Roland shrugged. “Maybe he thinks we want to confess something.”
“I don’t want to confess anything.” Peter shook his head the entire time he spoke. “My parents will have me here in two months, soon as Advent begins. I can wait.”
“Yeah, I can wait, too. Why don’t you go in there and tell him we’re here to talk? Tell him to come out.”
“I’m not going in there. Why don’t you go in there? Besides, you don’t even go to Mass anymore, do you? That’s a sin. Isn’t that a mortal sin?” Peter grinned. “If you died, you’d be on the highway to hell.”
Roland’s cheeks burned. “I’m not making a confession,” he whispered in a voice that the old lady with the hearing aid could probably hear. “Just tell him to come out and talk.”
“Why don’t you?” Peter stepped toward Roland, a threat in his posture.
Roland nudged Peter’s shoulder, harder than he meant to, shoving him in the direction of the confessionals.
Peter bumped a pew. His hand brushed the hymnals in the pew’s bookrack. One fell to the floor. Sneering, he lifted a hand as if to shove back, then he took a breath and turned his hand palm up. “Alright. Give me the notebooks.”
Relief washing over him, Roland nodded and handed over the bundle of books. It’s not that he didn’t want to go to confession. He knew he needed to do it. He just wasn’t ready. Not today. He’d need some serious preparation time to get up the nerve.
Peter set the books in a pew. With a silly smile plastered to his face, he walked around Roland. What was he doing?
Roland turned his head, but only his head . . . which was a mistake.
Peter seized him from behind, slipping an arm under Roland’s and locking it with his other arm. He forced Roland toward the confessionals.
Heart racing, getting lightheaded . . . Roland twisted and jerked, straining to free himself. But Peter was stronger. Struggling, shuffling toward the carved confessional door with the green light, realizing his fate was sealed, he cussed. Right there in church.
Then he did it. Inches from the door, he sucked in a breath and relaxed. He could do this. Peter was right. Roland was in mortal sin. And he could return to grace in a single instant. Christ had already shed his blood for his sins. He only needed to repent, to reach out and take the forgiveness freely offered in the sacrament.
He could do this.
Peter, no doubt sensing Roland’s resignation, released his hold and straightened Roland’s shirt. “You got this?” He grabbed the doorknob, the slightest grin on his face.
Roland nodded, swallowed his Adam’s apple, and stepped inside.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Roland emerged sweaty and trembling but walking on air. Father had given him a lot to think about, but Roland wanted to rest in the immense peace that filled his soul.
Peter stared, mouth hanging open, as Roland strode down the aisle.
Trying to ignore him, Roland knelt in a pew close to the altar and bowed his head to say his penance.
A few minutes later, the door to the confessional bumped shut and soft footfalls came from the back of the church.
Roland continued to pray.
“Good to see you, Peter.” Father whispered but his voice carried. “Roland says you wanted to see me.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “We want to talk to you about . . . something.”
“Come over to the rectory.” Father paused. “Whenever you’re ready.” More footfalls. Then the side door of the church opened and swung shut.
Completing his prayers, the ones Father gave him and the ones that sprung up unexpectedly from his heart, Roland rose from his knees, combed a hand through his hair then met Peter’s gaze.
“Ready?” Peter mouthed.
Roland nodded and strolled toward him.
“What, did he have you praying ten Rosaries for your penance?”
Without the full consent of his will, Roland jabbed his elbow into Peter’s side.
FATHER CARSTON LED Roland and Peter through the rectory, to a room where light streamed in through an old lattice window and made patterns on a cluttered desk. Framed pictures of the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts of Jesus and Mary hung on one wall. The far wall held a built-in, walnut bookshelf, packed with old books and a few religious decorations.
Roland’s attention snapped to a 19th century triptych, pictures on three panels hinged together, of St. Therese of Lisieux and two angels.
Father motioned for them to sit in the plaid armchairs around a coffee table. “What can I help you with, Peter?”
