“Father, you're not supposed to be out here by yourself.”
He turned and saw Chloe marching toward him, looking every inch a warrior maid descended from Valhalla. “Don't you ever sleep?” he asked her.
“Sure. About as much as you do these days. If you wanted to shoot hoops, all you had to do was tell me.”
He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “How'd you know I’d come out here?”
“Well, I hate to destroy your impression of my omniscience, but I was coming to the rectory to talk to you.”
“So we'll talk. While I shoot some baskets.”
“Sure.”
But for a while, they didn't talk. She sat on the bench and let him wear himself out. He didn't seem quite as possessed tonight, not the way he had seemed right after the discovery of Steve King's body, but she got the feeling he was still looking for a state of exhaustion that would preclude thinking. That was fine by her. The less guarded he was feeling, the better.
The week had taken a toll on him, though. He'd visibly lost weight, and he was looking every one of his forty-three years and then some. He tired faster, too, as if he hadn't been eating enough to keep up his strength.
Finally, he dropped on the bench beside her and scrubbed his face with a towel.
“Basketball's a wonderful thing,” Chloe remarked. “I was out here earlier with Sister Phil, practicing. It cuts you loose somehow, lets you get away. I guess most exercise does that.”
“Yeah.” He was panting but recovering quickly, the sign of good conditioning.
“You're not eating enough.”
“So I hear.”
“Well, it's not going to do anyone any good at all if you wind up in the hospital. Force yourself, Father.”
“Just call me Brendan. I have a feeling that what you want to talk to me about doesn't involve a priest-parishioner relationship.”
“No, it doesn't.”
He waited. For a naturally gregarious man, he was sometimes very good at using silence.
Chloe, who didn't want to be at odds with him, gave him what he wanted. “So what's this thing about a young man you knew in the navy dying under mysterious circumstances?”
She'd shocked him. She could see it in the way he went utterly still. When he finally spoke, his voice rasped.
“Who told you that?”
“The cops.”
“Oh, man.”
“I’ve always thought,” Chloe said slowly, “that it's unfortunate that being a priest doesn't allow you to swear. A good
Jesus Christ
would probably fit right now.”
He gave her an almost smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. “Thou shalt not take the Lord thy God's name in vain.”
“You know, I don't think that's taking the Lord's name in vain. I think taking it in vain is twisting what God has said and using it against others. Misrepresenting God.”
“You might be right. However, I’ll forbear if you don't mind.”
“If ‘oh, man’ works for you, I have no problem with it.”
He wiped his face again. “So I guess you want to know the story.”
“It could be helpful. I’m not just being morbidly curious. I find it interesting that this rumor is making the rounds at this time. There may be a connection.”
He nodded slowly. “Can we walk while we talk? I’m stiffening.”
She hesitated, looking around. On the one hand, he'd be an easy target even with her beside him. On the other hand …
“Okay. But if I say duck, you hit the ground, okay?”
He looked at her, recognizing an unpalatable possibility, and finally giving it credence. “Fair enough.”
They strolled around the grassy parking lot, far enough away from trees and buildings that Chloe felt she could have at least a reasonable chance of protecting Brendan from someone in the shadows.
“So,” he said finally, as if accepting at last that she wasn't going to let him out of this, “somebody is spreading a nasty little rumor to the cops.”
“Somebody at the chancery is spreading the rumor. You need to know that.”
He sighed again and draped his towel around his neck. “I get the feeling they'd love it downtown if I’d just go back to the monastery.”
“How do you feel? Is the monastery looking good about now?”
“Oh, occasionally I get wistful for the peace there. But the truth is, I didn't become a priest to hide from people.
Or
hide from life.”
“No, that doesn't seem like you. I
am
curious about why you withdrew for so long, though.”
He wrapped his hands around the ends of the towel. Hands that had been anointed, making him part of the apostolic succession that had continued unbroken since the time Christ. Hands that were empowered to raise the Host and consecrate it. Hands that could bestow blessings and absolution, or the final sacrament.
