Chapter Two

“So, pretty Blue Eyes, you wanna dance?”

I looked up at the waitress. “What?”

“It’s closing time and the last dance. Lady’s choice, I choose you.” She took my hand and I looked at Paul. He nodded and grinned, then shooed me off. I will admit I was grateful for the break, relieved to just stop talking.

I took her in my arms and held her close, at first gingerly, trying hard not to feel her breasts against my chest or glance down into that gorgeous cleavage. Finally the music took over and I swayed, moving smoothly. Her small hands reached up and played in the hair at the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and permitted the closeness, for me, for her. She rose up on her toes and gently brushed full lips over my ear. “Hey, Blue Eyes. I don’t live far.”

My brows shot up and I searched for Paul. He was sitting, slouched in the booth and smiling like an accomplice to the unthinkable. “Um.”

“I have a friend for your buddy. It’ll be fun.”

I leaned back and looked down at her. “Just what do you have in mind?”

“Ooo, I love that funky Australian accent. It’s so sexy,” she grinned.

“I’m not the one with the accent, lady.”

She snuggled close and continued the dance. “You really want to know what I have in mind, Blue Eyes? I’m sure if you think about it long enough, you’ll figure it out.”

I didn’t stop dancing or look down at her. “Can’t. Sorry, love.”

“Sure you can. I’m healthy, no diseases. Can’t get pregnant, been neutered.”

“Like a house cat?”

“Just like that. So it’s safe. I’m available and I’m very attracted to you.”

“Are you now?”

She pressed her hips against me and we moved like lovers. “Would you like a little preview?”

I looked over her head at the bartender who was wiping the shelves, setting clean glasses in place, emptying ashtrays. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure you do.” Her hands pressed tenderly against my face and she set her soft full lips on mine.

My eyes found Paul. He was sitting straight, observing my every move.

“Now, isn’t that nice. I know you liked that.” Her hips pressed harder against me and there was no way she couldn’t tell I liked it very much.

I pulled away smoothly. “Sorry. Can’t.”

“But I’m willing, Aussie. I’m here and hot and I’m – ”

“Lady, I’m a priest.”

Her mouth dropped open and I went back to the table.

“Hey priest,” she snapped from the middle of the dance floor. “It’s closing time. Get your sorry asses out of here.”

Paul was still laughing as we ordered coffee in the nearby diner. Just as he calmed, I glanced out the window and noticed the waitress talking to the bartender. Her hands were flailing and she was pointing at us. For a moment I thought the man would avenge her, charge across the street to put out my lights but instead he just shrugged and walked away.

“Poor girl,” Paul was laughing again, tears running down his face. “Can’t seem to get anything she wants tonight.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” I sipped bad coffee and tried not to smile.

“Why didn’t you go for it?”

“Go for what?” I poured cream in my coffee hoping to improve the taste. Curdling blobs of white rose in the cup and I slid it away.

“Her. You said she had nice tits.”

“She does. But I’m a priest.” I reached out and tapped the waitress for a fresh cup of coffee. Blessedly this woman was old and ugly and had no discernible tits at all.

“Always have been a priest, haven’t you?” Paul pulled himself across the seat and leaned back against the window, his feet hanging off the other side of the bench. “All your life. Have you always done the right thing?”

“Obviously not.” I glared at him and handed the woman my ruined coffee and the soured cream.

“Tell me about Steven Belliard.”

“Why?”

“Because of something he wrote in his letter. Steven believed you were always a priest, that you walked your life as a priest long before you came to seminary. It’s a point I tend to agree with.”

“Just what the hell does that mean? That I’ve always been a priest? It pissed me off when Stevie said it and it’s pissing me off now. What am I? Some kinda fucking saint?

“Most Aussies can’t make sainthood. It’s their potty mouths that keep them from canonization, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

“I rest my case. Steven Belliard. What happened, Michael?”

Fresh coffee in hand I fingered a napkin and stared at the Formica table top. “If you think murder was a surprise, I promise you my run-ins with the law pale in light of this disclosure. It started when I was a kid in grammar school, happened with Stevie, and has happened twice since.”

Paul sat up. “Start at the beginning.”

