by Anne Emery
“I got a job. I won’t tell you where in case you go in there and see me. I’m only working part time right now, so I can be with my baby. I even baptized her in that same beautiful church. But I haven’t really started to go to church myself. Oh, shit. Oh, I’m sorry! Am I in trouble for saying that?”
“No, you’re grand. I’m so relieved to hear that your story turned out all right, and that Ignatius didn’t hurt you, that a little bit of un-churchy language isn’t going to do either of us any harm at all. But what’s wrong?”
“It’s just that, if I don’t go to church and this isn’t a real confession, maybe you can tell people what I said. About the way I was, and what I did.”
“I’m not going to tell a soul. You have my word.”
“Yeah, well, I just wanted to tell you about Ignatius, and what he did for me. When I got pregnant, I told him if it was a boy, I’d name him Ignatius. And he laughed and said, ‘You don’t want to do that. Call him John! Or Patrick, after the church and the saint.’ It’s a girl, so I called her Patricia.”
“Lovely. How old is she?”
“Almost two. And me and my boyfriend are getting married. He’s a really good guy. Not mean or violent, and he has a good job.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m very happy that things are working out. God bless you.”
“Thanks. Thank you for listening to me. And stick up for Ignatius. They’re trying to connect him with that murder. But he wouldn’t hurt anybody. If there really are saints, Ignatius is a saint!”
Brennan was very moved by what the young one told him about Ignatius. What a relief. A life that could have been utterly lost and wasted, saved by the love and wisdom of Ignatius Boyle.
How much love and wisdom had Boyle himself enjoyed during his lifetime? Not much, Brennan had to assume. A person deprived of love and guidance, of stability and nurturing — how could such a person have so much to give a young girl like the one Brennan had just encountered? More often, surely, deprivation caused such damage to the personality that only harm and devastation could result, harm to the self and to others. How exceptional was a man like Ignatius Boyle?
Nobody else came into the confession box. Brennan peered out and saw that there was no one in the church. Time to go. He looked at his watch. Twenty to seven. Better stay to the appointed time, just in case. A couple of minutes later, he heard someone enter the booth, and fall heavily to his knees.
The fellow delivered himself of a loud, world-weary sigh. “Where to begin, Father?”
“I don’t want to hear from you, Podgis. Your place is in a cell, not in a confessional. We both know it. Turn yourself in.”
“But what would become of me, Brennan? Don’t you care about the lives of your flock? Can you see what life would be like for poor ole Pike in prison? Homemade liquor, drugs to mask the boredom and the despair, the lonely hours with smuggled porn? I don’t know the rules in prison. I’ll have to ask Monty. Oh, wait, no, can’t ask Monty. He believes in my innocence. So I’ll ask you. What do you think? Would they let me bring in my own collection of dirty pictures? Is there a special jailhouse rule if they are pictures of my own victims? Victim, I mean. Did I say victims? This whole ordeal of facing a life sentence is making me a bundle of nerves. Anyway, my picture collection. Jordyn posing before her death, and then posed by her killer afterwards. My little Jordyn. Tell you what. If I can’t bring my photos with me, I’ll leave them in an envelope for my parish priest, Father Burke. The priest who was sleeping in a house overlooking the murder scene. Too bad you missed it. Slept through it, I guess. Passed out, from what I gather. What a night it was, Brennan. For me, and for her. Poor kid. Maybe you could have saved her, if you had heard her begging for her life. But I’m sure you’re not losing any sleep over it. Then or now.”
Brennan was on the verge of losing it with the twisted, malicious, evil man on the other side of the screen. But he willed himself to keep it together until he could come up with a way to bring Podgis out in the open with his admission of guilt.
All Brennan said was, “You are a very sick, very deranged individual. You should throw yourself on the mercy of the courts, take your punishment, and maybe get some treatment.”
“Nah, I’m not really going to jail. Monty’s going to get me off. I’m going to walk away from this, and Jordy’s misfortune will remain forever unsolved.”