Hands that, as Jesus himself had said, could bind in heaven what was bound on earth, and loose in heaven what they loosed on earth.
But apostolic successor or not, anointed or not in the service of God, he was still a mortal man. And Chloe, like most Catholics, had no difficulty accepting that dichotomy.
“Well,” he said, “I reached a crisis of faith. I needed to reestablish my relationship with God. It happens, you know.”
“Of course it does. I’ve been there a few times, although I didn't have a monastery to hide out in.”
“So it doesn't shock you that I came close to losing my faith?”
“Why should you be exempt?”
He laughed and tugged the towel a little, as if needing to flex his arm muscles.
“Did it have to do with this mysterious young man?”
“In part. But he was only the last straw, as it were. Things had been building.”
“Can I ask what things?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Why not? What I say is confidential, isn't it?”
“Yes. If it makes you more comfortable, consider me your retained lawyer.”
He glanced at her. “I can't afford a lawyer.”
“Ever hear of pro bono? I do it all the time. So I’m your lawyer.”
“Thanks.” He favored her with a smile. “Not that any of this needs a lawyer.”
“You never know.”
He shook his head, as if wanting to knock away an unpleasant thought. “Have you ever heard of the theory of just war?”
“Very vaguely.”
“Basically it holds that a war can be justifiable if it's fought solely out of self-defense, if no other means of protection is available, and if it's fought purely. You know, don't kill the innocents and all that. It's more complex, of course, but that's the basics.”
“Okay. I can follow that. It's basically the same as self-defense in the law.”
“Probably not very different,” he agreed. “I agree with the doctrine, and of course I feel wholeheartedly that our servicemen and women need their souls ministered to. But over time … let's just say I was finding it harder and harder to justify my continued participation in the military machine, however benign. I began to feel as if my presence there was a sign of approval. And it wasn't. I saw things … well, let's just say, not everything our military does would qualify as ‘just’ under the terms of the doctrine.”
“Of course not. And that bothered you.”
“Increasingly. I won't get into all the details, but let's just say that eventually I reached a point where I was questioning myself, my role, my Church, and even God's existence.”
Chloe nodded. “Been there, done that. It's hell.”
“That's exactly what it is.”
He fell silent and they continued to walk for a while. As they started yet another circumnavigation of the lot, Chloe asked, “Now, what about this mysterious young man?”
Brendan stopped walking and faced her. “He committed suicide. And it was all my fault.”
For an instant it seemed to Chloe that the world hushed. The breeze seemed to hold its breath, and even the endless racket of tree frogs and bugs fell silent.
But of course, nothing hushed. The hush was internal, as she absorbed what Brendan had just told her. Finally, out of disbelief as much as anything, she asked, “How was it your fault?”
He sighed and looked up at the heavens, where a few stars managed to gleam through the perennial glow of city lights. “I failed to realize how close to the edge he was. I failed to insist that he get medical help immediately. I failed to insist he go to the emergency room.”
“You know, mind reading isn't required, even of a priest.”
“Maybe not. But something more than trite, reassuring, it'll-all-be-okay counseling is required. I failed that young man. I was wrong.”
“Perhaps.” She wasn't going to argue with his conscience; that was between him and God and his spiritual advisor. “But that doesn't make you responsible. And I don't see how a suicide can be connected with what happened to Steve King, or even why anyone should consider it mysterious.”
He sighed. They were once again near the basketball court, and he opted to return to the bench. She sat beside him, waiting for whatever he chose to say. She understood that he was walking a tightrope right now, between confidences that he could and could not share.
“Well,” he said finally, “this young man was gay. In fact, he converted to the church because we don't condemn gays, only homosexual acts. He felt more welcome in Catholicism than in the religion he was raised in.”
“That's a beautiful thing.”
“Well, yes, but then there's the military policy of don't ask, don't tell. The last time I saw him, he feared someone had found him out and was going to blow the whistle. And I didn't realize how desperate he was.”