My heart started pounding out of control, making my chest ache and I couldn’t speak. My hands were shaking and my brain felt like it was boiling. Words clogged in the back of my mind and refused to come forward. I couldn’t go there, I just couldn’t. “I . . . I can’t, mate. I can’t do this yet.”

His hand set on my wrist and I looked up into his eyes.

“Not yet,” I choked and blinked back mounting tears.

“Alright, Michael,” he slid the water glass to me and I gulped. “It’s alright. Let’s move on. Tell me about prison. How did you get caught?”

My breathing slowly steadied. I could do that. I could tell him that part of my life. That part shouldn’t be so hard. I cleared my throat and began.

“I worked at St. Anthony’s for about three weeks. I just did what was asked and was grateful to do it. I cleaned and weeded and repaired. I helped out anywhere I could. My mind and my hands were occupied and I think I was content for the first time in my life. I slept in the absent priest’s room and just lived. I didn’t think or worry about anything. No responsibilities, no problems to solve. And everything was fine until …”

***

One rainy Saturday morning as I helped the cook finish breakfast dishes, Father Benedict asked me to help him in the church. I apologized to the sweet old lady then excused myself, nodding to the other two priests at the kitchen table and followed the old man.

We walked out of the rectory through the rain then ducked into the side door of the cathedral. He led me up to the altar and I hesitated a bit. I hadn’t been that close to the front of a church since my Confirmation and I wondered at how brave an eleven-year-old actually had to be to go up there. Father Benedict led me past the altar and pointed up at the large crucifix.

“Michael,” he said quietly. “This wall needs to be painted.”

I blinked, looking up at Jesus Christ looking down at me. “I’ll be as careful as I can, Father.”

“Well son, you’ll have to take the cross off the wall to do it right.” He saw my expression and smiled. “It’s alright. There are only three anchors in the plaster, they’re very secure, but if you work at it from above, you should have no problem bringing it down safely.” He pointed out the anchors and I nodded, not really sure about it at all, thinking he’d gone mad entrusting me with such a job.

“If you like, I could have one of the other priests help you.” That made me smile. Father Theo was at least ten years older than Father Benedict, and Father Phil, well Phil was five foot tall and approximately just as wide. They were both generous, kind men, but I failed to see how either one of them could be of assistance.

“I’ll be fine,” I finally conceded.

“Michael, I only ask one thing. Please don’t let the cross touch the floor. Carry it over to the altar and lay it down there. I’ve cleared off the surface for you.” I blinked, looking alternately at the large ten foot cross then at the marble altar surface. “I’ll be hearing confessions,” he pointed at the row of confessionals along the side of the church. “So I won’t be far.” He patted my shoulder and winked then left me to ponder my biggest challenge to date.

I stood and looked up at the dilemma, making a silent advance heartfelt apology to the plaster savior, then went off to gather my tools.

At the top of the ladder, I felt a bit more insecure than usual, running my hands along the arms of the cross, carefully fingering the anchors behind it. I thought long and hard on my lofty perch before I figured I could loosen the crucifix from the anchor under the far arm first then the nearest arm. That done, I could swing the cross over my shoulder, supporting it like Simon, (that poor, unsuspecting innocent bystander who has gone down in Christian history as the man who helped Christ to Golgotha), then simply straighten to finally release the cross from the wall.

This plan worked perfectly, but then I stood precariously on the top step of the rather questionable ladder and groaned. The cross was surprisingly light even with the beautiful figure solidly attached to it; I felt a minimal amount of strain due to its weight. But it was awkward, and I was unsteady. Slowly, with a more vocal prayer than I’d intended, I moved one step at a time, balancing carefully until I made it all the way to the floor, bent over to assure that no part of the wood touched the floor. I shuffled my feet, trying not to jar the precious burden then with monumental effort, gently turned it and set it on the altar. I looked down on Jesus’ face and smiled. “We did it,” I whispered then turned to my paint and rollers.

