feeling lied to. All that work I did for them. All that work. There are too many lies. I'm confused.” I had to stop myself before I said more. It felt like I was trying to stop myself from vomiting.

“I know, honey,” Mother said. “I know. And I'm here for you.” She smiled at me. “Okay, look. I thought we could just order a pizza and watch a movie tonight. Do you have homework? Could we do that?”

“I'd like that,” I said. “I don't feel like doing anything else.”

“Me neither.”

I told her I would clean up the mess I'd made first and then join her downstairs to pick out a pizza and a movie. I ended up throwing most of the trinkets Old Donovan had given me from his trips in the trash. What was the point of keeping them?

Later, we curled up in Mother's bed with the box of spinach and olive pizza on the bedside table and watched three episodes of a TV drama, which, in the end, was completely dissatisfying, because all that time we spent watching the show didn't bring us to any resolution. We were left waiting, wanting more, knowing there was more to come, and that we would never know the end of it. But as I got up to go back to my room, Mother grabbed my hand.

“Earlier, I said this and I meant it,” she said. “I think it is best to believe you, Aidan, without any hesitation. I have to. I can trust you, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Trust me. Believe me.”

I
f I was going to believe myself, I had to keep going to school without interruption, so on Tuesday I went to every class and sat perfectly poised in my chair as if I was paying attention. Mr. Weinstein didn't call on me once during class, and Mrs. Martelli didn't say anything to me when I didn't pass in my geometry homework. I was getting by, I kept telling myself. It was possible. I could slide through. The suspicions about me, or anybody else affiliated with Most Precious Blood, would ease up and fade away soon, and everyone would fall back in line and resume their daily routines. That was the recommended salve for overcoming a national fear, wasn't it? Get out there and do what you always do. Drive around in your car; go shopping; watch a movie; see a Broadway show. Drop back in and tune back out.

There was something automatic to the way I walked
down the halls between classes too, a stiff march I needed to propel myself forward. I was so oblivious, I nearly bumped into Josie at the end of the day. “Hey,” she said. “You've been quiet all day. What, are you playing hard to get suddenly?” I laughed uneasily, and she continued. “Can't we get out of here—just the two of us?”

After end-of-the-day announcements, Josie and I walked over to Blueberry Hill Café. The line wasn't long at the coffee bar, and while I picked up the café au laits and pastries, Josie found a table near the back, where the teenagers always tried to sit, as far away as possible from the front door. It was one of the smaller round tables that could barely fit two wiry iron chairs on either side of it, and Josie positioned herself so she could look out into the café.

Carrying the tray of items over to the table, I sat down facing her.

“Hey,” she asked me. “Have you talked to Mark at all?” When I told her I hadn't seen him around, she was taken aback. “Of course you haven't seen him. He's been absent for two days. I tried calling his home during my free period, and there was no answer.”

“No, of course,” I said. “I just mean I'm not worried. He was grounded all weekend. He probably got sick at home or something.” I clenched and flexed my muscles to try to hold still, but jittery nausea swept through me. I didn't want to think about Mark's absence, but I couldn't stop.

“He hasn't been absent in two years,” Josie added. I
feigned surprise, but she was adamant. “Everybody is acting like a weirdo right now. If he were here, he'd just pass a bowl and get us laughing about something else, and we'd all forget about it. But he's not here. I mean, I like being here just with you,” she added, “but it's weird he hasn't been in school. A lot of things feel weird right now. I mean, the church scandal has everyone feeling flipped inside out.”

“Can we not talk about that?”

“It's hard to avoid. Especially with people talking about how something might have happened at Most Precious Blood.”

“Please,” I said. “That's bullshit. People start rumors because they need drama.” I spoke to Josie, but I wasn't looking at her. I was looking over her shoulder in the mirror behind her. Even with my back to everyone, I could still see the whole café in it. It ran most of the length of the back wall and perfectly produced the visual deceit of doubling the size of the café. Blueberry Hill was the kind of place that bustled all day long until the dinner hour. As usual, there was a small brigade of strollers parked around the room, and while the adults were mostly women, there were some men as well, which was a pleasant reminder that to afford a life in our town, not all the men had to work seventy hours a week or find themselves permanently on the road. One of them, in fact, I recognized as a father I saw around CDA, because he was an active member of the Parents Association. He was outfitted in his usual getup, a thick flannel shirt with the top
two buttons undone. I'd heard many of the mothers talk about how attractive they found him, but he didn't seem like a flirt to me, at least not when I'd seen him.

When we'd come into the café, he'd been reading the paper at a table by himself with the decimated remnants of a baguette sandwich in front of him. The skin around his eyes was crinkled, and he smiled through a close-cropped ashy beard as he scanned the pages. Only occasionally did he shake his head in a soft and almost patient disbelief. He was the kind of man I imagined I wanted to become. Not a man with an occupation I desired, because I had no idea what he did for a living, but a man whose disposition was a goal worth trying to achieve—a man at peace. But that didn't last. The bell over the front door jingled as Josie and I began talking, and I watched his expression change entirely.

Father Dooley leaned on his cane as he slowly made his way up to the coffee bar. The barista adjusted the bandanna on her head and wiped her hands on her apron as Father Dooley stepped up to the counter. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, since most of the café was watching him.

“My God,” Josie said, leaning in toward our table, “it's so hard to see a priest now and not wonder. It's like they're all guilty.”

