Authors: Francis Porretto
"Of course, Chris. Who's Boomer?"
"My Newf."
"Your...Newf?"
"Newfoundland. It's a kind of dog. Very big, very black, very friendly. They drool a lot, too."
"Oh." Svenson's brows rose as if he'd had an idea. "Is he well trained?"
She shrugged. "He doesn't piss on the carpets."
"I mean, does he do what you tell him? You know, sit and stay when he's told, and so on?"
"Well, yes, within limits. If he sees a rabbit, anything I've got to say to him can wait till later."
"Protective of you?"
She smiled faintly. "I don't need protection, Rolf."
"Hm. Well, if he's unhappy at being left alone all day, you could always bring him here. If you could get him to stay in your cubicle with you."
She sat back in her chair. "You'd let me have Boomer here?"
"Sure, why not? There was a guy who brought in his pet chicken every day for damn near a year. Caused a lot of talk, while it lasted. If you want to have your dog with you, I figure the national security can withstand it."
"Well, okay, then. Thanks! I'd like that a lot. I think he will, too. Are we okay on the other stuff?"
He nodded. "We were never not okay, Chris. I was just a little worried for you. Go have a good weekend, if you can. And tell Boomer that he's a lucky dog to have you coming home to him."
"What?"
"Never mind." He rose and left her sitting there confused. A few moments later, she departed for home, mulling over Svenson's solicitude and his surprising offer. Her interior landscape was brightening for the first time since Louis's departure.
It'll be nice to have Boomer here. He doesn't like being left alone. And I'll have someone to hug when I need it.
All the same, the Newfoundland had deposited a huge amount of drool on her desk and computer at home. He'd do it here, too.
I'd better bring the big bottle of glass cleaner. I wonder what would work on the cubicle walls? Maybe it'll just soak in.
==
Chapter
35
Father Raymond Altomare had bubbled over with excitement for the whole of the past week. Only twenty-six years old, less than a year out of the seminary, he had never even served in a parish before, and the Archbishop had made him a pastor. He was stepping into the place of a legend of the Church, a priest so deeply revered by his colleagues and parishioners that sainthood might be a step down. As if more were necessary, he'd found Onteora parish in such unexpected disarray that he couldn't imagine how long he'd need just to make a proper beginning of all the work to be done.
It was difficult to believe, in this day and age. There was no parish liaison to Operation Rescue. No one was agitating for State funds for parish toddler care. No one had taken responsibility for a letter-writing group on gun control or minimum wage. No one had organized a Meals On Wheels program. There wasn't even an outreach effort to the gays and Lesbians! How had Heinrich Schliemann, may God grant him peace, achieved his towering reputation? By saying Masses and hearing confessions?
He'd been told he'd have to say two Masses each weekday and four on each Sunday, but he hadn't credited the necessity until he'd arrived. It had blown his mind to see all those Masses so heavily attended. And two confession sessions a week? Where in the United States, outside of San Francisco, was there any call for such a thing?
The eleven o'clock Mass, the last of his Sunday ordeal, was only ten minutes behind him. To get through them in the minimum possible span, he concatenated the four Sunday Masses back to front, allowing forty-five minutes per service and a bare fifteen minutes between them. Rather than disrobe in the sacristy, he waited for the last of the communicants to dribble out and went back to the rectory, to shed his vestments in the privacy of his bedroom. He was always anxious to get back into civvies after services; wearing a cassock made him itch. This part of the job, truth be told, was a flaming pain in the ass when there was so much of genuine importance to be done.
He was struggling into his Levis, still store new and tight upon his heavily muscled thighs, when he heard the knock from below. He swore colorfully, pulled on a chambray work shirt, raked his heavy black hair back with his fingers, and ran down the stairs barefoot, still fumbling with his buttons.
The young woman who faced him over his lintel was enough to take his breath away. About his age, statuesque build, dressed and made up to the nines, posture and carriage like a reigning queen. He pulled himself up perfectly straight and sucked in his already flat stomach. She gave him a once-over and a puzzled frown.
"Is the pastor in, please?"
"Speaking. I'm Ray Altomare." He stuck out a hand.
After a protracted hesitation, she took it and shook it. "My name is Christine D'Alessandro. You're the new pastor?"
"I know it'll take a while to get used to it. Father Schliemann will be a tough act for me to follow, too, or so I'm told. Won't you please come in?" He turned and made for the sitting room, and heard her steps following him.
This furniture belongs in a Victorian period piece. I have got to see about getting some update funds. Who would want to sit in here?
He gestured her to one of the armchairs and slouched into the other, throwing a leg over the chair's arm. "Were you at the eleven o'clock?"
"No."
"Early riser, eh? Me too, at least on Sundays. Goes with the collar." He grinned. "Was there something you wanted to talk about, or did you just stop by to say hi?"
She was a long time answering him.
What's with this gal? You'd think she'd never seen a priest before.
"Father Schliemann and I had regular conversations on Sunday afternoons, Father Altomare -- "
"Please! Call me Ray."
" -- and I was wondering if you and I could continue them, if you had the time and the inclination."
He shrugged. "I'm easy. What did the two of you talk about? I hear he was a big Yankees fan."
Her eyes widened. She leaned forward to peer at him.
"We talked about religion, Father Altomare. You know, God, Satan, the Bible, right and wrong, that stuff?"
"Every week? You're not a Retro, are you? Because that's not the kind of parish I'm planning to run."
"You're...planning to run?"