Peter brought out the old book and the spiral notebook that held their translations. He explained how his grandfather had recently died and left him an old box, and how they found a book, rosary and cloth in the box, and how they discovered the notes in the book were written in German, which they interpreted. He ended with, “So, what do you think?”
Father flipped through the pages of the old book and the spiral notebook that held their translations. After he handed the books back, he sat for a moment with his fingers interlocked and his gaze directed toward his shiny black shoes. He smiled before he looked up. “I do believe you have a relic.”
A strange feeling passed through Roland at Father’s proclamation. This was it, the secret of the antique box, the message meant for him.
“A relic?” Peter said.
“The book gives testimony to the miracles received through the intercession of Saint Conrad. I’d like to see the box and, well, the rosary and the cloth. The cloth is probably a piece of the saint’s habit. And the rosary—”
“We don’t have it with us. It’s uh . . .” Peter threw Roland a glance. “It’s in a safe place. But I’ll get it to you sometime.”
The thought of giving it all to Father made Roland wring his hands, but Father only wanted to see it. Maybe he needed to see it before Roland could really understand the message.
Father shuffled to the bookshelf. He ran his finger along the books until he came to a thick, midnight-blue one, which he pulled from the shelf. “Saint Conrad of Parzham.” He cracked the book open and turned pages as he paced the floor. Then he stopped and faced Peter. “Was your grandfather German?”
“Yeah, he was born in Germany. His family came to America when he was young.”
“Well, Peter, your family—a few generations ago—must’ve had a devotion to this saint. He was probably very popular in the area where they lived. He was born in Parzham, Bavaria, Germany in 1818 and died in 1894. What are the dates in that notebook?”
Peter opened the spiral notebook. “1912 to 1925, mostly.”
“Maybe some distant relative of yours knew him personally.” Father returned to his seat, his eyes still in the midnight-blue book. “He was well loved by the people, it says here, declared a saint in 1930. The miracles noted in your book took place before that time.”
He handed the big blue book to Peter.
Roland leaned to see then pointed to the picture of the saint on the top of the page. Grandfatherly in appearance, Saint Conrad had a long white beard and a balding head. He wore a brown hooded robe with a white cord. A rosary dangled from his waist, and his eyes were turned toward a black crucifix in his hands.
“That’s the guy on the holy card,” Roland said. There was something about him . . .
“Do you think the cloth and the rosary actually belonged to a real live saint?” Peter said.
“I believe so,” Father said. “They could be second-class relics.” He stared at his shiny black shoes for a moment then looked up. “You have a very special gift indeed, Peter. As members of the Body of Christ, we all have a unique relationship with each other. We can pray for each other and help each other on the spiritual journey.”
He pointed to the ceiling. “But don’t forget, the saints in heaven are also members of the Body of Christ, and their prayers are very powerful with God. They’re more than just good examples for us. They care about us and intercede on our behalf. God bestows many benefits to the faithful th
rough the intercession of saints, often using relics. Your family must have placed a lot of confidence in Saint Conrad.”
The hair on Roland’s neck bristled, the way it had when Jarret had come up behind him. He jumped from his chair and spun around, finding himself at eye level with the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture.
Peter laughed. “Uh, Roland?”
Roland cleared his throat, smoothed his hair, and sat down. He was being paranoid. Maybe because of . . . “Why would Mr. Reinhard want it?” he mumbled to Peter while Father glanced around the room.
“I don’t know.” Peter turned to Father. “Is it worth money? Is it, like, powerful?”
Father’s eyebrows lowered. “Peter.” He used a stern voice. “One does not sell a relic or wield it like a weapon. The value is spiritual. The power comes from faith. Have you heard of simony?”
“Huh?”
“Simony is buying or selling spiritual things. The word comes from Simon the Magician who wanted to buy the spiritual power he saw at work in the apostles. Spiritual goods have their source in God. To see this relic as having a power that one can master, without seeing it as a gift from God, a gift that can bring us closer to Him . . .” Father shook his head. “. . . makes it powerless. You have to know what you have and how to use it.”
