Where It Hurts (5 page)

(THURSDAY)

I
t was my day off and I slept in late. I used to love days off, but now they’d become a burden, just more empty hours to fill; and all I’d had to fill them with was pain. After John’s death, I’d just stay in my room, first at home, then at the hotel, endlessly cycling through the cable channels until I could sleep again. Sometimes I would read the books hotel guests would leave in the van or in their rooms. That was okay. I learned to love reading again, but a lot of the time the books made me ache worse. When I was in school I didn’t realize that most fiction was about death and regret. About things people wished they had or hadn’t said, done or hadn’t done and how, for whatever reasons, saying or not saying, doing or not doing had buried them alive. I was already too familiar with that feeling to want to read much more about it. Lately I was sticking to nonfiction.

Then, when I started seeing Dr. Rosen, he suggested I get out of my room on my days off. It didn’t much matter where I went or what I did, he said, as long as I got out. So for the last few months, I did that, got out. Sometimes I’d go to the movies. Long Island has plenty of movie theaters. Within fifteen minutes of the hotel, there were about forty movie screens. Problem was, they all showed the same ten movies,
usually dumb superhero blockbusters. The other movies were like the found books: they made the ache worse. Eventually I settled on the Smith Haven Mall. Going to the mall made me a good Long Islander. Long Islanders believed that world peace would only be achieved through shopping, and not even the Dalai Lama himself worked as hard at world peace as the citizens of Nassau and Suffolk counties. My going to the mall seemed to please Dr. Rosen, though it took me a while to figure out why.

I’d go and zombie-walk. I’d walk and walk and walk. I didn’t shop. I didn’t even window-shop, not much, not really. At first, it just sort of felt like an incarnation of clicking through the channels, but when my eyes unclouded I came to understand Rosen’s pleasure. Because in the mall, I was confronted by the sight of twenty-year-old men, men the same age as my son at the time of his death. That hurt more than any book or movie. I hadn’t cried much since right after John Jr.’s death. That day, the day my eyes unclouded, I got back from the mall and cried so that I exhausted myself. I didn’t go to therapy that week as a kind of
Fuck You!
to Rosen. Funny, my not showing up didn’t seem to bother him. He was like that, seemingly unperturbed by my acting out.

That was the thing about Dr. Rosen, he didn’t overreact. Christ, most of the time, he barely reacted at all. I guess that was good in the long run, his letting me learn things for myself. I was no Dr. Freud, but even a retired cop gets that learning for yourself, healing yourself, is the whole fucking point of therapy. There were times, though, I just wanted an answer, you know what I mean? Like yesterday, for example, all I wanted was an answer, any answer. I was just as clueless about whether I should help Tommy D. when I left Rosen’s office as when I walked in. And neither Tommy Delcamino nor I could afford my long journey of self-discovery, not if he wanted my help. Not if I wanted to help him.

If there was anything I missed about the church, it was that: answers. Ready-made or custom-fit, the church was as full of answers as man was full of sin. Only problem was, I didn’t buy it anymore. I lost my faith a long time before losing my son, and his death proved me
right. There was one last someone of the church I loved and respected, someone to talk to. So I made a call and decided to skip my weekly trip to the mall.

Father Bill Kilkenny was the chaplain the union sent to comfort us after John’s death. And if there was a God to thank for him, I would. More than family, more than our friends, it was Father Bill who kept us functioning during those first impossible days. He had been amazingly patient with us, but most especially with me. The last thing I wanted to hear from some strange priest was about God’s infinite wisdom and his mysterious fucking ways. Father Bill seemed to sense that without being told. Before I could say a word about my own issues with the Almighty, he told me the story of his own lost faith and had exercised the wisdom not to share with me the details of how he’d reclaimed it. If, in fact, he had. Whether he had or hadn’t was beside the point. He was who we needed when we needed him. In the end, isn’t that what matters?

For nearly twelve months after John’s death, during the time my family blew itself apart, when my wife and daughter moved into my brother-in-law’s house, when I moved into the Paragon, during the period of Kristen’s bent of self-destruction, Father Bill kept in touch with us and us with each other. Annie and Krissy would tell you the same, that Bill Kilkenny was the glue that held us together when the center would not hold. But the bond was strongest between Father Bill and me. Was it that we were men? Was it that we shared a loss of faith? I couldn’t say then as I can’t say now.

After a while though, the bond weakened. It was only natural, because seeing Father Bill gradually morphed from salve to sting. Being with him, hearing his voice on the phone, became a reminder of the trauma that had brought us together in the first place. To heal, I suppose, there needs to be forgetting. There’s no healing if the scab is always pulled away. Seeing Father Bill did that, pulled the scab away. And beneath it, the blood was still moist and the pain still fresh. So as suddenly as he had come into my life, he was exiled. But somehow I knew there would be no bitterness in him about it. I was right, for when
I called to say I needed to discuss something important with him, his voice sparkled. I listened carefully to his tone for any hard edges, for signs of hurt, for resentment. There were none of those things. And picturing him there, the phone in his bony hand, a broad smile on his gaunt face, brought a sense of calm to me. It was good to think of Father Bill again without the pain and to let myself feel the gratitude, warmth, and kinship.

