by Karen Hall
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For the guy in the flannel shirt
If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
Too few dark debts are ever paid . . .
—Gary Gilmore, untitled poem
PROLOGUE
Manhattan, 1995
Michael sat on the witness stand, feeling like a six-year-old who’d just been informed that the nurse would be back momentarily with his shot. He watched the defense attorney pace and think. Scott Bender. Court appointed, in the middle of his Andy Warhol fifteen minutes and milking them for all they were worth. Michael had developed a strong dislike for the guy somewhere around “nice to meet you,” for no concrete reason. His haughty attitude, perhaps, with no evidence of money or breeding to back it up. Michael had come from the social class to which Bender aspired, and then he’d opted for a life that meant giving it all up. Which was probably his reason for resenting Bender—the way someone on an eternal diet resents fat people walking around with ice-cream cones.
“Father Kinney”—Michael was addressed as “Father” every third question, lest the jurors lose track and begin to think of him as an insurance salesman in a Roman collar. “Father . . .” Bender repeated, for the sake of the truly dull. “Is Bishop Roger Wilbourne your immediate superior?”
“No, he’s not.”
“And who is?”
“Frank Worland. The Jesuit provincial.”
“Can you explain to us how that chain of command works?”
If the jurors were having trouble remembering his occupation, Michael doubted they’d be able to follow the intricate inner workings of the Jesuit hierarchy. Nor could he understand what difference it made to the matter at hand. But he explained. Provinces. Regions. Rectors. Provincials. Father General. Rome. The delicate balance of Jesuitdom. Forever and ever, amen.
“So if you wanted to do something, say, out of the ordinary,” Bender asked, “you’d need permission from your provincial?”
“That’s correct.”
“And that provincial would be Frank Worland?”
“Yes.”
Michael could see Frank glaring from his seat in the third row. Up until this insanity, he and Frank had been friends. Not particularly intimate, but close enough for the occasional dinner or game of racquetball. Those days were over, he knew. Their tense conversation from the night before was still churning in Michael’s head like cerebral indigestion.
“Michael, if you go through with this, there will be consequences. And you’re not going to like them.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s a very simple way out of this.”
“I don’t consider lying simple.”
“No one is asking you to lie. All you have to do is plead confidentiality.”
“Frank, nothing that happened was told to me in confidence. Quite the contrary, as you well know.”
“But the judge needn’t know it. And the defense has no way to disprove you.”
“Well, at least you’re not asking me to lie.”
“All you’re going to do is buy the Church another round of bad publicity. Is that your goal?”
“I don’t have a goal! I was subpoenaed.”
“And so,” Bender continued, “was Frank Worland the superior from whom you needed permission to become involved with my client’s . . . situation?”
“No. For that I needed permission from the bishop.”
Michael hadn’t even told Frank about it, which was part of Frank’s anger. But, as Michael had tried to explain, he’d gone into this mess thinking he was doing a small favor for an old friend. He would certainly have mentioned it to Frank had he known it was headed toward a triple homicide.
“And permission from the bishop was never granted, is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“So you made a decision to act without the authorization of either your provincial or the bishop, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And why was that?”
Michael took a moment to search for a diplomatic way to put it. “I felt the situation was . . . critical.”
Bender nodded. Michael braced himself for the question he’d been dreading, which he assumed would come next. It didn’t. Instead Bender returned to the defense table to check his notes.
Michael took the opportunity to scan the crowd. The courtroom was packed for the third straight day. People had been lining up in the mornings to get a good seat. The first two days had been pretty boring, but their persistence was about to pay off. Today they were going to get their money’s worth.
Oh, hell.
That woman. The editor from the New Yorker. God had not taken him up on his offer: anything he owned, or would come to own in this lifetime, in exchange for her having some other pressing engagement today. It was bad enough to have to make a public fool of himself without her sitting fifteen feet away. What was her name? Tess something. Tess McSomething. Pretty name. To say nothing of its owner. She was wearing an emerald-green jacket, and her red hair hung loosely around her shoulders. It had been tied back every other time he’d seen her. He’d met her in the hallway the first day of the trial. She had introduced herself and asked him to do an interview for the article she was writing about the trial. He’d said he’d think about it. Yesterday she’d left two messages, which he hadn’t returned. Now she caught his eye and smiled. He didn’t return that, either.
Bender had reemerged from his legal pad.
“Father, we were talking earlier about this magazine that you edit. What kinds of articles would we find in this magazine?”
