Galileo

by Ann McMan

  “Yes.” He laid his hand on top of the photo. More than anything, he wished he could will himself out of the image—leave nothing but a vacuum in the spot he once occupied. A vacuum that could match the gaping hole in his conscience—and his heart. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. “To answer your question, yes—this is part of what I wanted to tell you.”

  Evan didn’t say anything. Tim knew she wouldn’t pressure him now.

  “I knew what was happening,” he continued. “I knew and I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t do anything. I just looked the other way and didn’t try to stop it.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “I didn’t do anything . . .”

  Evan took hold of his free hand. She waited while he wiped at his eyes.

  “The boys?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Father Szymanski?”

  “Yeah.” Tim sniffed. “And . . . others. I think.”

  “Were you . . .?”

  Tim cut her off. “No. Not me. I don’t know why. Maybe I was already too . . . worldly.” He made a futile gesture with his hand. “Once, he . . . Father Szymanski . . . he did something that made me feel . . . uncomfortable. Scared, even. I avoided being alone with him after that. And I convinced my parents to let me quit the basketball team.” He met Evan’s eyes. “That’s how I ended up taking damn piano lessons for five years.” He stared at the drink in his hands. “I never understood everything that was happening. Not really. Not until a lot later, when things started coming out. By then, I was too ashamed to come forward with what I suspected.” He hesitated. “I still am.”

  “Tim?” Evan waited until he looked up at her again. “You were a child. What could you have done?”

  “I haven’t been a child for decades, Evan. We all know what was going on. Nothing about this is a mystery any longer. You’ve read the reports.”

  “I have.”

  “Then you must know that Bishop Szymanski was named in one of the reparation complaints filed with the diocese.”

  “No. I didn’t know that.” Evan said. “Were any of those offenses alleged to have happened at St. Rita’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know if any boys at St. Rita’s could have made complaints against him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be willing to tell me if any of those boys are in this photo?”

  He stared at her for a moment before examining the picture again.

  “Yes. Three that I know of.”

  “Meaning?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Meaning that I don’t know everyone who might have reason to come forward.”

  “Okay,” Evan said. “Could I show you another photo and ask if you recognize anyone in it?”

  Tim thought about her request. It seemed like a small enough thing to do. Maybe it was a first step toward making restitution for his long-held sin of omission? A small step, to be sure. But it was something. A place to start.

  “Okay,” he told her.

  Evan pulled the other photo out of her bag and handed it to him. He recognized Szymanski right away. It was clear this photo had been taken years later, because he was wearing a bishop’s cassock. “That’s Szymanski.” He pointed him out. “When was this taken?”

  “In 2005. I have no idea where. But that’s Cawley in the foreground.”

  Tim nodded. “If this was taken in 2005, that was years after Father Szymanski became a Bishop. He’d be close to mandatory retirement age now.”

  “What’s that?” Evan asked.

  “Seventy-five. Even with a complaint against him, the Church will probably just push him into leaving active service because he’s so close to retirement, anyway.”

  Evan was disgusted by that. “Canonical beat the clock, huh?”

  “Unfortunately. It happens more than it should. Especially for people at his level.”

  “Tim? Do you recognize anyone else in the photo? Any of the younger men or boys?”

  He looked at the image more closely. “Yeah . . . I think so.” He pointed out one of the two older-looking boys, wearing a loose-fitting suit coat. He was standing in the background, near the massive stone fireplace. “I think that’s Joey Mazzetta—from our neighborhood. He’s in that first photo, too.” Tim compared the two images. “Yeah. Right there.” He pointed him out to Evan. In the older photo, he looked a lot younger, but Tim still recognized him. “That red hair is impossible to miss. Joey and I were the only two players who had it, and we got razzed about it all the time—especially when we were on the JV team. They called us The Mallories—you know . . . the copper top batteries.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “I used to see him once in a while at services during the holidays. But that was years ago. I think he still lives with his mother on South Bouvier Street.”

  “Any idea if he’s filed any complaints with the reparations committee?”

  “None. There’s no way to know who the complainants are.” He absently rocked his glass. “There’ve been dozens of cases in Philadelphia alone—more than a thousand statewide. It’s an epidemic. A plague. I honestly don’t know if the Church can survive it.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “Hey.” Evan reached across the table and squeezed his hand again. “One step at a time, okay?”

  “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

  “Don’t you? I know where we can find a couple of twelve-step meetings that could help out with that—and ply you with some really shitty coffee in the process.”

  “Evan . . .”

  “Save your breath, dude. Who drug my sorry ass to about fifty of those—and hung out there with me—when I was thinking about dropping out of college because every relationship of mine had turned to shit? Give up? Lemme give you some clues. Big guy with no fashion sense? Red hair that could double as a shower loofah? Loves to guzzle high-priced hooch he really can’t afford? Loses twenty-dollar bets with my kid? I’m not sure, but I think he used to go by the name Mallory?” She let that sink in. “Ring any bells?”

  He gave her a sad smile. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Not usually, no. And, Tim?”

  “What?”

  “Neither should you.”