She reached out and took his hand for a brief instant, squeezing it before she let it go.
“Two days later,” Brendan said, “he was dead. And it all came out.”
“I see. And the link someone is making is probably just that both Steve and this young man were gay.”
“It's the only one I can see.”
“How very ugly.”
“Ugly?” He looked at her.
“That someone would be spreading gossip like this. That someone wants to be so hurtful.”
“It happens.”
“That doesn't excuse it. Bearing false witness is on the top ten of don'ts.”
“Yeah. But so are other things, and they happen.”
Chloe reached into the pocket of her shorts and found a small square of paper, slightly rumpled but still usable. She began to fold a dove, neat, tiny, practiced folds.
“You really like doing that,” Brendan remarked.
“It soothes me.”
“I never think of you as needing soothing. You're always so … cool.”
“Icy is the word you're looking for. I’ve heard it many times.”
“How come?”
“Why am I icy, or why do I hear it?”
“Why are you?”
She finished folding the dove and set it between them on the bench. Once again she fished in her pocket and found another piece of paper. She began to fold a rabbit.
“Well,” she said finally, “that's a long, ugly story, better left for another time. Suffice it to say, a man once used my feelings against me so he could abuse me. And when he turned up dead, even my friends thought I had killed him.”
“Did you?”
“No. Although I’d gotten to the point of
wanting
to. A terrible sin. Anyway, thanks to one person, the charges were never filed.”
“Did they find the killer?”
“No. Never.”
He sighed. “So it hangs over your head forever.”
“Something like that. Anyway, feelings are a weakness. I don't allow myself to have them.”
“Chloe.” He turned to her and waited until she looked him straight in the eye. “Feelings are also our greatest strength. Someday you might want to consider that.”
She never answered. She walked him back to the rectory and made him swear he wouldn't leave it again until it was time for morning Mass. Then she climbed into her car and drove away.
The pain followed her, but as always, it followed far behind. It rode in the exhaust fumes of her car. She wouldn't let it into the passenger compartment with her.
“You didn't call me,” Phil said accusingly the following morning as they met just outside church for Mass.
“Sorry. It was rather late.”
Phil peered at her. “And you have no intention of telling me.”
“Privileged information,” Chloe said. “I can't. Suffice it to say, some rumormonger is drawing a pretty weak connection.”
Phil groaned. “Sometimes I wish I didn't have to deal with priests, nuns, and lawyers all the time.”
“So buddy up to a basketball player.” But Chloe couldn't help smiling. “Sorry, Phil. I promised.”
“I know, I know. But I
hate
being cut out of the loop.”
“Everyone does.”
“Well, you're going to tell that cop, aren't you?”
“Not until I have more solid information.”
“I swear you can be the most frustrating person on the planet sometimes.”
Chloe half smiled. “Believe me, I’m not. I’ve met worse.”
“Yeah, right. And pigs fly.”
Thus, in complete harmony, they went in to Mass.
After Mass, however, Chloe managed to get Brendan aside. “I need more information, Father.”
“More?” He looked a little distracted, as if he couldn't quite shift gears from talking jovially with his parishioners to considering the threats that faced him.
“About that young man who committed suicide.”
“Chloe …” His gaze focused on her, as did his full attention. “You know I can't —”
“I need to know his name, and the date and place of his death. And that's not privileged, Father. That's public record.” But she hated herself right then. For a few minutes, among the church members, he had almost looked like his old self. In a mere instant, he looked old and worn again.
“You're right,” he said. “I could tell you that. If I knew.” He sighed and did what was for him a rare thing: He stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Well, you must know his name.”
His expression became haunted. “I don't remember his full name. I honestly don't. It troubles me, Chloe. It's troubled me for a long time that I can't remember. I know he was Tom.”
“But didn't you perform his funeral?”
“Oh, no. Evidently his family claimed the body and took it home. In fact, I only heard about his death weeks later, when someone told me about it.”