Ocean Park

by Michael Walsh

  “The Archdiocese, you mean?”

  “Of course the Archdiocese. Those fine servants of the Lord have had a change of heart,” he whispered. “The decision to close St. Ambrose has been suspended for further review. I feel bad for St. Margaret’s. Collections will be a little light from now on. Our parishioners are starting to come back, Matt.”

  “That doesn’t mean the Archdiocese will change their mind.”

  “Matt, my boy, you’ve got to understand what Church bureaucrats mean when they suspend things for review. Millenia have passed during the Catholic Church’s reviews. Empires have risen and fallen. We’re good for another hundred years, easy.”

  “It’s Sunday, Father.”

  McCarrick looked at him and frowned. “Thanks for the reminder. I did three Masses this morning—by myself. Not an empty seat in the house for any of them. Those Boston yahoos are recalling Father Frank after seeing all this publicity, and the hard cash too, I might add. Probably put Frank to work destroying some other unlucky parish.”

  “Mrs. Blodgett is cooking a roast, I bet.”

  The priest held up a fistful of bills. “I’m not taking that bet. But since you asked, yes, just like she does every Sunday. Buys it down at the Shop-Rite on Saturday. Fresh, fat trimmed, bloody.” He shrugged. “What are you, hungry? I’ll have her make you a plate. There’s always plenty.”

  “Just like she did the day the statue cried.”

  “Is there a reason behind this reverie or are you just trying to make my stomach rumble?”

  “Father, the blood on the statue was bovine. Cow.”

  “Really? Interesting. God works in mysterious ways.”

  “But people don’t.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You used the blood from Saturday’s roast to paint the statue—or Mrs. Blodgett did. I’d guess it was a team effort.”

  “Your imagination is vivid, Matt. I blame all those comic books you read as a youngster.”

  “You told me once, Father, a long time ago, that lies always mushroom. Remember?”

  McCarrick packed the bills in a large canvas pouch and ran the zipper on its top. He laid the latch back down on the wooden box and hooked the padlock.

  “Something happened the night Victor died, Father.”

  “I already told you, Matt. I know nothing about poor Victor’s murder.”

  “I believe you, Father. But don’t miss an opportunity to clear the air about the statue. Like you said, lies always mushroom—damp, ugly, and unclean.”

  “You missed your calling, Matt. You’re a better priest than cop. Shouldn’t you be out chasing poor Victor’s killer?”

  “I am. Pulling a thread. Seeing what unravels.”

  McCarrick hoisted the canvas satchel under his arm and walked to the door. “The truth is always complicated, isn’t it?”

  “No. The truth is usually pretty simple. People are complicated.”

  Father pointed to the wooden box still on the counter.

  “Mind returning the money box, Matt? Give you a chance to do some good for St. Ambrose’s.”

  Conley blocked the door. “When you’re ready, Father, we’ll talk.”

  “Of course. Always room at the table for one more sinner.”

  Chapter 31

  That same night, Kendricks and Channary slept while Conley whispered into the phone.

  “I thought you locked the church.”

  “I did, Matt, I did, but someone got in again. I heard moaning, a God-awful sound.”

  “Call the police.”

  “I think I just did. This is no time for games, Matt. Get over here right away.”

  Conley paced the dark living room. Outside, two Nahant police cars blocked the street, along with a maze of Jersey barriers. Between the added sentries and a special detachment of Massachusetts State Troopers, the place had become a very visible keep.

  Kendricks stirred on the couch and pulled the blanket down from his head. He blinked. “What’s up?”

  “Father McCarrick’s on the phone. He says someone broke into St. Ambrose’s.”

  Kendricks sat up. “Could be important. Last person who snuck in there in the middle of the night was Rodriguez’s killer.”

  Conley held his hand over the phone. “Ocean Park Police can check it out.”

  “You sure? I got a feeling this is one of those times we’re gonna regret if we screw up. Could be Rodriguez’s killer come back.”

  “All right.ˮ Conley found his jacket. “I’ll go.”

  Kendricks punched the security code into the alarm, opened the front door, and spoke to the policeman on the steps.

  “Detective Conley is leaving for a while.”