He nodded. "Father Schliemann must've been a wonderful man, everyone I've talked to sings his praises to the skies, but he's left me with a nightmarish amount of work. There's about ten years of organization and team building necessary here before all the bases are covered." He pulled himself fully upright and sat facing her squarely. "Want to help?"
Her baffled expression did not change. "With what?"
"Depends where your interests lie. If you like politics, there's a lot to be done in trying to get us some cash from the county or Albany for a day care program. If you'd rather do something more direct, I haven't got anyone to run the Meals On Wheels operation or organize the homeless yet." He sat forward and dropped his voice to its lowest register. "Now, you have a very nice voice. Are you any good at fundraising?"
"I...wouldn't know."
He grinned. "No time like the present for finding out. And I think I'd enjoy working with you, Chris."
She sat unspeaking.
Not much of a talker. Maybe she's not right for fundraising, but as easy on the eyes as she is, she could draw in some young guys with a little piss and vinegar in them. No wedding ring. Looks like she's got money, too.
She rose to her feet and hefted her purse. "Thanks for your time, Father Altomare --"
"Ray! I insist, Chris."
" -- but I think I'd better be moving along." She smiled formally and made directly for the front door. He scrambled to his feet and hurried to catch her before she let herself out.
"Look, if fundraising's not your thing, there are only about a million other things that need doing here." He mustered all his charm. "I need the young folks, Chris. The regular communicants here are almost all, ah, in the second half of their lives. Don't get me wrong, they're all good people, but it's the young folks that get the most done. They're the ones who can feel committed, who can really
give
themselves to a cause. And you could be a really big help. Think about it? Please?"
Her eyes filled with sadness. "No, Father. Thanks for your time. Have a nice day." She opened the door and strode down the walk toward a metallic blue Chrysler sedan.
He spent the next fifteen minutes in the downstairs washroom, staring at his reflection, wondering what he had said wrong, and whether he should have parted his hair differently.
***
With the early afternoon sun in her eyes, Christine almost missed the semicircular depression in the trees on Mill Neck Road. It was shallower than she'd expected. She pulled the Chrysler over the negligible curb and into the little hollow with a quick jerk of the wheel, killed the engine, and sat a moment in thought. She hadn't yet shaken off the encounter with the new pastor.
I don't have to do this. At least not today.
Yes, you do. Forget the priest. Don't dally.
Oh, is that what he was? Then what was Father Schliemann? And what business is it of yours anyway, Nag?
This will go more smoothly if you stop wasting your energy on anger and try to compose yourself.
Mind your own business, damn it!
That's what I'm doing, Christine. Now go find the trailer.
She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stepped out of the car. The heels of her pumps began to sink into the soft topsoil. It felt as if the ground were slowly swallowing her.
"Shit."
There was no help for it. She tried to aim herself directly into the woods, and set out at as quick a pace as she could manage. It was an old forest, and there was little to cumber her steps. The loam was covered with dry leaves. She encountered no vines and few protruding roots.
Why do you care, Nag? For ten years, whenever I've had a weak moment, you've hectored me until I just about couldn't stand it anymore. Don't you have anything better to do?
Does it matter, Christine? I care. I'm not going anywhere. Deal with it.
I
have
been dealing with it, you arrogant whatever-you-are. But it would make it a damn sight easier to take if I knew why you were doing it.
You may think so. It's not necessarily so. And I'd prefer that you not address me unless I've already spoken to you. It's my prerogative to initiate these exchanges, not yours.
Shove it up your invisible ass! If I have to carry you around whether I like it or not, you'll just have to put up with a little small talk now and then.
The Nag's silence had a huffy quality. She grinned. She'd never scored on her disembodied advisor before. There was a lot of satisfaction in it.
After a few minutes' steady walk, along as straight a plumb to the road as she could maintain, she stepped into a circular clearing about two hundred feet in diameter. At its center was a large brushed-aluminum trailer mounted on cinder blocks. A short flight of wooden steps stood before the trailer's door. The clearing contained no other human artifact.
She mounted the steps, then paused to straighten her clothes, kick the dirt from her shoes, and square her shoulders.
If he wants self-respect and self-control, that's what he'll get.
She laid three sharp knocks on the trailer door.
***
At first glance, the man that opened the door was unimpressive. He stood no taller than Louis had, and was no broader. His face had a stony, immobile quality, as if he'd practiced holding it still. She found it difficult to assign him an age. His expression was flat and unwelcoming.
"Yes?"
"Malcolm Loughlin?"
"Who is it that asks?"
She could feel him examine her. He ceased to seem ageless. There was power peering out through those agate eyes, and it hinted at a long tale of hard years.
Don't let him intimidate you!
Shut up, Nag.
"My name is Christine Marie D'Alessandro." She couldn't keep her voice from catching. "Louis Redmond told me to come here."
A tiny furrow of disbelief marked the center of Loughlin's forehead. He looked past her, to the right and the left, as if hoping to spy someone else he'd anticipated with more pleasure.
"Are you alone?"
Well, that takes the mystery out of that.
"Well, yes. Look, if you're busy, or you have someone else coming by -- "
"Belay that." He stood back from the door and waved her inside with an irritated gesture.
The trailer was as ordinary within as without. It was clean and orderly, but furnished to no high standard of comfort. There was a typical kitchenette, with a tiny swing-out table and two chairs. Ceramic salt and pepper shakers stood alone on the table. Against the end wall was a small daybed, that with some bolsters might have served for a couch. Beside the door stood a small kerosene stove. The door to the bedroom end of the unit was closed, but she doubted there was much to see beyond it. Malcolm Loughlin appeared to live in as Spartan a fashion as was possible.