The wall was high and I spent the better part of the morning working with rollers attached to extenders, painting the upper part of it. Confessions went on for hours and I overheard several gasps of surprise behind me as parishioners viewed the blank wall. The paint was blessedly a high-quality latex, the kind that dries quickly and as I removed the extenders and prepared to finish the wall at my own level, grateful to relieve the growing ache in my neck, my mind began to wander. The smoothing of white paint on an already white wall left nothing to distract my thoughts. It never occurred to me to ask why I was painting a wall that obviously didn’t need repainting. I just did as I was asked and was happy with the chore.

The vast white plane before me became page after page of a ledger, like the books I helped Mr. Richards keep balanced at the hardware store back in Melbourne. Only these pages didn’t display numbers, they cataloged acts and occurrences. Mine. As I rolled the paint, I read the endless list of my life’s events, my reactions, my intentions; some in the debit column, some to my advantage. I also saw things that I had foolishly imagined were gone from my life, good and bad things, and I knew very well that those would somehow again appear in the final balance. My dad, my remarkable mum and grandmum, the time growing up with my mates in the Dry Dock and being alone there with Lisy would all show up in the totals; numbers never lie.

I sighed deeply and ran the roller in fresh paint then looked back up at the wall, but this time my mind was seeing completely blank ledger sheets. I mentally turned page after page, all empty. Then I turned one more page and the listings again glared, black and sure as figures in a checkbook. I blinked and asked my mind to turn back a page or two. No bookkeeper would permit such a breech of entries.

Then my heart thumped. I looked at the entries after the void. Father Benedict, the rectory bedroom I slept in, the work I’d done, even the wall I was currently painting appeared clear as a bell on the imaginary pages. I shook my head and blinked hard. No more of that nonsense!

I finished the wall and gathered up the paint, pulled drop cloths from the floor, carefully cleaned brushes and rollers. I told myself I was being efficient, but I knew what I was doing, what I was avoiding. The delay surely wasn’t all in an effort to permit an already dry wall to dry. I couldn’t face what was on those blank pages. I wouldn’t.

I turned to the cross and prepared to take it back where it belonged. Confessions were over and the two assistant priests were carrying on a casual quiet conversation as they headed toward the door. Father Benedict was just emerging from his curtained booth, letting his eyes adjust to the light. And me, I was trying to touch the cross.

I looked down into the face of Christ and all I saw was sorrow. My chest began to hurt and my whole body felt weak. I didn’t realize that the loud cry of pain, the agonizing sound of an animal at the threshold of death, had come from me. My sight was dulled; my fingertips felt like they were wrapped in cotton, numb, throbbing and I collapsed to the floor on my knees, crying out to whoever could save me, man or God. In a flash I’d clearly seen what was written on the hidden ledger pages and I was appalled, guilty, flawed.

I became aware moments later, as both Father Theo and Father Phil ran over to comfort me. I know they ran because Father Phil was gasping so hard that Theo was alternately focusing his concern on me and his wheezing associate. And I too was huffing, desperate for oxygen, my heart palpitating, my vision totally disoriented, grasping at the altar, my head leaning on it for support.

Then I heard Father Benedict shuffle up to us and gently dismiss the others. I looked up into his knowing eyes and panicked, scuffling and pushing with my feet until I was wedged in the corner of the freshly painted sanctuary. He reached out several times and I reacted like a terrified animal, prepared to attack. I kept shoving his hands away, crying like a nipper.

“Michael,” he spoke gently, in a compassionate voice that made me want to listen. “Michael, calm down, my boy. Come now. Just relax.” I heard his words and they went directly to my turmoil. I blinked away tears and managed to slowly take myself in hand. “That’s right, relax,” he said then knelt on the floor in front of me. “What is it, Michael?”

At first my mouth moved but nothing came out. I blinked and tried again. It was a squawk, then finally my voice. “Father, I need to confess.”

He sat still then nodded his head. And I began.

“Bless me Father, I have sinned.” I looked at him for a frozen moment and he raised his eyes to meet mine. “I’m so sorry, Father. Randy … Randy ... he’s dead.” I sobbed and Father Benedict leaned back on his heels with a deep sigh.

He slowly shook his head, rubbed his red eyes. “I suspected so. How did it happen?”