  “Not a problem. No one’s getting past us. When will he be back, sir?”

  “He’ll be back when he’s done, son.”

  “Roger that. Will SOP still be patrols around the house on the half hour, sir?”

  Conley smiled. SOP. Young buck enjoying his chance to play army.

  “That’s right,” Kendricks said. “That’ll be SOP.”

  “And you open the door only for us, right, Detective Kendricks?” He nodded at the end of the street. “Or for the State boys, of course.”

  “Roger that, Officer.”

  Conley caught the car keys Kendricks threw and saluted the young cop on his way by. In the street, Conley looked back over his shoulder and hesitated. He turned, studied the house, and tried to rationalize his reluctance to leave. Lloyd and Sage were warriors, with an army at their disposal, no problem there. Maybe he was the problem.

  Dr. Larkin evidently thought so.

  Life’s not all about you, Matt. Trust.

  Trust.

  Amen.

  He continued to the car and didn’t look back.

  Chapter 32

  “Scared, Matt?”

  Father McCarrick’s eyebrow lifted. He smiled, rocked from one foot to the other, and dug his hands deeper in the pockets of his cassock. A long moan came from inside the church, a quavering high note that sank into a racking cough.

  “I called it in to Ocean Park Police, Father. A cruiser will be here soon.”

  They stood under a streetlamp, captured in a cone of light. Fast food wrappers tumbled by, trash left by the new soldiers of St. Ambrose. The smell of sausage lingered from the dark puddle of grease the pushcart vendor had dumped in the gutter. A carful of high school kids drove by, whistling and hollering.

  “Sounds like a drunk,” McCarrick said.

  “Doesn’t matter, Father. I wait for backup. That’s the rule.”

  “Ah, yes. Bureaucracy. I understand. Nothing wrong with saying you’re scared, Matt. That’s why I’m out here. Of course, I don’t carry a gun. Maybe I should have called Mrs. Blodgett.”

  “We wait, Father.”

  McCarrick shrugged. “Have it your way.” Long minutes passed. “Did you hear that, Matt?”

  Conley listened. “Sounds like more singing.”

  A pained wail came from inside the church. He climbed the steps and turned at the top.

  “Wait here, Father. When the police arrive, send them in.”

  Conley opened the door to the vestibule. The singing grew louder. A single voice didn’t sound right in St. Amby’s. With its deep, wide balcony and cathedral ceiling, the church was made for choirs. This cavern was built for a crowd.

  Vestibule hadn’t changed much. Yellowed newspapers in the corner. New holy water bowl—looked like marble, felt like plastic. Poster on the wall said St. A’s was still looking for choir members. The statue of St. Ambrose looked spiffy in his new robe. Was it his imagination, or was the old boy smiling?

  He cracked open the door to the church and peered inside. A garden of candles burned in front of the altar and illuminated in a way artificial lights never had. They highlighted the flecks and gold veins in the marble slab.

  Simon O’Neil was strolling the center aisle, calling names to the empty pews. Names from years ago.

  “Mrs.
Kelly”—the old lady who played the organ. She always wore a winter coat and the kids nicknamed her The Bearded Lady because of the fur collar she kept close to her chin.

  “Bill Stanton,” O’Neil yelled—the old man who used to bang the gavel in the school cafeteria for Sodality Club meetings. “Gladdie Reynolds, Charlie Stewart, Arnie Bickford.”

  Suddenly O’Neil burst into a string of “Alleluias” and Conley decided to call William to come for him. He closed the door and dialed his phone.

  The old man was singing falsetto now, an ungodly screech that filled the church.

  No answer from William. He left a message and checked the church again.

  O’Neil was in the aisle before the altar now, the widest place in the church. It wasn’t wide today. An eclectic collection of tables held hundreds of candles that sputtered and smoked. The stand used to sell raffle tickets was there, along with a glass-topped job from the rectory’s living room, and a TV stand. The Church of St. Ambrose looked like Father McCarrick’s clubhouse. Delicate tendrils drifted from the candles, clouds of white that rose toward the painted sky. Even from here, Conley’s nostrils filled with the scent of candles and his throat went dry.