  He didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything more to say. Not then.

  He drained his WhistlePig and signaled the bartender to bring them another round.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Julia met her at the door.

  Evan usually parked at the back of the townhouse, where there was a small driveway adjacent to the alley that ran behind Delancey Place. Julia had taken care to park her Audi close to the brick wall of the townhouse’s small patio, to be sure she left enough room for Evan to squeeze her car in, too.

  Evan looked surprised when Julia opened the door. She stood on the steps, juggling her messenger bag and a green DiBruno Brothers satchel. Her free hand held an oversized brass key that had been aimed at the door lock.

  “Were you waiting on me?” Evan asked.

  Julia nearly quipped, “For most of my life,” but opted instead to grab Evan by the arm and haul her across the threshold. She took her time demonstrating how happy she was to be back at home.

  “Wow.” Evan’s bulging messenger bag slipped to the floor with a thunk. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

  “It’s the DiBruno bag.”

  “Of course, it is. Thank god I remembered how easy it is to turn your head. Wave a pound of fresh bucatini in your face and pffft! You melt like cheap mascara.”

  That piqued Julia’s interest. “Not that I’m less than overjoyed to see you—but do you really have fresh pasta in that bag?” She tried to peer down into it, which was difficult because she still had her arms wrapped around Evan’s neck.

  “Yeah. I thought you wanted me to cook?”

  “Oh, I do.” Julia kissed her on the ear. “Eventually.”

  Julia felt the way she always felt when she was this
close to Evan. Safe. Happy. Like everything was possible.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  And hungry. She felt hungry, too. It had been a long time since that complimentary packet of peanuts on the flight from Atlanta. She unwound her arms and smiled shyly.

  “Did you say you bought bucatini?”

  “I can always rely on you to cut to the chase.”

  “Which, translated, means?”

  Evan lifted the bag. “Which means I knew you’d be starving, so I bought an entire pound.”

  “Dare I hope there’s a bottle of wine in there, too?”

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  “I’ll get the opener.” Julia led the way to her grandmother’s lavishly appointed kitchen.

  Evan followed her and began to unload items from the bag. She had hunks of Pecorino and Grana Padano cheeses and a tin of four-color peppercorns. She also had a half pound of Licini pancetta, a bundle of fresh asparagus, and two bottles of Renieri Brunello di Montalcino. She handed one of the bottles to Julia, who stared at it with wide eyes.

  “Are we celebrating?”

  “You tell me.”

  Julia held up the wine opener. “Let’s see. We’re finally in the same time zone—together. You’re cooking. Judging by the way your messenger bag is bulging at the seams, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that you’re staying the night.” She waited for Evan to give her a nod. “So, yes. I’d say we’re celebrating.”

  “In that case,” Evan handed her the second bottle. “Open them both.”

  “I love how you think. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Julia commenced opening the wine. “What are you cooking for me?”

  “Cacio e pepe. I thought we could crisp up some of this pancetta and grill the asparagus, too. I know how much you love it when your pee smells like grass.”

  “You do love your quirky torments.”

  “I consider it a prized, yet little understood perk of our relationship.”

  Julia poured them each a generous glass of the wine. She handed one to Evan. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked rims.

  “This is lovely.” Julia took another sip.

  Evan had shed her coat and was already hauling pans out of a lower cabinet. “Yeah. It’s generally better after it’s allowed to breathe for a while—but what the hell?”

  “‘History is now and England,’” Julia quoted.

  “Yes. T.S. Eliot. Precisely. That’s just what I was thinking.”

  Julia smirked at her. “You got the inference.”

  “I’d say my mother didn’t raise no idiot, but that wouldn’t really be true.”

  “However imperfect her performance was, you’re making up for it with your own daughter.”

  Evan fought not to smile at her observation. She was still rooting around in a lower cabinet, looking for something. “Where’s that cast-iron skillet?”

  Julia walked over to where she knelt, and peered over her shoulder. “Is that the awful black one you’re so partial to?”

  Even looked up at her. “Yes. The awful one. What’d you do with it?”

  “I washed it.”

  “You what?”

  Julia shrugged. “It was disgusting. It practically had barnacles.”

  Evan stood up. “Honey . . .”

  “Don’t start.” Julia held up a palm. “I have no desire to eat incinerated meat that’s probably older than this house.”

  Evan gave up. “Where is it?”

  Julia pointed at the elaborate pot rack, hanging over a kitchen island the size of a billiard table. “Over there.”

  “Oh, this’ll be good.” Evan walked over to retrieve the skillet. She lifted it down from its hook and examined it.

  “Well?” Julia asked.

  “I certainly have to admire your industry. I’ve never seen a Lodge skillet this smooth.” Evan examined the skillet from all sides. “You practically scrubbed the black finish off.”

  “I soaked it overnight in bleach.”

  Evan closed her eyes. “Baby cakes . . .”

  “Was that bad?” She gestured at the spotless pan. “Look how clean it is now.”

  “That depends. How hungry did you say you were?”

  “I’m ravenous. Why?”

