The Gospel of Winter (28 page)

All I could hear and see was Mark again, on the edge of the roof, shouting, and then later, after, when he said he could never be free. I hadn't realized then from what, or from whom, but as we stood next to his locker I thought about how many times Mark must have stared into it and wondered if he should finally tell someone about what had happened between him and Father Greg.

I hit the lockers with the side of my fist. Ms. Richards yelled again, but I ignored her. “I can't do this anymore!” Sophie looked at me, terrified. “I can't!” I shouted. I left the two of them in the hallway and ran down the flights of stairs to the ground floor, out the door, and into the falling snow.

+    +    +

Father Greg needed to know what I planned to do next. He wouldn't just read about it in the papers. I wanted him to hear it from me. When I got there, the church parking lot was also empty, except for the parish car that was buried beneath a thin coating of snow. The building was completely dark except for two lights in the rectory out back. I trudged up the slope of the driveway, toward the side door to the
rectory, carving small trenches in the snow as I walked. The door was locked, and I slammed the underside of my fist against it as hard as I could. I banged harder and harder on the door until I heard the metal bar squeak on the other side and the door pushed open toward me. Father Dooley braced himself against the cold wind that rushed into the rectory, and he gathered the collar of his robe up around his neck. He held his cane in the same hand so it pressed against his chest, pointing at the floor ceremoniously. He leaned heavily on the door while the wind whipped the fine hair on his head.

He was hunched over more than usual, and the wind blew up into his bathrobe, too, ruffling the flannel around his legs. He was dressed beneath the robe, and I had the impression he had just dragged himself out of an armchair, possibly even a nap. “Well, get in here before the wind blows me over,” he said.

He slammed the door shut behind me and caught his breath. “I'm surprised to see you here.” He leaned on the door as if he waited to open it again soon. Then he composed himself. “The doors are always open to you here,” he said more confidently. “I'm glad you know that. It's a welcome surprise is what I mean.”

I pressed the leather of my gloves against my lips and blew, cupping and recupping my hands, trying to bring some warmth back into my fingertips. Father Dooley swayed briefly and pitched forward onto his cane, releasing his
robe, letting it open, revealing the loose, threadbare sweater beneath it and the woolen pants that billowed around his spindly legs. I paced around the foyer until I finally fixed myself beside the railing to the stairwell that led down to the basement. The weak sunlight was dimmed by the storm, and inside most of the lights were off. Only the lamplight from Father Dooley's office and the Sunday school room at the other end of the rectory diffused into the main hall and just barely lit the foyer and stairwell. I could see the pale gray slab of the landing below, and although beyond the turn of the stairs and the rest was completely dark, it was all too easy to recall Father Greg's forefinger pointing and beckoning me to follow him farther.

“You don't look well,” Father Dooley said behind me, breaking the silence. He came around and stood in the doorway to the main hall, the weak light from his office on his back. He looked at the floor, but his voice was soft and concerned, or he presented it that way at least. It had that tentative tone of pity. “Are you okay? Do you want a cup of tea? I made a pot a little while ago. There's plenty left. Let's go inside.”

“No.” I gripped the railing and didn't move.

“Please. Let's talk. I'm glad you came. It'll be good for us to talk here. Let's go to my office.”

“No.”

“Help an old man off his legs, Aidan. Come on.” He smiled at me but let it drop after a moment. “Let's go back to my office,” he continued. “It'll do us both some good.”

“No!” I found myself trembling, turning back to the stairwell, unable to make out the familiar fixtures on the wall down into the basement.

Father Dooley breathed heavily behind me. He sighed. “Did you come here for a particular reason, Aidan? I want to help you. I know it's hard for you to believe, but I do.”

“I'm not staying,” I said, although it was hard to put any force in my words. “Get Father Greg in here. I want him to hear this too. I'm not keeping quiet anymore,” I said. “I can't.”

“Now, Aidan.” I'd heard that tone of voice too many times. “Aidan, please. We should talk about this.”

“I'm going to.”

“There's no reason to fear,” Father Dooley said slowly. “You are okay now. We have to think about the future, Aidan.”