“Get out of here, Podgis. If you ever do have a moment of remorse, confess it. And plead yourself guilty. Spare the girl’s family the agony of a trial.”
“I know, I know. You’re right, Father. That poor family. The mother, particularly. Did you see her on the news? She lost it. Every time. Poor thing.”
“Well?”
“I really would like to spare them, now that you mention it.”
“Good. Do so. Go now, speak to your lawyer and get it arranged.”
“Your good friend, Monty. Not so friendly now, maybe. I hope I haven’t spoiled things between you.”
Brennan took a few deep breaths and restrained himself.
“But I hear you. I should do the right thing for the family’s sake. I know something about that first-hand. Remember we were chatting about little Jeanie Ballantine the other day? Eighteen years old, missing for nearly six weeks, the parents frantic. I was covering the story, doing my very best to find leads to where that poor little girl was being hidden. Her family came to rely on me, knew that if any reporter could uncover the real story it was me.”
What was he on about now? Revelling in the prurient details of a killing one minute, the victim’s champion the next.
“Seeing the family like that, terrified for their daughter. Facing at last a parent’s worst fear. And of course fearing the worst. Knowing how unlikely it would be that little Jeanie would be coming home safe and sound. Grieving already. The mother in such pain. The dad really tried to hold it together, but the mother just couldn’t handle it. One time I interviewed her on her front lawn. She started to talk about Jeanie, then she just doubled right over with the pain. Couldn’t even stand. What a shame. I watched the video when it aired on the suppertime news. Mrs. Ballantine pleaded for witnesses to come forward. There is nothing as powerful, as painful to see, as a mother’s grief for her child. It makes you cry just looking at her. Or a wife grieving for a dead husband. Think back to 1963. Jacqueline Kennedy at JFK’s funeral. All in black, her beautiful face veiled. The iconic image of a grieving woman. And then there’s Mrs. Ballantine. The pale, blotchy skin, the freckles standing out like zits, the red-rimmed eyes. And the sniffling. Her nose was running, on suppertime TV. Eeeuuw. I’ve seen Jackie Kennedy, Mrs. B., and you’re no Jackie Kennedy!”
Brennan bolted from his seat, yanked open the door of the left-hand confession booth, and pulled Podgis from the kneeler. He grabbed the front of his jacket in both his fists and shoved him against the wall of the church. Podgis looked up at him, his expression one of fear mixed with something else, something beyond the man’s natural complement of malice and spite. Exhilaration? Triumph?
“Temper, temper, Father. Have patience. Is not anger one of the seven deadly sins? Is not patience a virtue?”
“Shut your filthy mouth, you psychopath!”
“Me? A psychopath? What are you talking about? I come to my priest to confess my sins, like what I just told you, that I didn’t declare all my speaking fees on my income tax return. Sure I’ve always felt guilty about it, but ‘psychopath’? And the time I shouted out in anger to the driver who cut me off. I shouldn’t have done that, but not a big sin. And hardly a major crime.”
“What are you on about now?”
“Are you getting a little senile, Father? Have you forgotten already what I confessed in there? What do you think I said? Maybe your hearing is starting to go? That would be bad for a musician, a choirboy like yourself.”
“Get the hell out of here before I commit murd
er myself, you loathsome object.”
“Murder? Who said anything about murder? You must be delusional, Father. Driven mad perhaps by the image of that young girl with her legs sprawled open in your churchyard, her body still — ”
Brennan seized him by the front of his jacket, whipped him around, and got him in a chokehold, squeezing Podgis’s neck between his forearm and his bicep. Podgis’s arms flailed, and he tried to scream but it came out as a squeak. Brennan pulled him out of the nave to the vestibule of the church. Brennan then backed up against the door and pushed it open. As soon as the door opened, the priest heard voices coming from the parking lot. A couple of the lads early for choir. They’d hang about outside till the last minute, if past experience was any guide. Brennan slammed the door shut, released his captive, and shoved him against the door.
