Page 3 of The Reaper

This life would kill me, no doubt about it, but not today. I would find whoever was after me if it was the last thing I did.

Three: The Priest

In some ways, my arrival at the Cathedral of Holy Cross in Boston felt like a reset. An opportunity to be someone new; a second chance to redeem myself in the place I once called home. Poetic, but the path that led me back there was long and tumultuous—how being reborn should be. The distance between the high desert of Albuquerque and the seaside of Boston was nothing but a closed chapter of my life.

It was late in the evening when I arrived in front of what was to be my new home. Father Oller was waiting on the curb when I came out of the town car they’d arranged to pick me up. The moon was full, while the stars fought the city lights for attention. Father Oller didn’t know it, but we’d met almost twenty years ago, when I was ten years old. A life of servitude had withered him. His blue eyes were dulled by the milky circles around his pupils. I was unsure if it was the moon casting a gray hue on his short hair that made it appear lighter than I remembered, but he’d definitely aged. “You must be Father Saint James,” he greeted, leaning forward to look behind me. “The bishop’s house to your left is unlocked,” he instructed the driver carrying my two suitcases.

I shook both of his hands before handing him the letter from the Vatican about my new mission to replace the parish’s longtime bishop. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said, examining his face. Either he was great at masking his disappointment or he wasn’t bothered by my arrival and his impending relocation.

Father Oller rested his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. He flipped the envelope open, his head moving side to side as he read the letter. “Let me show you around,” he said moments later, handing the letter back to me. Still no expression. I marched behind him as he led me to my new residence. “This way,” he instructed when he turned left. He needn’t have bothered because I knew this place like the back of my hand. Still, I played along. “Everything you need is here. Jessica will be in tomorrow morning to help you get settled.” He stood to the side of the open door, where my bags were parked on the stone steps.

Confused, I asked, “You’re not coming in?” I didn’t expect him to leave so soon. The bishop’s residence could easily accommodate both of us.

Father Oller reached for my hand, placing the keys on my open palm. “No. My flight leaves tonight.”

“Well, thank you, Father Oller,” I said, shaking his hands. “I promise to take care of the parish.”

“I’m sure you will, son.”

***

A couple of days later, I glanced at my reflection before heading out of the bishop’s house. Just like any other mission, I told myself.

My new home was separated from the church by a courtyard, with a garden outlined by boxwood. Red and yellow tulips were in bloom, while floral baskets bursting with different colors hung on every pillar of the cloister leading to the equally impressive cathedral made out of pale terracotta bricks.

The mosaic stained glass filtering the morning sun, and the smoke issuing from the incense sticks and candles on the altar, gave the church a heavenly glow. The ornate Hook and Hastings brass organ hadn’t changed since I’d last seen it when I was a teenager. The memories of those years were preserved just like every nook and cranny of this place. I could still hear my uncle’s voice whenever I closed my eyes: “You have big shoes to fill.” We were a family of priests. Two of my uncles were priests, and my older brother was too.

I made my way to the altar, pulled a gold and jade rosary from the pocket of my black pants, and kneeled. Jesus on the cross looked down at me, and I wondered about the things he’d seen, the secrets he’d heard. Bowing my head with my joined hands, I prayed, adding weight to the savior’s shoulders.

I had barely begun when the old, heavy wooden door creaked open, carrying babble through the nave of the church. With my eyes closed, I traced the tiny smooth body of Christ carved in the small cross in my hands. The chatter continued as my fingers glided through the first three beads, in sync with the words etched in my mind. I could tell where I was with my prayers just by feeling every groove of my chaplet.

The conversation among the new arrivals halted, replaced by the sound of footsteps and faint murmurs.

“Now might not be the best time,” a soft, familiar female voice whispered.

“It won’t take long,” a deeper male voice said.

“We just want to introduce ourselves,” a woman with a thick New England accent insisted.

“Fine,” the first woman said to cover her sigh.

Their steady strides continued, becoming louder as they neared me. My concentration had been broken. My curiosity piqued, and I resorted to a shortened version of my prayer.

Someone cleared their throat when they reached the bottom of the high altar in the middle of the cathedral. “Um, Father?” the same familiar voice asked hesitantly. “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan would like to say hello.”

“Is he the one who replaced Father Oller? He looks so young,” the man whispered.

I lifted my head. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” I said, signing the cross before rising.

Jessica, the parish assistant I’d met the day after I arrived two days ago, stood next to an older couple with big smiles on their faces. “I hope we’re not interrupting.” She walked toward me and extended her hand.

“Thank you, Jessica,” I said, handing her my rosary. “And you’re not interrupting. Your timing is perfect.”

She smiled and pocketed the chain of beads before introducing me to our guests. “This is Mr. Spencer Callahan and his wife, Mrs. Marcella Callahan.” Jessica stood next to me motioning to our guests. “They sponsored the remodeling of the west wing and the bishop’s residence last year.”

I didn’t miss the way Jessica emphasized sponsored. Every parish had one or a hundred. “Oh, of course,” I said, and closed the distance between myself and the Callahans. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.” I offered my hand to Mrs. Callahan first. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Mrs. Callahan beamed. “Welcome to Boston, Father Saint James,” she said.

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