I hadn’t given much thought to the address he’d given me in North Massapequa. I’d assumed it was a rectory or an apartment in a building owned by the new parish to which he’d been assigned. I heard that shortly after I closed my life to him, Father Bill had given up his post as a union chaplain. I didn’t think that one had to do with the other. Just a matter of age, I thought. Though I never knew how old he was, he wasn’t a young man—in his late sixties or maybe seventy. I knew he had served as a Marine chaplain in Vietnam, the place where he had first lost his faith. Funny how I felt I knew him, but how little I knew of the facts of his life.

When I pulled up to the address, I was surprised to see him standing beside a beige vinyl-sided ranch house. He was smoking a cigarette, staring off into the distance. Except in North Massapequa there wasn’t anything to see in the distance besides the Sunrise Mall or an occasional tree. No, the distance he was staring into was inside his own head. I’d seen that vacant look on his face, seen that loose-limbed posture of his many times before, most often when he would grab a smoke. I asked him once where his head was at during one of those moments. He hadn’t answered.

“Father Bill,” I called to him as I approached.

He snuffed out his cigarette on the sole of his ugly black priest shoe and flicked it behind him. I extended my right hand to him, which he promptly slapped away.

“Here,” he said, “give us a hug.”

I was always surprised by how powerful a man he was given his thin frame and wiry build, never mind his age.

“Thanks for seeing me, Father Bill.”

“It’s just plain old Bill now. Found the Father title getting to be a bit cumbersome to carry about. A bit of an albatross, really.” He pulled back, patting my cheeks with both his hands. “Let’s have a look at you. Christ in heaven, it’s good to see you, Gus Murphy.”

Kilkenny was Bronx born and raised, his accent purely Kingsbridge, though he phrased and intoned his speech with a bit of a lilt. He used to say it put people at ease.
Like a lullaby,
he said.
Like a lullaby.

“You’ve left the church?” I blurted out, unable to camouflage my surprise.

He laughed that devilish, whispering laugh of his. “Quite the opposite, lad. More like it left me.”

“They fired you?”

He laughed again. “Nothing so dramatic, Gus. And before you say it, no, it hadn’t a thing to do with the abuse of children. Isn’t it a shame that is what comes first to mind, even to my mind?” He shook his gray head and crossed himself. “Come inside and we’ll talk, you and me.”

As I followed him, he stopped to pick up the cigarette butt he’d flicked away. It was a little thing, picking it up, but it said a lot about him.

(THURSDAY AFTERNOON)

T
he entrance to his basement apartment was around back of the ranch, down a few concrete steps, and through an unadorned, windowless door. It was a tidy little one-bedroom flat with a small living area, a galley kitchen, and a compact bathroom. It was neat but spare. The walls were white and nearly bare. Knowing Father Bill, I figured the few framed, sun-faded posters and prints on the walls came courtesy of previous renters. The nicest thing I could say about the furniture was that it was clean and functional, if somewhat institutional. Father Bill took note of me looking around as I tried to get comfortable on what passed for his couch. It was more like a bad church pew dressed up with thin, hard cushions.

“Gus,” he said, handing me a glass of red wine, “I’m like a man who’s been wrongly imprisoned for too long. A man who has dreamed of the luxury he would live in when finally set free. Ah, but then, when freedom came to him, he was still a prisoner. A man more at ease with the bland, even cruel things in this world.”

It was our ritual: one glass of wine together and then talk.

“You were in the church, Father Bill, not Elmira, for chrissakes.
Sláinte
.”

We clinked glasses. Had a few sips in silence. A silence he broke.

“All institutions share commonalities. Some more than others. I imagine you’ll want me to explain myself about leaving the church before we get to why you’ve come for a visit.”

I nodded.

“It’s a brief tale to tell. What happened was that I finally rediscovered my faith after all these years, and when I did, I saw the folly of how the institution of the church operates. The church has become a separate thing from the faith so that you can barely find Jesus for the machinery. Once I had my faith restored, Gus, I found I had no need of the machinery to sustain me. Strange thing about finding my way back to God was that I had been a pretty damned good priest for all those years I’d been without him. But when I had the spirit back inside me, I seemed to have lost my skill or desire for the job. So I quit. It’s that simple.”

“It’s never that simple, Bill.”

He winked. “You doubt me?”

“Let’s just say the next time we talk, I may want to hear the unabridged version.”

He arched one wispy gray eyebrow. “Next time? Let’s pray that less time passes between our next visit as between this and our last one. I mean, I’m getting to be an old fella and I can’t afford these long pauses anymore. But Jesus, Gus, it’s good to see you, man. You nearly resemble a human being.”

I knew exactly what he meant. When we’d met, I was pretty much a ghost, as were Annie and Krissy. We were hollow things, walking around, breathing, but less than alive.