Podgis turned around, his hands caressing his neck, his eyes bulging. “You nearly fucking killed me! I couldn’t breathe!”
“You don’t deserve to breathe.”
“You’re a fucking stone-cold killer, Burke. I can see it in your eyes. Like your old man, I guess. Surprised? I had my people look into your background when I found out you were going to give evidence against me in court. I told them, dig up some dirt. See if we can discredit the witness. Collins was too easy on you at the preliminary. He better come down harder on you at the trial or I’ll fire his ass and find somebody who will. Now we have this. Your unprovoked attack on me, based on whatever hallucinations you’re suffering from about my character. It’s no accident you’re like this, though, is it? I wonder if we can get your family roots on the record. Declan Burke, gunned down at a family wedding. Barely survived. Him and the rest of the Burkes are a bunch of fucking Irish terrorists, and you’re obviously made of the same shit as them.”
Brennan grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. He saw genuine fear in Podgis’s eyes. “Don’t you ever utter my father’s name again. Don’t you ever boast to me about the depraved crimes you’ve committed against innocent people. Don’t you ever mock a grieving mother in my presence or anywhere on this planet again. And don’t ever set foot in my church. I do not want to see your hateful, spiteful face again until I see you in court. Just before they pack you off to a lifetime in prison. Where you’ll meet the fate you so famously deserve.”
The man squirmed and lifted his leg to deliver a well-placed kick, but Brennan saw it coming and backed off, leaving Podgis to slump to the floor. He got up and stuck his face into Brennan’s. “Yeah, you’ll see me in court, Burke. Then you’ll see me on the courthouse steps waving to my cheering fans after I beat the rap. ’Cause there’s no way Pike Podgis is going down for this! Your buddy Collins is gonna get me off. I’m gonna walk. That’s what you’re gonna see. There won’t be enough Paddy whiskey in the world to drown out the sight of me walking away.”
Brennan held his clenched fists down by his sides, forcing himself not to use them on the skinful of evil who stood before him against the door of his church.
Podgis turned and opened the door, peered outside. “All those little choirboys singing like angels. Should I stand up at the front of the church and tell them and their mummies and daddies just how far you really are from being a choirboy? That you’re a violent street brawler like the rest of your bog Irish family?”
“Get out of here. Do not go near my students or their families. Do not even look at them. Do not loiter on these grounds. If you’re not gone in thirty seconds, I’ll have you arrested. If they can’t find something to arrest you for, I’ll make something up. Go back to whatever hole you’re living in and examine your conscience. But we both know you don’t have one. So instead, sit there and contemplate what it’s going to be like when I, and all the other witnesses, present an overwhelming case against you and see you dragged away in handcuffs to a place where nobody is going to show you the mercy I showed you here tonight. I didn’t kill you. Somebody else will. Guaranteed. And no mother will grieve the loss of you.”
Once he was sure the reptilian creature was off the property, Brennan sprinted up to the sacristy, went in and washed his hands and face. He only wished he had time for a shower. But he did what he could. He took a towel and brushed his clerical suit in case there was a lingering trace of Podgis’s foul person upon him.
Most of the boys were in place in the choir loft by the time he finished. He was walking towards the stairs to join them when Monty Collins came into the church.
“Evening, Father.”
“Mr. Collins.”
Collins peered at him in the dim light. “Everything all right with you? You look a little tense.”
Brennan waved him off and headed up the stairs. Shuffling, whispering, and bursts of adolescent laughter halted abruptly when he arrived and faced his choristers.
“Ian.”
“Yes, Father?”
“You’ve passed out the music?”
“Yes. The Vivaldi Gloria and Mozart’s ‘Laudate Dominum.’”
“Good. Run in there and get the Pergolesi Stabat Mater as well.”
“Okay.” Ian McAllister got up and headed for the steeple room where the music was kept in file cabinets.
“The rest of us will bow our heads.” Brennan began the opening prayer with the sign of the cross: “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti . . .”