  “Because,” Evan returned the pan to its hook, “it’ll take an hour to reseason this.”

  “Oh, please.” Julia sipped her wine. “Cannot you compromise? Just this one time?”

  Evan drummed her fingers against the quartz countertop.

  “Well?” Julia insisted.

  “I’m thinking about it, okay?”

  “Seriously? Using a different pot is that complicated?”

  “No. Compromising is.”

  Julia laughed. “I have missed you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you doubt that?”

  “No.”

  “Good. That’ll make our next discussion a lot easier.”

  Evan narrowed her eyes. “Why do I suddenly smell a rat?”

  Julia handed Evan her glass. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Marlene Mazzetta looked surprised, but appeared genuinely thrilled to see Tim when she opened the door to her row home. The Mazzettas lived on one of the street’s more transitional blocks. Several of the sagging structures bordering their place had either been torn down or completely upfitted. Real estate in this part of South Philly was beginning to command premium prices.

  “Father Donovan,” she gushed. “Please come in.”

  “I apologize for just showing up like this,” Tim said. “But I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” His lie was so bad that he had to fight a grimace as he got the words out. But Mrs. Mazzetta seemed not to notice, or care about the reason for his visit.

  “Come in, come in.” She ushered him inside and closed the heavy door behind them. The air inside the place was slightly stale, and he detected the scent of something frying. Scrapple maybe? Some kind of hash with onions? “Are you hungry? I’m just fixing dinner.”

  “Oh, no. Thank you so much. I really just wanted to duck in and say hello. I’ve missed seeing you at Mass. Joey, too.”

  Mrs. Mazzetta dropped her eyes. Tim felt like a cad.

  “I’ve been sick,” she apologized. “It’s harder and harder for me to get out, my arthritis is so bad. This damp weather we’ve been having makes it flare up something fierce. And you know how Joey is. He just doesn’t make time for things that matter.”

  Tim followed her back toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. Most of the interior rooms were dark, since the place only had windows at the front and back. He could hear a TV blaring from someplace upstairs. It sounded like a sitcom. The canned laugh track was pretty unmistakable.

  “How is Joey?” he asked.

  Mrs. Mazzetta lifted a bony hand lined with bulging blue veins and smoothed her hair. “He’s okay. Out of work right now. His Kmart store closed and all fifty-two of their employees got laid off.” She walked over to the stove and gave the contents of a large frying pan a stir. “That was in November. He hasn’t been able to find anything else yet. Nothing that pays enough or has insurance.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I can imagine the strain that puts on you.”

  “Sit down, Father.” She indicated the small kitchen table. It was littered with unopened mail and prescription bottles. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  Tim felt like a jerk for not visiting here before now. The truth was that his parish probably had hundreds of households just like this one—filled with hardscrabble people who were barely getting by. He felt ashamed and indicted by his lack of consideration and by how isolated he stayed inside his own small world of privilege. “Maybe Joey could visit the parish school? They might have something temporary for him.”

  Mrs. Mazzetta’s watery blue eyes seemed to brighten a bit. “Do you think so? Would you talk with him? He won’t go if I ask.”r />
  Tim nodded. “Sure. Is he here?”

  She nodded. “Let me call him.” She walked to the doorway of the kitchen and shouted up the stairs.

  “Joey! Father Donovan is here. Come down and say hello to him.”

  It took a few seconds before Tim heard the sound of feet hitting the floor and creaking their way down the thinly carpeted stairs. When Joey appeared in the doorway, Tim was shocked by the change in his appearance. True, he hadn’t taken much notice the last time he’d seen him, about three years ago at Christmas. But even with that, Joey had aged—a lot. He’d lost most of his hair, and what little he had left was stringy and tinged with white. He’d also lost a ton of weight—so much that Tim thought he might be sick.

  Tim stood up and extended his hand. “Hi, Joey. It’s good to see you.”

  Joey took Tim’s hand, belatedly, and gave it a faint squeeze before shoving his own hand back into the front pocket of his baggy jeans. He didn’t say anything.

  “Why don’t you two go sit down in the living room and chat while I make us some tea?”

  Joey glowered at his mother. “I don’t want any tea.” He walked over to the refrigerator and took out a can of Genesee. “Want one?” he asked Tim magnanimously.

  “Thanks.” Tim said. “I’m going to make a couple more calls tonight so I’d better not.”

  Joey snapped open his beer. “Suit yourself.”

  “How about we go sit down,” Tim suggested, “while your mom makes that tea?”

  Joey shrugged. “Sure.” He led the way to the dim living room and dropped into a worn armchair. They were near the stairs, and the distant TV was still blaring.

  Tim sat down on the stiff cushion of a faded velour sofa. It was remarkably uncomfortable. He guessed no one ever used it. It had tatted lace doilies carefully draped over the arms and along the back.

  “How’ve you been, Joey?” he asked. “We haven’t talked in a long time.”

  “Okay,” Joey said. “Not much new around here.”

  “Your mom said your Kmart closed.”

  “It happens. They’re closing a lot of stores. Not just around here.”

  Tim nodded. “I heard that. It’s sad.”