“I’m better, Fath—Bill. ‘Almost’ is the right word. I’m getting there.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the trick of it, pal. We’re all always just getting there. And how are my girls?”

I shrugged. “Krissy still seems lost, but we had a good talk yesterday. Annie and me . . . we’re divorced.”

“I figured that was coming.” He made a sad face. “Your boy’s death hit her hardest. It always does the mother. No matter how close you and your boy were, there’s no closeness like the one between mother and child. He was once part of her body, Gus. The death of a child to a mother can change her, make her bitterest of all. She’ll come back to herself. I’ll pray for it. I know there was once great love between you, a fierce passion. I saw it even in her raging at you. Is there no remnant of it left?”

“Of the rage, plenty. Of the love . . . not so much.”

He laughed, sipped his wine. I noticed that I’d already finished mine.

“Here, let me take that for you,” he said, fetching my empty glass. “Give the girls my love, will you?”

“Of course.”

Bill poked his head out of the kitchen. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve come and sought me out?”

I told him about Tommy Delcamino’s visit to the coffee shop at the Paragon. About how his son had been tortured to death. About my fury. About my going to visit the lot where the kid’s body had been found. About Dr. Rosen and his wriggly fingers.

“And what is it you want from me, exactly?”

“Answers,” I said, feeling myself blush at the stupidity of hearing the word come out of my mouth.

“Answers, is it? Wouldn’t we all like some of those?”

“I guess.”

“Perhaps if you shared the questions.”

“Christ, Bill, you sound like my shrink.”

“Clearly a gentleman and a scholar, your Dr. Rosen.” He came out of the kitchen, a smile on his face, and sat across from me on a stiff-backed wooden chair. He patted my knee, focusing his faded gray eyes on mine. “Come on, what’s going on with you?”

“I know I should just leave it be with Tommy Delcamino. It’s not my business. His tragedy isn’t mine.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Gus. None of our tragedies is ours alone to bear. We are all one family under Christ.”

“This guy isn’t my friend. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I used to arrest this guy. He’s a piece of shit, a low-life thieving—”

“He’s your brother, Gus, as much as any man is. As much as I am. He may not deserve any more than anyone else, but he deserves no less. Don’t we all deserve justice whether it comes in this life or the next?”

“But is it my job to help him find it?”

“So is that the question you want me to answer, is helping him your job?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t think it is your job to help this Delcamino fella.” He stood, frowning, the deeply etched lines of his face suddenly grave. “What if he had come to you for help with anything else?”

“I’m not getting you, Bill.”

He moved toward the kitchen. “I’m having another glass of wine. Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. But—”

“Wait a sec, will you?”

When Bill came back into the small living area, I noticed that he really was a prisoner of his old profession. His clothing was worn and frayed and ill-fitting. His pilled beige sweater and too-big brown polyester pants hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. And those shoes, those ugly black shoes, dull with age and wear. But he looked good. He sipped from his full glass.

“Where were we?” he asked as if he couldn’t remember. He remembered, all right.

“Answers. You said that I knew the answer.”

“To one question, you surely do. It’s not your job to help this man, but you knew that even before you came. You knew it the second he asked for your help. To the question you really came here about, I’m not sure I can help you with that, Gus. I’m not sure anyone can.”

“Forgive me, Bill, but I’m not sure I understand.”

He took a gulp of wine, wiped his lips with a brush of his thumb, and put the glass down. “Some answers are meant to be found out and not revealed.”

“Thanks, Yoda.” I laughed a little, but he didn’t.

“You’ll only understand when you find what you’re looking for.”

I shook my head. I’d come here for answers and was now more confused than before.

“Jesus, Bill, you’ve been a big help.”

“Would that be a wee bit of sarcasm I hear in your voice, boyo?” he asked, turning his implied lilt into a full B-movie priest brogue.

“Sorry.”

“No need for that. There’s no apologies between us, but I do think you owe this Tommy an apology, Gus. If anyone would understand his plight, I would think it would be your own self. Helping him may not be your duty, but a bit of respect and courtesy is due the man.”

“If I thought I was going to get a priestly lecture, I’m not sure I would’ve come.”

We both laughed at that.

“I guess I better be at it then,” I said, getting up off the cushioned pew.

He put his glass down and embraced me again.

“I’ve missed your company, Gus, truly. Please let’s talk again soon.”

“It’s a deal.”

Now he offered
his
hand to me. When I took it, he said, “Come, I’ll walk you out.”

“I can find my way.”

“You can’t smoke my damned cigarette for me now, can you?”

We laughed again.

But when we got outside, Father Bill—I guess I would always think of him that way, collar or no collar—got that look on his face again.

“What’s the face for?”

“I fear for you, Gus.”

“I can take care of myself.”

A sad smile replaced the grave look on his face. “I don’t doubt it. I fear for you because I don’t think you’ll find what you are looking for.”

“We’ll see.”

He nodded, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

When I turned back around at my car to wave goodbye, I saw Bill was as I had found him, staring off into the past.