  The old man stretched his hands toward the Madonna and moved closer. In the muted light, her cheeks shone whiter than ivory, smoother than pearls. He sang.

  “Allelu-u-u-u-u-ya-a-a-a.”

  And moved closer.

  Conley called William again. Still no answer. He started toward Simon O’Neil.

  “Mr. O’Neil,” he called, and the old man turned, startled, and braced himself on one of the tables that held candles. Conley held his breath as the votive candles shook, and the newer, full ones dripped wax on the wooden surface. He gripped the old man’s shoulder, steadying him. O’Neil pulled away, lurching into the table edges with hip and knee, and the glasses touched, ringing like a wind chime, while O’Neil grabbed onto the altar’s guardrail for support.

  Matt swore sharply as candles fell. They lay broken on the floor, a field of flickering flames. Most drowned quickly in pools of molten wax. But others flared and rolled under the pews.

  The lights in the church were dim, except for the spotlight on the statue of Mary. She was still as ever, arms outstretched the same way they had been for a hundred years, eyes downcast, but this time they were staring at the front pew, which was suddenly brilliant, moving, alive—and totally ablaze.

  The oil-soaked benches Mrs. Blodgett had polished erupted.

  Barely seconds later the next pew was engulfed in flame. Unholy smoke rose fast and high and shrouded the altar, blending with the clouds that traveled the painted ceiling. The fire crackled loudly and spewed stifling, pungent air.

  O’Neil collapsed on the floor, his pale white skin almost translucent in the fire’s light. A see-through hand stretched toward Conley.

  Conley crooked his arm over his mouth and nose, ran to him, clasped those weak, crooked claws, and felt the heavy, hard knuckles. He dragged O’Neil toward the entrance, the old man’s thin body scraping across the tile as if fighting to stay.

  Fire leapt to more pews, raced to them, and hungrily ate the ancient wood.

  Simon O’Neil moaned.

  The red leather on the gleaming wooden altar rail melted, blackened, shrank, and disappeared. The yellow foam inside bubbled and smoked. Embers rose from the burning seats, bright orange flakes that drifted and darted, searching for more to burn.

  Conley coughed, dizzy from the smoke, and looked up at the Madonna. Her blue and pink robes shimmered. The cracks in the plaster were gone. She’d been rejuvenated. Her face seemed wet. Clear tears fell from her cheeks.

  It can’t be.

  The fire crackled. He held one arm over his mouth, lifted the old man, and shouldered the front door open. Together they collapsed onto the landing.

  Simon O’Neil’s moan was a croak now, a machine-like noise. The pouring smoke was laden with ash, a nasty, cloying mix that was almost liquid. Sirens blared in the distance.

  And Father McCarrick lay still on the sidewalk, head turned in profile, arms limp at his sides, cassock hugging his body like a shroud.

  Chapter 33

  Conley found Father McCarrick’s bed in the Emergency Ward. Father’s face was sallow and the rest of his body looked as limp as his drooping jowls. His Johnny was loose on the shoulders and a stripe of white skin circled his neck, a pale stain where his Roman collar blocked the sunlight.

  “Matt,” he whispered.

  “Rest, Father. Mrs. Blodgett’s on her way.”

  “Good.”

  The room smelled of cleaning fluid and chemicals. A patient moaned from behind a curtain. Something plastic and hollow fell and bounced three or four times. Feet shuffled across the tile floor. Nurses whispered, their words quiet, insistent, and slow.

  “Matt,” he said, “if this is the end, tell Mrs. Blodgett she’s a good woman. And your mother. And notify the Archdiocese.”

  His breathing was loud. His arm lifted again, aimless, uncertain. “Matt, what happened to St. Amby’s?”

  “Gone, Father.ˮ

  He turned his head on the pillow, and his voice became husky. “All my efforts to save the church, wasted.ˮ

  “Simon O’Neil’s fine, by the way.”

  He shut up and nodded. Conley removed the charts that hung from the foot of the bed on a clipboard.

  McCarrick sat up and strained to see.