There was something subtly patronizing in Bender’s voice. Michael wasn’t entirely sure of its source, but had a feeling it was something along the lines of “I spend my life fighting for truth and justice, and you spend yours in complete devotion to a fairy tale.” There was probably a little bit of “and you’re a eunuch to boot” thrown in there. Michael was used to that subtext by now, but it had never stopped bothering him.
“We publish scholarly articles,” Michael answered, trying hard not to repay the condescension. “Articles written by priests. Sociologists. Religious historians.”
“So this is a serious magazine? People take it seriously?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“You don’t print articles on things like the Virgin Mary appearing on someone’s garage door?”
“If we did, it would be under the category of psychosis and religious hallucinations, and it would be written by a Jesuit psychologist.”
Bender nodded and Michael took a breath. It was hard to remember that he and this jerk were sympathetic to the same cause.
“Father, would you describe yourself as a cynical person?”
“I’m a priest. I’m obviously selectively skeptical at best.”
“Do you believe in UFOs or alien abductions?”
“No.”
“Crop circles?
“No.”
“Spontaneous human combustion?”
“No,” Michael said, finally losing his patience. “And I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or weeping statues or milk sha
kes that cure cancer and I think that Elvis is really dead. If you’re asking me if I’m gullible or easily misled, the answer is no. I am not.”
“Well, that’s certainly direct and to the point,” Bender said. “You’d never make it as an attorney.”
There were snickers from the crowd and Bender’s illusion of dignity was restored.
“Okay. Let’s go back in time, to the day before you met Danny Ingram.”
Michael wished he could go back to that day, so he could turn and run in the opposite direction. Sitting at the defendant’s table, Danny had his eyes locked on Michael. He looked exhausted, and much younger than his fifteen years.
“On that day,” Bender continued, “did Father Michael Kinney, the nongullible serious-Jesuit-magazine editor, believe in the Devil?”
A hush fell. Michael heard someone stop midcough.
“No. I did not.”
“And if we move forward from there to the day Danny was arrested . . . On that day, did you believe in the Devil?”
Michael didn’t answer immediately, allowing himself one last moment of respectability. He could already see his picture on the front page of tomorrow’s New York Post. He snuck a furtive glance at Tess McWhatever. She was taking notes.
“Father?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “On that day I did.”
Rustling. Mumbling. At least there was no laughter. No audible laughter, anyway.
“And did your encounter with my client play a part in your change of opinion?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, it was your encounter with my client that was entirely responsible for your change of opinion, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
Bender smiled and nodded. This was his idea of a good time.
“Okay, Father. Let’s go back to the day you met my client. I want to ask you a few questions about that day.”
Michael waited while Bender checked his notes again. He glanced over at the New Yorker woman. She was writing and did not look up.
When the elevator door opened on the second floor of the Jesuit residence, Michael was accosted by the sound of a cocktail party coming from the lounge next to the dining room. There was always a cocktail hour before dinner, but it was usually limited to about seven regulars. From the sound of it, there had to be at least fifty people in the front room now. They spilled out into the hall.
Michael headed for his room. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it.
Halfway down the hall, Larry Lantieri came out of his room, drink in hand. Michael knew why. Larry claimed he’d taken an extra vow: never to drink cheap scotch.
“Mikey,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.
“What is that?” Michael asked, nodding toward the noise.
Larry smiled. “Frank’s birthday party. Didn’t you get an invitation?”
Strangers with wine glasses were making their way down the hall, examining a row of framed magazine covers. Michael looked to Larry for an explanation.
“He removed cloister until ten o’clock so everyone could admire his kingdom. But don’t think you can hide in your room, unless you’re dreaming of a small parish in Siberia.”
Michael ignored that and headed for his room.
“Where are you going?” Larry called behind him.
“To check my messages, change my clothes, and hang myself from the showerhead.”
He closed the door before Larry could offer a rebuttal.
He was pleasantly surprised to see only one message on the answering machine. He hit the Play button and started divesting himself of his clerical garb.
“Hi. It’s Tess McLaren. Again. The reason I’ve been calling is that I’ve decided I’m not the one who should be writing this article. I’ve been reading some of your stuff, and . . . well, if they end up defrocking you for this, you can come to work for me anytime . . .”
The phone rang just as the message ended. Michael answered it, with some trepidation. He was greatly relieved to hear his grandfather’s voice on the other end.
“So how’d it go?”
“I’ll send you the National Enquirer clippings. I’m sure you’ll be proud.”
“I am proud. You did the right thing.”
“Then why do I feel like crap?”
“The right thing doesn’t have to feel good. It only has to be right.”