He saw Monty looking at him. Wondering, no doubt, why he was opening the choir practice with a penitential prayer, a general confession of sin, instead of the usual prayer to St. Cecilia, patron saint of church musicians.
“. . . peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.
When he finished, Richard Robertson spoke up. “How come we said that prayer, Father? It’s all about sin, right?”
“It’s all about sin. You said it, Richard. The sins of all of us. Sometimes it’s well to remind ourselves of that.”
Ian was back with the Pergolesi, and he passed the books around.
“Stabat Mater. What does it mean, lads?”
They looked from one to the other wondering whether to chance it. Monty would certainly know. Perhaps some of the other adults. But, wisely, they left these little lessons for the boys.
“It’s something about a mother,” Ian said.
“That’s right. Stabat Mater dolorosa iuxta crucem lacrimosa. The sorrowful mother, the grieving mother, was standing by the cross weeping.”
Again, a curious look from Collins. Brennan ignored it and proceeded to sing them the melody line of the gorgeous, haunting piece.
Monty
Instead of heading straight to the office on Wednesday morning, Monty drove to Byrne Street, entered the church, and climbed the stairs to the choir loft, where he would join the other members of the St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys for the twice-yearly choir school Mass. Not that the choir school students, including his daughter, Normie, attended Mass only twice a year. No indeed. Frequent Mass attendance was part of life at Father Burke’s choir school. But this was the special liturgical event for the students and their families, and everybody knew it was not to be skipped. Woe to anyone who misseth this Mass, woe in the form of the displeasure of the Reverend Doctor Father Burke; it would be better for that man, woman, girl, or boy if he or she had never been born. The choirs, that is, the school choir and the men and boys, would be singing some exquisitely beautiful motets by Palestrina and Victoria and, apparently, Pergolesi. Monty surveyed the nave from his perch in the choir loft. The church was packed with the mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and teachers of the students.
The choristers got to their feet as Father Burke walked up the aisle behind six altar boys carrying candles. Burke was, as always, a striking figure in his immaculate green vestments. He wore
a black biretta on his head and carried the chalice covered by the chalice veil. Priest and choir sang the ancient chant together as the Mass proceeded. Whenever Burke was saying Mass, he deputized Frank Stanton, a member of the men and boys’ choir and an accomplished musician in his own right, to direct the singers. The fact that Stanton still had this job after a year said it all about how good he was as a stand-in conductor. Not a note was out of place. At the Offertory, the choir sang Palestrina’s Adoramus Te Christe, and Monty’s thoughts turned to the inexcusable and sometimes evil acts he heard about every day of his working life, the appalling things human beings did to one another. And he wondered, when they came to the phrase redemisti mundum, thou hast redeemed the world, whether the world could ever truly be redeemed. Monty also wondered how Father Burke was able to perform so beautifully, whether he had slept the sleep of the angels or had been out carousing till the wee hours. Something had been bothering the priest last night at rehearsal. Monty had not had a chance to speak to him after practice. Had Burke gone to the Midtown to anaesthetize himself from whatever had set him off? No way to tell.
The time came to switch from Latin to English for the sermon. Burke never spoke for more than ten minutes, usually less, and never talked down to the congregation. Whether or not they understood some of the arcane terminology he used, or the ethereal ideas he floated before them, he accorded them the respect of treating them like equals, though few in the crowd would have attained anything close to the level of education he himself had achieved. And he never thundered at people about worldly vices; his homilies tended to be lessons in theology. Today the subject was St. Paul’s matchless hymn to love, in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Faith, hope, love abide, these three, but the greatest of these is love.” Father Burke was only about two minutes into his talk when a baby at the back of the church set up a wail. He kept on speaking, and the baby kept on crying. Monty leaned over the choir rail and watched the scene from above. He could see the baby’s mother, red-faced and flustered, desperately trying to calm the infant, who appeared to be around four months old. Two pre-school children flanked the mother.