“They're not,” I said softly.

I wanted to look away, close my eyes, or sprint out the back door if I could, but the man with the newspaper folded
it down and dropped it onto his little table. He glared at Father Dooley and rubbed his beard. The foot he had crossed up on one leg dropped to the floor. For a moment he sat like an athlete with his hands clasped and hanging loosely between his knees, but then he stood and crossed over to Father Dooley. He said something to the old priest too quietly for us to hear. Father Dooley shook his head and said something back. They exchanged a few more words, and Father Dooley walked around him to the other end of the counter and stared at the hissing espresso machine.

“Hey,” the man said, and pointed at Father Dooley, “don't ignore me. I asked you a question.”

“Please, Paul,” Father Dooley said coolly. “I'm just picking up some coffees.”

“You're the superior. You're not without any responsibility here,” Paul said.

“Please stop bothering me,” Father Dooley said. He glanced around the café quickly. “This really isn't the place to discuss it.”

“Don't you dare dismiss me!” Paul shouted. “I've been going to Most Precious Blood for over ten years. I deserve some answers. My kids have gone there.”

The woman behind the counter hurried through her tasks and spilled some of the first coffee she put down in front of Father Dooley. She stuffed the cup into a to-go tray and pushed it toward him.

“This is outrageous,” Paul continued.

“That's right,” a woman near the front of the café echoed. “He's right.”

Father Dooley gripped his cane and held it close to his leg. “I'm not the one on trial here. Please, don't treat me like a criminal. There's a better time and place to discuss this. The entire church is addressing this. We have a coordinated response.”

“Speak to me like a goddamn human being, Frank!” Paul trembled as he shouted. He steadied himself against the counter. “You think you're above the law. We want answers. Father Greg would be talking to us. Where the hell is he all of a sudden?”

One of the mothers at a table close to Paul stood up and put her hand on his back. “He's absolutely right,” she said to Father Dooley. “You . . . you . . . you should be ashamed of yourself.” She began to choke up. “Absolutely ashamed. You didn't say anything at Mass. You didn't mention it.”

“I'm not a reporter. I don't speculate about things and stir everybody up for no reason, just to create public hysteria!” Father Dooley looked around the room, and when his eyes found mine in the mirror, I froze. He didn't look like he'd wanted to yell back or wave his cane in their faces, but he had. We connected for only a moment, and judging from the way he trembled, I'm sure we felt exactly the same. His glance was a hand reaching out to me, grabbing hold of my shoulder and drawing me toward him. I couldn't break free, and I wondered, suddenly, if he felt the same about me. I probably scared him more than Paul did.

He didn't say anything to me. He turned back to Paul instead. “I'm doing all that I can. I'm trying.”

“Well, it sure isn't enough. The hysteria isn't the fault of the news. You're not going to say anything to me, are you? Where the hell is Father Greg? He'd say something. Where is he?”

Father Dooley picked up his tray with the three coffees. “Father Greg is sick right now, so let's not harass him anymore. He's not taking calls. I will, though. At the rectory. Now, we really all should move on to more important discussions and stop this badgering.” Father Dooley had always worn a pouting stone face—he was a rule stickler—but as he stood there with the gray cardboard tray wobbling in his hands, he seemed to lose hold of his usual self, and his usual mask began to crumble.

Paul jabbed his finger into Father Dooley's chest, and I thought the old priest would tip over. “You are just as responsible as the rest of the church,” Paul said. “You are just as guilty. You can't just reconcile that with your superiors. We deserve some justice too.”

Father Dooley nodded in agreement. “I'm sorry,” he said, and he turned around to the door. “Please, God,” I thought he muttered as he opened the door to the sidewalk.

The woman next to Paul patted him on the shoulder. Paul slammed his hand down on the counter next to the register, and she backed away. “I'm never walking in that church again,” he said. “The rest of the world calls that
harboring a goddamn criminal
.” The woman next to him led him over to
her table, and he pulled over his chair and joined her and her friend. The whole café became a din of chatter.

“Can you believe he came in here?” Josie said again. “He must be the dumbest man alive, or completely oblivious. My dad says it's just plain arrogance,” she continued. “Cardinal what's-his-name can't believe it's become such a scandal in the news. They all think it will just blow over.” She looked at me, and from the concern that spread over her face I knew my act was failing. “Seriously. What do you think?” she asked me. She waited for me to say something, but I couldn't speak. “I mean, you worked at Most Precious Blood,” she persisted. “Really? Nothing?”

“Honestly?” I said softly. “I just want this all to blow over too. Can we please talk about something else?”

“Hey, you're the one always bringing up the news,” Josie said. “And this is different. This is even more important. This is about kids.”

“Why is that any different?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It just is. It's, like, a double crime. You're not just hurting people now. You're fucking up their whole future. It's like attacking them once and then attacking them over and over for the rest of their lives.”

“Attacking them?”

“Look, it's an attack. But this is one we can do something about. What the hell is going on in this world? I'm mean, terrorists are taking over half the world, guys are mailing anthrax to congressmen and senators, Americans are joining
the Taliban. Seriously? And now priests are attacking children? Is the world coming to an end or something?”

“That's insane,” I said, raising my voice. “Besides, do you know how much good the Church has done in the world too? This doesn't just wipe it all out.”