“Hey . . .” Peter’s face brightened. “. . . that’s what my Uncle Harold said. He said my grandfather wanted me to have it, instead of anyone else in the family, because I’d know how to use it.”
Father smiled and stood. “Maybe this treasure has come to you at this time for a reason. Think about it, Peter.” He rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Pray about it. Nothing happens by chance. Why don’t you hold onto the Book of Saints for a while and get to know your new friend, Saint Conrad.”
Chapter 48
Peter sat on the top step outside the church, staring across the street at four toddlers who ran around a tree in the park. Toby still liked to do that, even at his age. Good thing he was at home.
Roland sat beside him, playing with the wire on the spiral notebook. “Okay, now what?”
“I don’t know. I guess we pray for someone.”
“Okay. Who? You mean someone who needs a dramatic healing, like the cases in the book?”
Peter let out a long sigh. “To be honest, I never put much credence in prayer. Never felt like God gave a hoot about what goes on in my life. I’ve prayed. He doesn’t seem to hear me. Or maybe He just doesn’t interfere in our lives. Like maybe we’re just supposed to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
“I don’t know. I’m sure He hears us. Maybe you want things He doesn’t want for you.”
“It’s not for me. I’ve asked Him to help Toby. Why wouldn’t God want that? Toby’s a mess. He can pull a train around for hours and not get bored. Then he gets upset at the littlest things, and you can’t calm him down. He’s nine years old and still needs help in the bathroom. He destroys the house. Well, not really but . . . What’s gonna happen to him when he’s older? Is he always gonna need Mom and Dad? They’re not gonna live forever. And besides . . .” His more selfish thoughts pushed to the surface. “He makes my life hell sometimes. Like what he did to my bathroom and what he did to you.”
Roland shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone’s different. We all have to put up with things.” His gaze shifted. “We could always pray for him. Father said this relic might’ve come to you for a reason. Maybe God’s trying to tell you something.”
“Tell me what?”
“That He hears you. That He wants to answer your prayers. Maybe He wants you to pray with more faith. Where two or three are gathered in His name, and all. We’d have an actual saint praying with us.”
“I don’t know. Of course, those were some pretty big miracles in the book. And people were actually healed, the blind, the lame, the suffering . . . That one dude was dying of cancer, had three months to live. Remember? Then God healed him.”
Roland tucked the spiral notebook under his arm, tapped the chest pockets of his jacket, and stood up. “We should tell Caitlyn. Let’s show her the rest of our notes and tell her what Father said.”
Peter grabbed the Book of Saints and followed Roland down the cement steps. “You like her, don’t you?”
Roland glanced but kept walking.
“Fine. Don’t answer me.” Peter jogged a few steps to catch up. “You know who we should pray for? Dominic.”
They strode down the sidewalk, side by side.
A few minutes later, Roland spoke. “What ever happened to him, anyway? Has he always been . . .?”
“In a wheelchair? No. He was in a car accident. It was pretty bad. I guess he’s lucky only his legs are paralyzed.”
“Yeah, bet that’d be rough.”
“He took it real hard, too, for a long time. He was angry and pushed everyone away. Didn’t want any friends. That was two years ago. He’s a lot different now.”
“You guys seem like good friends.”
“Foster used to be his friend, his best friend.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Roland said. “I don’t get the impression they like each other.”
“Yeah. Foster never forgave Dominic for pushing him away. He didn’t understand. I think he really wanted to be there for Dominic. By the time Dominic got over feeling sorry for himself, and he was ready to have friends again, Foster had a wall of anger and resentment built up. Foster changed, got a little rougher . . . meaner.”
They crossed the street, walking in-step. Caitlyn’s two-year-old brother Tristan, wearing socks, a diaper and a striped shirt, sat atop a little plastic slide in the front yard. Stacey and Priscilla knelt by the flower bushes under the front windows, digging in the dirt and giggling. A girl’s voice, probably Caitlyn’s, came from inside the house. She shouted something about Tristan.
