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PROLOGUE
It had been a long, full Monday, but that was how Father Thomas liked them.A priest was obliged to spend one day each week engaged in prayer and spiritual contemplation –contractually obligated, according to Zbigniew, the earnest curate who’d been assigned to Saint Andrew’s last year.Father Thomas couldn’t remember signing any contracts back at the seminary in Derry, but regardless of that, he preferred to fulfill his obligations while busy with other things.This morning, he’d composed next Sunday’s sermon while cycling to the hospice center.And later, while he and a few volunteers sifted through the frankly pitiful donations for the forthcoming Harvest Festival display, he’d certainly offered up a lot of prayers.
He offered another one – of the “Lord give me strength” variety – while listening to Mrs.Kerrigan’s confession.Typically, Mrs.K.was the only penitent of the evening.Just as typical, she arrived right as he was about to close up shop.
"Now the father’s no use to her.He can’t even drive Jenny to the store; he’s banned from driving.So that’s them, now, Father, gone from a three-car family to a no-car family in six months!That’s where the boy gets it from.For the apple never falleth far from the tree.”
Father Thomas coughed.He was certain that this particular old saw did not feature in the Book of Proverbs.
“I’ve held my tongue, Father.Never said a word to Jenny herself.All that’s happened is, I’m standing in Market Basket in the line and there’s Jenny’s Kevin behind me.And I just mention in passing to Jenny’s Kevin that Rae’s Kevin would never have offered the boy a start in the nets if Rae’s Kevin had known about the court date.That’s it.”
If only thatwasit.Tonight’s offering was a complicated tale, but at its root were simple facts.In communities like this, up and down the Maine coast, fishing was finished.Long-established seafaring clans like the O’Malleys and the Aguirres could no longer offer their sons – or daughters – a life “in the nets,” as locals dubbed it.The younger generation, if not already sucked in shoals toward Boston and New York, were seeking new ways to get ahead.In the case of the young man in Mrs.Kerrigan’s anecdote – her great-nephew – the chosen way involved selling ecstasy pills to his classmates at Verbum Dei.This had resulted in an arrest, a court date, and a deepening family feud, in which Mrs.Kerrigan had doubtless fanned the flames.
Was Mrs.Kerrigan a gossip-monger?Did she thrive on intrigue, make snap judgments, hurt feelings with her “tell-it-as-it-is” approach?Almost certainly.She had also nursed her mother through a cruel illness and endured twenty-two years of marriage to a man who only put the bottle down in order to thump her.Didn’t St.Augustine say, “I am not one single man but many, good and bad?”
She recited the Act of Contrition, and he mouthed the words alongside her.“Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments…”
The Act of Contrition was, he often thought, a masterpiece, one that had undoubtedly been written by a veteran priest.Because it didn’t require Mrs.Kerrigan to name the sins she’d committed, nor did he have to wrack his brains to provide them.The writer of this prayer had recognized exactly what Confession was all about.People didn’t really want to discuss their wrongdoings, and they didn’t believe they could be undone with a few prayers, a dollar in the box, or a restorative good deed.Basically, whoever they were, and wherever they were in the world, people just wanted someone to talk to.
“Now, by way of a penance, I wonder could you offer some support to the young man?”
“Oh.Oh, right.I see, Father.”
Mrs.Kerrigan seemed unhappy with the suggestion.Further proof, if it were needed, that no one ever went to Confession to confess.Nevertheless, she went on to ask, “What sort of support, Father?”
“Well… seeing as there’s a transport issue for the family, perhaps you could give him a ride to the courthouse next week?I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten the young man’s name…”
“It’s Kevin, Father.”
He was still smiling about that five minutes later as he finished his own prayers, shut the grille, took the stole from around his neck, kissed it, and folded it three times – a completion ritual from which he never veered.He was just about to turn the handle and step out of the box when he heard footsteps, a click, and the creak of the adjoining door.
Gee thanks, Lord.
He opened the grille and saw through diamond-patterned slats a dark hood, the peak of a cap, no face.The penitent was angled away from him, as much as that was possible in the tiny space.They, or their outfit, or both, were bulky.And there was a faint smell: machinery, something of the outdoors like rain or sea.Perhaps he worked at the harbor.Some folks still did.
“Welcome, my child.”
The penitent said nothing.Father Thomas could hear them breathing, air whistling through their nostrils.He was used to silences.Not just in the confessional.Back in Derry, during the Troubles, he had sat with the bereaved, with the families whose loved ones had simply disappeared and, on prison visits, with the men who made them disappear.
The figure shifted, coughed.A man’s cough.
The silence stretched out.
There had to be a limit.It was late.Father Thomas had stayed way beyond the allotted hour with Mrs.Kerrigan; the church needed locking up, there was a pan of stew he was keen to eat, and a number of parish-related emails he was equally keen to get sent before he settled down with Netflix and a large Bushmills.
Like dear old St.Augustine, he was only human.
“How can I help you?”he asked.
No reply.Father Thomas glanced at his watch.Mother of God.
“Look – ”
The figure began speaking at the same time.A high, monotonous voice – like a child reading aloud from a book.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.It’s been… it’s been a long time since my last confession.”
Accent?He couldn’t place it.American but not from any particular part of America.