And I told him. I told him about the robberies and the reasons. Reasons that sounded ridiculous and meaningless to me, like they were someone else’s rationale, not mine. I told him about the gun. And I told him what I saw. How I heard a very dead Randy tell me to go to Sydney, even though it was impossible. Then I just cried in his arms.

“I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve done something, anything. I’m so sorry. I left Petie there. Oh God, I left him there alone. I should’ve stopped it.”

“And how could you have done that, Michael?” His voice sounded far away, his eyes too were full of tears for his friend.

“I don’t know, but I should’ve done something to stop it!” I shouted.

He thoughtfully shook his head from side to side. “I’m not sure there was anything you could’ve done.” He watched my face then cleared his throat. “Michael, what do you want to do about this?”

Do about it? I didn’t know. I sort of thought that things would just do themselves. That Father Benedict would call the police and I’d be arrested and that would be that. I was really afraid of all that, but ready and willing to face the consequences.

Then I realized that it wasn’t going to happen that way at all. That he was really asking me what I wanted to do and it seemed like far more responsibility than I was prepared for. I blinked and looked around, cleared my throat, searching for an idea that wouldn’t come. I simply gave up. “I don’t know, Father. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. All I know is that it shouldn’t have happened. But it did. And I ran away.”

“You didn’t run away. You were given instructions, Michael.”

I looked at him like he was crazy.

“And,” he said. “You probably couldn’t have changed this even if you wanted to. Why on earth do you think you could have?”

“Because!” I was starting to panic again. The old man was making no sense. Didn’t he know that it was my job to fix things? “It’s what I’m supposed to do, damn it. I’m supposed to do the right thing. I’m supposed to try to do whatever I can to make sure everything is alright. I’m supposed to – ”

“Is that what you think?” Father Benedict stood up and looked down at me. “Michael Becker, you’re seventeen years old, just a boy. Have you lived your whole life being responsible for everything?”

I leapt to my feet. “Yes! Of course I’m responsible!”

He took my arms in his hands and shook his head in that slow patient way that made me feel safe and stupid at once. “No, my boy.” He looked deep into my eyes and at first I was afraid to let him go in there, to see those awful ledger pages. “Here’s what we’ll do, Michael,” he said. “Tomorrow morning after mass, we’ll take a drive to Melbourne and talk to the police. Alright?”

I nodded, grateful that he’d made the decision for me. I was more than relieved, I was free. And I was me again. Granted I’d probably be me in prison for the rest of my life, at least I was me again.

It was late May. An early winter was coming with a vengeance and Sunday morning brought treacherous icy rain but without hesitation, Father Benedict started up the old car and just before pulling into the street turned to me. “Are you ready, Michael?”

I nodded and leaned back in the seat for the duration of the long silent drive to Melbourne. I tried to reconstruct all the events of that awful night, but couldn’t. Only highlights stood out and no more information would surface. I ran a hand through my hair and wondered if I really could’ve done anything to stop Petie; wondered if I should’ve left with Frank. Wondered if they were both alright. I wondered until my head hurt and my eyes burned with exhaustion. The weather improved and our travel went smoothly. It was only my mind and heart that were skidding and sliding down an icy dangerous road. Just as I feared I’d loose my mind, a thought came to me. The rosary. Had it really spoken to me?

Yes.

And would everything be alright?

Maybe.

***

I needed a breather, something to break the emotions rising and ready to erupt. Without asking if he was hungry, I ordered burgers, fries and pie for us both then gave him a glare, daring him to force the issue, demand I continue. He didn’t. He ate quietly and I gobbled like it might be my last meal, not really tasting anything. When the plates were removed Paul tipped a little bourbon into my coffee from the bottle we carried in a paper bag.

“How did it go down?” Paul eyed me over his cup.

The whiskey improved the lousy coffee, smoothed it and soothed the words forming in my head. “Pretty much like you’d expect. I walked into the station with Alex and told them my name.” I rubbed my eyes. Was I really thinking this would be easy to talk about?

