The Thieves of Faith (5 page)

Busch would hop in his Corvette, put the top down, and let the wind dry his sandy blond hair. He’d stop at Shrieffer’s Deli for a cup of coffee and the paper, and catch up with whatever local he bumped into. And every Thursday and Sunday, without fail, he would buy one lottery ticket. It was like a drug to him, a newfound optimism of wealth creeping into his soul. Upon stuffing it in his pocket, he would walk out confident that he held the winning ticket for the next drawing. And the mood would carry him through his days and nights, putting a smile on his face and warmth in his voice. The ticket’s euphoric ability would last right up to the moment of the drawing. He would then hit bottom, crestfallen that he had missed the winner’s circle again, but come the next morning and the next ticket, that feeling would be washed away on the tide of new hope that would sit in his pocket—till the next drawing that he was sure to win.

Jeannie pressured Paul into retirement. While he was initially reluctant, he had taken to it like a duck to water. He collected his pension in one large chunk and bought four things: a restaurant with a serious bar, a ’68 Corvette, a Fender Stratocaster guitar, and the “Black Album” by Metallica. At seven o’clock every night, he would hop in the Vette, flip down the roof, pop in the Metallica CD, and head to work with the song “The Unforgiven” as his theme music delivering his hi-ho fuck you to the world.

He loved tending bar, he had dreamed about it for more years than he could remember, but as was the case with so many dreams, the old axiom kept ringing in his ears: careful what you wish for. The bar was everything he could have wanted. Jeannie ran the restaurant while he was in charge of pushing alcohol and booking entertainment, but after about a month, it, like so many things, became routine. He missed his adrenaline, a drug he seemed to have left on the desk of his old job back on the police force. But there was always the bright side. Death didn’t seem to lurk around every corner and for that, Jeannie had some peace of mind. He couldn’t deny her that no matter how much he missed it.

Busch was sitting on the front porch, looking at his yellow Corvette, the only car in the driveway. He flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Hey, are you going to show up tonight?”

“I told you I would,” Michael said. “Relax.”

“Just checking. Where are you?”

“I’m home,” Michael said quickly. “Where are you?”

Busch looked down at Michael’s dogs, rubbing behind their ears. “I’m home, too. See you tonight.”

Busch stood up and walked across the driveway. He opened the door of the Vette and looked back at Michael’s house, shaking his head. He gave Michael’s dogs one last pet, started up his car, and drove off.

Michael stood alone in the middle of the Banksville Cemetery, allowing the grief to wash over him, once again feeling the loss that had hollowed his heart. He stared at Mary’s grave.
God’s gift to Michael, Michael’s gift to God.
A year now and the suffering, the mourning had not abated. He knew, indisputably, that she was in a better place, but even that couldn’t fill the emptiness of his heart.

As the setting sun cast its golden hue upon the sea of headstones, Michael finally lifted his head and looked around the graveyard; he was the only one aboveground on this humid June evening. He glanced to his left, at the graves of his mother and father. All the family he had ever known surrounded him with their absence. Genevieve’s death had magnified the solitude that Michael felt, the lack of family, the lack of reason. It reminded him of his mortality but even more, it reminded him of Mary’s funeral.

His cell phone vibrated in his hip pocket. He reached in, thumbed it off, and tucked it into the side pocket of his blue sport coat. He hadn’t worn the jacket since before Mary had passed away. He didn’t know why. It had been her favorite—Ralph Lauren—but since her passing, every object in his home, in his life, seemed to take on some significance. The last glass she drank from, the last sweater she wore, her favorite pen. It all now had meaning, where none existed before. Some things brought smiles and others tears. He would never delete her voice messages on his cell phone, replaying them on an almost daily basis just to hear her voice, just to feel his emotions.

She had often worn his shirts, his jackets, and always left him a reminder of her love for him in the pocket: tickets for a Yankees game, a fortune cookie proverb, or, on many occasions, a love note.

So when Michael found the courage to put on the Ralph Lauren jacket again, he immediately felt the bulge and knew what it was before he pulled it from the inside breast pocket.

He hadn’t intended to come to the cemetery this night but the letter compelled him. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he just got on his bike and began driving.

He gently opened the flap, holding it close to his face. As he withdrew the letter her fragrance washed over him, pulling his mind back to a happier time; the emotions poured from him as he closed his eyes, memorizing her scent, longing for her return.

He unfolded the paper and stared. Her handwriting was elegant, stylized from her Catholic school education. The tear-smudged lettering gave him pause.

Michael,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write but I know my pain pales next to what you are feeling as you now read my last words. Please know that my love for you runs eternal; that the short life we had together was a lifetime’s worth of passion; that the joy you gave me was greater than I could ever have wished for.

My heart is breaking knowing that I have left you alone in the world, left you without children to call your own, left you without family to comfort you as you mourn. No one knows you better than I, Michael, and I know you will try to bury your pain, your anguish, but I implore you not to, for it will eat you up, turning your good heart bitter.

You probably haven’t worn this jacket for many months, you’ve probably worn nothing but that black leather jacket, which is so beaten up and dirty. I’m glad to see you’ve finally put on something decent.

Michael smiled at her insight.