  Conley read the top sheet and flipped a page. Graphs and tables were unintelligible, but the note on the bottom was clear. Father McCarrick had been the victim of a panic attack. He’d hyperventilated and passed out in the glow of the burning church.

  “What’s it say, Matt?”

  Conley looked toward the empty hall and shook his head. “Maybe we should wait for the doctor to tell you.”

  “Damn the doctor. If it’s bad news I want to hear it from you, boy, not some quack I never met.”

  Was this frightened, uncaring wretch the person he’d revered for so long? Was the saintly ghost behind the confessional screen really an ordinary man?

  “Damn it, Matt, give me the fucking chart.”

  Conley held the clipboard away from McCarrick’s reaching hand.

  “Thrombosis, hematoma, cardiac infarction,” Conley said, raising the chart like an auction paddle.

  “It says that?”

  “Arteriosclerosis, angina, angioplasty.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Acute carcinoma.”

  McCarrick leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Doesn’t sound good.”

  Conley threw the board onto a table. “It surely doesn’t.”

  McCarrick looked toward the door, then under the curtains next to him.

  “Shouldn’t they be doing more for me? Shouldn’t something be happening?”

  “Maybe no more can be done. What happened with the statue, Father?”

  “Matt, the hell with that. Call the nurse.”

  Conley held Father’s clammy, trembling hand in both of his.

  “You should have last rites, Father. Just in case.”

  “From you? Not a chance.”

  “Time is short.”

  McCarrick looked to the door.

  “Talk to me, Father.”

  “Matt, I have a confession. I lied.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I was part of it. I held the ladder for Mrs. Blodgett. She painted blood on the statue with a basting brush. God forgive her. All right, I said it. Gimme penance.”

  “And you too, Father. Don’t forget to ask God to forgive you. For Victor Rodriguez.”

  “Damn Victor Rodriguez! I mean it. Damn him to hell. He cost me my church.”

  “How so? What part did he play in your charade?”

  “None. He came to the rectory that night.”

  “Was Channary with him?”

  “Yes. He was white as a fish belly, scared senseless. Said someone was following him, and he had to get rid of the girl.”
r />   “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to take her, that’s what he wanted.” He wrung his hands. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  “Take her? Why?”

  “I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell. And that’s the truth.”

  “For Godʼs sake, Father, why didn’t you help her?” Conley said through gritted teeth.

  “Ever read the papers, Matt? Child found with a priest in the middle of the night? How would that have sounded?”

  The manʼs self-centeredness was astounding. “Who else was with them?”

  “No one I saw. Mrs. B. finished her business with the blood. Victor must have entered the church after we left. That damn door knob. I heard a noise and a voice, but I was scared, Matt. So I left. Then you showed up and didn’t help at all, I might add.”

  But Conley was having none of it. He looked McCarrick in the eye. “You should have taken the girl, Father.”

  “I couldn’t. I was just thinking of the church, Matt. Honestly. The humiliation of it.”

  Conley squeezed the hand hard and leaned close to McCarrick.

  “It was your job. Your vocation. You should have taken her in.”

  Father’s eyes closed, and when they opened their blueness had paled as if shame faded the color.

  Familiar faces appeared in the doorway—St. Ambrose parishioners.

  “Your flock has arrived, Father.”

  McCarrick glanced at the door and his eyes widened. He grasped Conley’s hand and his voice pleaded. “Now what do I do, Matt?”

  “I’m not the one to absolve you,” Conley said. “But the people of St. Ambrose want you back. Take the job. That’s your penance, Father. And forgive Simon O’Neil. After all, you have something in common. Both of you have a lot of explaining to do to Mary.”

  Chapter 34

  Samay cried.

  The man named William O’Neil placed a hand on his wet shoulder and squeezed. Samay’s head was wrapped in cellophane, covered with moving beads of water that felt like silver insects travelling hungry paths. Plastic bunched around his eyes and a ragged hole split the cellophane over his mouth. From the mask, O’Neil’s face appeared as distorted as a reflection in a fun house mirror.

  He lifted a running hose from the bottom of the tub with his left hand and poured water in Samay’s mouth-hole. The sounds of his own spits, gargles and groans bounced off the motel's bathroom tiles.