“Get Father Greg!” I yelled. “I want to say it to his face.”

Father Dooley tried to draw himself up a little. He held his cane with two hands and leaned closer. “Please,” he said, almost hushing me. “Let's go back to my office, Aidan.”

Every time I heard my name, I heard Father Greg's voice—cold whispers, broken promises, and the long, twisted plot of a lie. I slammed the railing. “There's nothing else left. Get him. I need to tell him what he did. He needs to hear it. He did it.”

“Nothing left? Aidan, there's the bigger picture. The tradition. The church. All those schools. The children.”

“What about me?”

Father Dooley took a step closer. “Calm down, Aidan. Father Greg is gone. He won't be coming back. He's been transferred. He's in Canada, Aidan. Now, please. Let's calm down. We can talk about this. You're okay, Aidan.” He came closer and put his hand on my shoulder.

I buckled. “Canada? You sent him to Canada?”

“He was transferred. Eventually, he'll be back in Africa,” Father Dooley said. He smiled. “I told you I would protect you, Aidan. I told you I cared. Now, let's calm down. Think of all that work he has done. All that work that you have done with him. There's so much more, Aidan. Why tear down all that has been good?”

“He needs to hear this. I need to tell him. He's done this. It's his fault. I don't want to hurt anyone else,” I cried.

“Aidan, you asked me to make sure you never saw him again. I understood you. You'll just have to talk to me, instead. It's good. I'm here to help you.”

His grip was weak, but his voice was calm and level, and the more I heard it, the more it felt like a squeeze around my throat. “Let go,” I said.

He did immediately and stepped back. He rubbed his jaw, and his hand shook. “Aidan. There are other ways of thinking about this. Remember St. Francis rebuilding the church? Remember that we are talking about love, divine love? God's love. That's what we're talking about. That is larger than the indiscretions of human beings. That is worth protecting, Aidan. It is larger than us.”

He walked toward the main hall, and I shouted at his back. “That's what you are always talking about. All of you. Love?” I looked into the basement and looked back. “Love?” I shouted, and rattled the railing. “I am sick of lying. I won't do it anymore. I don't know how you do it.”

Father Dooley turned around in the doorway. “Aidan, don't yell at me. Can't you see the position I'm in? What am I supposed to do? I believe in this church—the Catholic Church, Aidan. It is bigger than you or me or Father Greg. It's universal. I serve the Church, Aidan. I believe in the compassion. I believe in that love. I believe in the Church.” He leaned against the door frame and shook his cane at me. There were tears in his eyes. “Believe me,” he said. “Please.”

I stepped toward him. He gestured for me to quiet down, but I ignored him. “Do you know how many times Father Greg told me that?” I yelled. “Where does the line get drawn? Why do I have to be expendable?”

“That's not the only way to look at it.”

“How can you hold it all in? All of it. Don't you just want to scream?”

Father Dooley stood rigid, as if every muscle in his body flexed and he'd lost his ability to move. “There are consequences, Aidan. You have to understand. Please. Think about everyone else involved. Think about all the other people.”

“I am!” I hit the door frame beside him. “It's not just me. It
is
other people.”

“There's too much in the press. Don't let that confuse things.” He reached out to me again, and I batted his hand away. He stepped back.

“I'm not.”

“Aidan, don't join the witch hunt,” he snapped. “Think about this. You know Father Greg was a good man. Now get ahold of yourself,” he said, but then he grew quiet. He receded into the hall, away from me, moving back into the darkness between his office and us. “Now, Aidan,” he said. “You're beginning to scare me.” He continued to back away. “I'm just an old man, and I don't need to be threatened in this way. Don't make me call the police.”

“On me?” I yelled. “What will they say when I tell them?”

“You can't threaten me, Aidan. It isn't right. You're not the first to threaten us. The police know that. I can get a restraining order. They're ready. But, please, let's not do that. I care about you, and you can't ruin everything else just for yourself. Please. Try to see this. Try to think of everybody else.”