Michael sighed. “Listen, can I call you back in a little while? I have to go to a public lynching.”
“Call me when you can. I want the sordid details.”
“You can have them now: I no longer have any credibility as a journalist. I no longer have a relationship with my provincial. I wouldn’t place big money on getting a hug from the bishop anytime soon. And the jury is still going to vote to convict. But I did the right thing. God is impressed.”
“Send me the papers.”
“I’ll make you a scrapbook.”
Michael hung up. He wasn’t about to relive the day’s events, not even for Vincent. He stared through the blinds at the dirty windows of the building next door. The air was filled with the usual rush-hour din of taxi horns and sirens of gridlocked emergency vehicles. This time of day the city always depressed him.
Shedding the clerics would help. Like most Jesuits, he hated wearing them, and he certainly couldn’t lose himself in the party crowd with them on.
He was halfway out of his shirt when there was a knock at his door. Someone wanting a trial update, or Larry coming to drag him to the party? The possibilities were equally repugnant.
“It’s open,” he called, making no attempt to sound hospitable.
“Are you sure?” A female voice.
What the hell?
He pulled his shirt back on. “Relatively,” he said, mostly to himself. He was on his way to the door when it opened and there she stood. Still wearing the green jacket. And a short skirt. And legs that were a near occasion of sin. Not good.
“Hi,” Tess said, smiling.
“How did you . . . ?” He stopped, searching for the rest of the question.
“How did I what?”
He tried to put it together. Had she somehow been invited to the party? Or had she just dropped by to visit? Either way, how had she found him?
“I asked someone which room was yours,” she said, answering his question. “Why? Is there a rule against girls in the dorm?”
“Even if there were, I’m not a big fan of rules, as you know if you were paying attention in court.”
“Apparently you’re not a big fan of returning phone calls, either.”
“Do you show up at the doorstep of everyone who doesn’t return your phone calls?”
“No.” She let it go at that, but punctuated it with an indecipherable smile.
“I haven’t been avoiding you any more than I’ve been avoiding anyone else,” he said. “I’m a little preoccupied right now.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But if we’re going to do this thing, the clock is ticking.”
“Do what thing?”
“The article. Didn’t you get my last message?”
“Yeah. Something about me being defrocked and coming to work with you. I’m pretty sure I can sue you for sexual harassment.”
She laughed. She even laughed like a woman with a brain.
“So do you have to go to that party? Because if you don’t, the New Yorker will buy you dinner and/or a drink and we can talk about the article.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“The article, or dinner with me?”
He didn’t answer. In truth, he liked the idea of writing the article. Almost as much as he liked the idea of having dinner with her. But both were minefields, and he was in no shape to negotiate either of them.
“I just don’t want to make a decision tonight.”
“Fair enough.”
“For the record, I plan to remain frocked.”
He didn’t have to wonder if she understood. It was interestin
g to see a stunned look on her face. He doubted it was a frequent occurrence.
“I stand advised,” she said, recovering.
“I realize I’m being incredibly presumptuous, but I’d rather be presumptuous now than uncomfortable later.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re particular about which rules you break.”
She went on before he had a chance to respond. “Since you’re laying down the ground rules, does that mean you’re saying yes to the article?”
“I’m saying maybe. I want to sleep on it.”
She nodded. “Good enough. You can call me in the morning.”
“Okay.”
Just when he thought he was safe, she added, “Are you always this skittish around women?”
“Only the ones who follow me home.”
“I don’t follow many people home. You should be flattered.”
“I stand advised,” he said.
She smiled, and then she was gone.
He woke up at precisely three a.m., from a hazy dream about her. Nothing dangerous, but it was all the sign he needed. He’d call her tomorrow and politely decline her offer. He didn’t need to set a new record for how much trouble he could get into at one time. And he knew well the slippery slope that started with a simple “So why are you celibate?” Very bad time to be venturing toward that cliff. And besides, there was nothing to be gained from writing the article.
Or was there? He was torn between the idea of letting it all die and the idea of explaining himself to the rest of the world. He was never going to accomplish that by testifying at the trial. It would never change anything that mattered.
What matters?
That used to be such an easy question to answer. But the thing (The what? The brush with Evil?) had done something to him. Nothing he could define. He just knew that he had not survived the confrontation—whatever it was—unscathed. The events were over, but something bigger was not.
Someday, at some unexpected hour, it would return. And next time, Michael somehow knew, he wasn’t going to walk away so easily.
Next time, in fact, he might not walk away at all.