“It’s too bad, really,” Peter said. “Me and Dominic weren’t that close before the accident. He sort of gravitated toward me in the Catholic teen group his mom made him go to. Foster used to accuse me of stealing his friend.”
Roland’s gaze settled on the screen door of Caitlyn’s house, probably waiting to get a glimpse of her. He combed his fingers through his hair. “Oh. Now I get it. Foster told me you were a thief. Think that’s what he meant?”
“Yup, I stole his best friend. I know Dominic misses him. I’m not as wild as Foster.”
Roland chuckled.
“It’s too bad.” Peter shook his head. “I don’t see them ever being friends again. Dominic’s stubborn.”
Tristan clutched the top of the slide and lifted his diapered butt way up.
Peter sprinted for him. “Whoa. What’re you doing there, buddy? You’re gonna fall.” He grabbed Tristan under the arms, swung him around, and landed him in the grass.
Tristan reached up as if he wanted Peter to hold him. “Pee-ter.”
“Sorry, buddy. I don’t hold babies. Where’s Caitlyn?”
Roland climbed the steps to the front porch just as the door flew open and Caitlyn, with a baby on her hip, popped out. Roland staggered back.
Caitlyn reached for her hair, but the baby tipped, so she wrapped both arms around him. “Roland, hi.”
Roland gave Caitlyn a shy glance then stuffed his free hand in his jacket pocket. “Hey.”
Peter joined them on the porch. “We just talked to Father Carston. I don’t suppose you can get out-a here.”
“No.” She turned toward the screen door, and her hair fell over her shoulder revealing a glob of green goop near the ends. “Mom and Dad aren’t here. They won’t be back for a while.”
Roland reached for her hair but then dropped his hand to his side. “You have something in your hair.”
“Oh.” She lowered her head and peered sideways at her curtain of hair.
“Hey, Father Carston thinks we have a relic,” Peter said. “An actual, factual, bona fide relic. What do you think of that?”
Caitlyn took one hand off the baby and reached f
or her hair, but the baby tipped again. She grabbed him under the arms and shoved him at Roland.
Roland dropped the spiral notebook. His hands shot up, and he stepped back. But Caitlyn kept shoving until he latched on. The baby stared into Roland’s eyes. Eyes wide and mouth open, Roland stared back.
“A real relic. That’s awesome,” she said to Peter, her eyes and hands on her hair. “What’re you going to do with it?” She wiped her hands on the back of her faded denim skirt and batted her eyes at Roland. “Did I get it out?”
“Uh . . .” The baby stuck his finger into Roland’s mouth.
“We’re gonna pray for Dominic,” Peter said. “We thought you’d want to come.”
“Oh.” Caitlyn’s forehead wrinkled. “Don’t do it now. Wait for me. Do you have the relic with you? You should touch it to Dominic, I think, while you pray.”
“Oh. Really?” Peter frowned. “The relic’s out at the hiding place, locked in the box, and I still haven’t found the key. Besides, Dominic’s probably doing some family thing.”
“Why don’t you find the key today, and we’ll do it tomorrow,” she said. “Call Dominic and tell him. We can do it after the last Mass. Okay? Tell Dominic to go to the last Mass.” Then she gasped and her eyes bugged out. “Dominic! Remember? I told you I had that dream about him. Dominic’s going to walk again!”
“Okay, let’s not get our hopes up.” Peter threw a hand up. “I hope you’re right but, you know, dreams are dreams.”
Roland giggled at the baby. The baby stuffed all his fingers into his own mouth. He laughed at Roland, and a big pool of drool filled up inside his mouth.
“Uhh.” Roland shoved the baby toward Caitlyn as a stream of drool poured out. “Take him back.” The drool landed on the porch, close to the spiral notebook.
Caitlyn giggled and grabbed the baby. “Come here, little Andy.” She propped him on her hip. “So, what do you know about the saint? What was his name? Conrad?”
Peter showed her the book from Father Carston. “We don’t know much yet, but he’s in here.”
Roland West, Loner Page 24