I pointed toward the basement. “I was there. I know it. He was with James. I was right there. He was with James. I was there!” I slammed the door frame again, and Father Dooley shrank back into the main hall. I followed him. “Everyone else? I am thinking about everyone else. James, me, Mark? Mark Kowolski, you goddamn criminal. Do you know what Mark did? He jumped off the bridge at Stonebrook. Father Greg needs to know that.”

Father Dooley turned and moved quickly toward his office. “You need to know that too,” I said as I pursued him. “You knew about each of us. You knew what he did to us.” I grabbed him by the shirt and forced him back against the wall near his office. “He did this. Do you know what he did to us? He did this.” I shook Father Dooley and felt his bony chest bounce off my knuckles. I slammed him repeatedly against the wall, shaking him, crying, and I thought of Father Greg taking James in his arms and pushing him up against the workbench in the basement. Father Greg's breath was a wind in my ears:
Shh. Shh
. Arms useless against a stronger chest. Muffled voices. Clothes rustling. Suffocation. Swallowing something like a roar within me. No:
Shh. Shh
.

Leaning into Father Dooley, I sobbed with my head on his shoulder. “I'm going to say something,” I said softly. “I'm going to explain everything.”

Father Dooley mumbled. His words were caught in his throat. His arms were not up against mine, and I stepped back when I realized my body pinned him against the wall. His cane fell to the floor, and he staggered forward. I caught him and dragged him over to one of the metal folding chairs nearby. He lifted his hands to his head finally, and a dull moaning echoed softly in the rectory's main hall.

“I'm going to tell everyone everything,” I continued. “You did nothing. Say it. Tell me what you did. Tell me, you monster.”

“I can't,” Father Dooley finally said. “I can't.”

Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't remember why I had gone there in the first place, and I couldn't imagine where I might go next. It was as if I had been nowhere before and would go nowhere else again. There was nothing that kept my mind fixed and present other than Father Dooley's broken voice. He was talking again, but the words were incomprehensible to me. I couldn't hear his excuses anymore. His noise became a chant echoing in my mind, a sound that haunted me as it reached for meaning and couldn't deliver it. The gibberish gathered in the room in drifts of nonsense, clinging to me like clumps of snow, a wet fist closing up around me. There was nothing else for me to hear. I left him there, slumped in the chair, mumbling his prayers to himself.

The steady snowfall continued. It had already spread itself over lawns, tree limbs, and the roofs of houses. Beyond the trees, nothing broke through the deadening, washed-out expanse above. I slowly loped across yards and listened to the new snow beneath my feet. Each step made a sound like vigorous scratching, and I repeatedly looked over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed. I didn't wait to catch my breath. I kept moving, watching my own breath drift faintly ahead of me while the snow continued to gather, and as I approached the Stonebrook golf course, I took the long way around the back side of the course, careful to avoid the bridge. I couldn't look at it. I walked by
the fourth hole and saw a dark animal cut a lonely path through a nearby, whitewashed bunker. It paused to eye me across the distance before continuing its track.

I let the whole day pass before I finally made my way into Mark's neighborhood, turned onto his street, and looked up at his house. The yard was empty, and the house was completely dark. Blood pulsed in my wrists and at the base of my neck with a rush and thump that was beyond my control. I stood on the street for a while and let the snow stick to my face and bite me as it melted. Finally, I got up the courage to walk up to the front door and ring the bell. No one answered. I rang it again and again, and still no one answered. I walked around the house to the side door to the mudroom, where I had helped Mark on New Year's Eve. I peered inside. Empty shoes and boots made a neat row beneath the bench. I walked around the back of the house to the kitchen. One pale light was lit over the stove. It was the only light on in the house, and a muted blue-white glow spread from the cooking station into the rest of the kitchen. Everything was tidy, spotless, and inhuman.

“Please. I'm sorry,” I said into the empty house.

A dog with a slow baritone barked somewhere far away in the patchwork of yards. Its bark carried from one neighborhood to another, becoming fainter. Its voice, as it traveled through the night, would eventually go mute and disappear in the distance, as it seemed everything did, and drift into the nothingness beyond. I hit the side of Mark's
house. I kicked at the door. “Please,” I said again. “I'm here. I'm here now!”