Not to be a nag but…You must be sure to eat at least one healthy meal a month, take your clothes to the laundry, and, above all, please remember to shave more often so as not to hide your handsome face.

Michael ran his hand down his scraggly beard and smiled again.

You have so much love to share, and as angry as it will make you, I must tell you to try and find love again. To have someone so caring as yourself alone, without anyone to feel your love, is a waste. I will not dwell on this, as I don’t want to upset you. You will know when the time is right, and I assure you that time will one day come.

Which leads me back to my real purpose, why I have brought pen to paper for the last time. It is to ask you to finally seek out something for yourself, to do something selfish. We had spoken of it many times but life always seemed to get in the way.

They are out there, Michael, somewhere in this world. And you, with your talents, with your skills, should be able to find them.

I had hoped to have found them for you. I had quietly begun looking, going back through birth records, trying to contact people who worked at the orphanage where the St. Pierres adopted you. But everywhere I turned, I kept coming up with dead ends. All I have to give you is the address of an attorney who does pro bono work for St. Catherine’s. I received his name from a woman I met while searching the birth records of Boston hospitals.

But I know you, Michael, and your propensity to put yourself last; that is why I am not asking you to find your real parents for yourself, but for me. It is my last request, one that will allow me to go to my final rest knowing that you are not alone in this world. Family has a way of making us whole, filling the emptiness that pervades our hearts, restoring the hope that we think is forever lost.

I love you, Michael. I will always love you, I will always be with you, eternally within your heart.

Your wife, your lover, your best friend,

Mary

On the bottom of the letter was a penciled-in address: 22 Franklin Street, Boston.

Michael looked at her words one last time, folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and tucked it back in his jacket pocket.

Chapter 3

I
t was the beginning of June and they were already
five days into the first heat wave of the year. And of all nights to lose the air-conditioning, this was the worst. The air was so hot that it seemed to sear the lungs upon each breath. And it just hung there, unmoving, no circulation, as if to embrace victims until they succumbed to the heat. Paul Busch was sure the take at the bar would more than triple the usual evening’s count; people were buying drinks strictly for the ice, and
that
was melting away within minutes. It was beginning to put him on edge; the inebriation was communal, the air temperature was unbearable. All they needed was one temper to flare and it would infect all, ending in a bloody brawl of bar-wrecking proportions. Not a good thing for a Wednesday night in June.

Valhalla was an upscale restaurant in a recently upscale town, serving an upscale clientele. The meals were straightforward American cuisine served in an elegant manner. The young barely-contained-ego crowd usually hung around after eleven o’clock for the chance to bag themselves a fresh kill, plying their prey with smooth talk and smoother liquor. And the thrill of the hunt wasn’t left to only hunters; many a huntress would be marking her territory on a Wednesday through Sunday night, with the pack actually leaning sixty–forty in the feminine favor.

The cherrywood bar was the only leftover from the restaurant’s prior incarnations: the Ox Yoke Inn, men’s grill, no women allowed; GG’s North, a biker bar closed down when the drag racing grew too difficult for the eleven-man police force; Par’s, a smoky excuse for a steak joint. The bar’s wood was lacquered and waxed to a high sheen and could tell a story more decadent than any church confessional. It was Paul’s pride and joy and, at the moment, it was hidden by the packed-in crowd elbowing for his attention for the next round.

The music flowed from a Steinway short, six feet of German musical engineering built in Queens, New York, circa 1928. The pianist squeezed out song after song, always able to strike a note with the bar-rail crowd, balancing the selection from current pop to seventies retro to Perry Como standards. With the indoor temperature hovering around ninety-eight, with a steam-room thick humidity, the sweat poured off the patrons, staining underarms dark, matting out the straight hair and frizzing the curls. The moist red-cheeked appearance of all stood in stark contrast to the musician who cranked out each song while remaining dry as a bone. Not a hint of perspiration on his clothes or his person except for one drop on his right temple, hanging just below his shock of unkempt brown hair. Michael St. Pierre’s voice was smooth as whiskey, rough as gravel, whatever was needed to strike a chord. Every Wednesday night he would play and the women would pounce, hanging around the bar trying to catch his attention, to lure him in with a seductive smile. And every Wednesday he would politely smile back, avoiding the trap of eye contact, remaining forever silent but for the words he sang and the occasional thank you.

There was a hint of pain in Michael’s blue eyes as he sang out Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the women saw it, wishing it were them he was singing about, wondering who the woman was who drove the soul behind the voice.

As he finished the song, he stood from the piano, rising to his full six feet, picked up his leather jacket—his favorite, soft and broken in from years of riding—and headed for the far corner of the bar.

“Aren’t we melancholy tonight,” Paul said, abandoning the other patrons to pour his friend a straight Scotch on the rocks—being extra generous with the rocks.

“Is it warm in here?” Michael half joked, half changed the subject. With his finger, he swiped the cool water from his sweating glass and rubbed it on his forehead.

“I’ve got maybe fifteen more minutes worth of ice, then the place will clear out.” Paul returned to pouring for his customers but kept talking to Michael. “Feel like going up to the loft, catch the end of the Yankee game, or are you going to finally cave in and take one of these fine ladies home with you?” Paul tilted his head, alluding to a more-than-above-average group of women holding court at the bar.