Page 36 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
I almost don’t want to ask. “What happened?”
He rubs his lips, lost in his memories. Then the pain is back, obliterating all else.
“She drowned. I was jealous of the attention Mama and Papa gave her. I teased her about how she must float in the storm if she wanted to become the best prima ballerina. I showed her how easy it was. But you see, I was almost a grown man. Fifteen and with strong muscles. The waves were nothing to me, but I did not know she was not eating her food. The dancing had made her thin and brittle like a stick. She could not fight the ocean and I was not as strong as I believed.”
“It was an accident.”
“Si, but my jealousy was not.” He rubs his fingers over the Bible sitting on his lap. He traces the grooves of the embossed letters M.A. and says, “Maria Angelotti wasmiopicolla angelo.” He swallows hard. “You asked me once how I became mafioso. I thought, if I had sent an angel to her death, then I must be a devil, no? And this was why I could sniff out my own kind.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Gratzie. But I am telling you this because you must know your story is not unique. We are all tempted by many evils, especially in our youth. The Lord forgives as long as you feel in here”—he points to my heart—“you were wrong and do not wish to do it again.”
“But that’s the problem,” I reply darkly. “I’m not sorry I left to keep her safe. I’m sorry I hurt her, yes, and I’m sorry she became a cold-hearted killer because I left her behind. But for all I know, keeping that stuffed toy was what stopped the fires following her.”
“How do you feel your deception made her feel?”
“Shitty, of course. She feels shitty. I feel shitty. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“So your penance is to make amends with her.”
Easier said than done.
“As for your lie to us, your penance is twelve Hail Marys.”
“That’s it?”
“You are not planning on lying to us again, I hope?”
“No.”
Nerves tickle my spine.
He makes the sign of the cross before my face and prays for my absolution in Latin. I’ve heard it too many times.
“But...” I start after he’s done.
“You have more?”
“No, it’s just... about me heading into the city.”
“You are getting your tattoos fixed as well?”
I nod, but I want to talk about what I might have to do if pushed to my limits.
A long, tired breath shoots from his lips. He stands and tugs out his white Roman collar. “I need a beer. Walk back with me.”
After he divests himself of the robes, he returns with his black shirt open at the collar. He flicks the lights off and closes the doors as we leave. With his hands in his pockets, we start the short walk back down the winding lakeside path.
“So,” he says, “you will attend Leila on a visit to the city to speak with a man who is boasting about a helmet of importance.”
I nod.
“But you will have to connect with old acquaintances.”
Again, I nod. He knows exactly who I need to contact and what I might have to do. For a split second, he’s no longer the priest but the mafioso with disheveled hair and finger tattoos. I imagine he walked like this with many of his crew, discussing the ins and outs of a speedy and fast execution. Maybe he’s not the right person to talk me down from the itchy trigger finger ledge.
“We’ve seen the miracles the archangel’s relic can perform,” he points out. “Something like this must not be allowed to remain in the hands of evil. We agree with these Sinners on this front.”