***

In the blink of an eye three officers accosted me and dragged me away. Alex was shouting, demanding to speak to someone in charge and when I looked back, he was being led in another direction. I was pushed into a car and driven to a Melbourne Youth Correctional Facility miles from Alex and his protection. They took me to a room and frisked me, then demanded that I strip. I was shaking. Took off my clothes, endured a cavity search then dressed in the orange overalls provided. They fingerprinted me, photographed me then shoved me to an interrogation room. I cooperated, followed instructions, did everything I was told but still, they roughed me up until my eyes were swollen and my lip was bleeding. I was handcuffed to the chair and finally left alone.

In an effort not to panic I rationalized; I was guilty and deserved what ever happened to
me. I accepted responsibility and as I waited, calming my erratic heart, I prayed for poor dead Randy. I wondered about Petie, how he’d handled it, where he was. I wondered what he thought of me, running out on him like I did.

Whenever I thought about prison, I always imagined a terrible filthy place, like in those Victorian novels; dark, overrun with rats and disease. But as I sat in that room waiting alone, I was startled at how sterile the place was. Sterile. Not like hospital sterile that promotes health and well being. But sterile in a way that blocks everything, and I mean everything of the outside world, out. It made me feel sick.

I had no sense of time, it could have been hours or just minutes, but finally the door swung open and two detectives entered. The older one eyed me directly; the other simply pulled a chair up to the table and shuffled through a manila file folder. “Well, well. Mr. Michael Becker, we finally meet.” He leaned back and watched me until I met his gaze. I swallowed hard and shuffled my feet. I didn’t know what to say, so I just waited as respectfully as I could. “We’ve been looking for you for weeks. Where the hell were you hiding?”

I didn’t answer. I was afraid to get Father Benedict in trouble.

“You can talk to an attorney, Mr. Becker.” The older investigator spoke from the far corner of the room where he leaned casually against the wall.

“I don’t need – ”

“You can talk to an attorney, Mr. Becker. Do you hear me, son?” he repeated

His counterpart shot a nasty look then turned back to me. “You do have that right.”

“I don’t need an attorney.”

He lit a cigarette then slid the pack to me. One-handed, I drew a smoke from the pack then he reached over and lit it for me. “So you think you’re innocent, do you?”

“No sir.”

The other bloke sat at the table with us. “Why don’t you tell us what happened.”

I sucked smoke then blew out slowly. “I guess I helped someone kill Randy.”

“You helped Peter McMatthews murder Randolph Henderson?” The young bloke was smiling.

“I guess so. I didn’t stop it.”

He flipped the file closed and looked at his associate. “That’s it. We got what we need. Let’s get this prick and his accomplice to trial and get this over with.” The man was probably in his late thirties and had the look of a schoolyard brute who’d just single-handedly won the rugby match. I felt my chest collapse. So that was all there was to it.

“Not so fast, Rich. I want Mr. Becker’s full statement first.”

With every memory I could muster, I gave my best recollection of the events that led up to the shooting. I told them everything, except of course how a very dead Randolph Henderson told me to go to Sydney. They grilled me on every point but I had no further information. “I swear. I can’t remember seeing the cashier or hearing anything Petie said. I just remember the shot.”

“You want us to believe that you just walked in at the moment the gun discharged?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s what happened.”

“And you don’t remember Peter McMatthews giving any directions to the cashier?”

“No sir.” I put out my cigarette and shifted, my wrist cutting hard into the metal attached to the arm of the chair.

“Are you sure? You heard no threat, no warning?”

“Nothing. Just the shot.”

“Where were you before you walked into the store?”

I blinked. Frank. I couldn’t get Frank involved.

“I was checking around the back.”

“You blokes were pretty good at this stuff, weren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

The older detective took the folder in hand and leafed through it. “Peter McMatthews stated that you had nothing to do with the whole affair.”

“That’s not true, sir. I was part of all the planning.”

“To kill Mr. Henderson?”

“‘Course not! No one intended to kill anyone.”

“Where did Peter McMatthews get the gun?”

“I told you that. He got it from the convenience store on Butler.”

“That’s enough, Rich. We’ve been through this and Mr. Becker has answered everything.”

The young man stood and stomped out the door. I stared at the table and wondered what was next.

“I do want to know one thing, Michael.”

I blinked. It was the first time either of them called me by my first name. I glanced at the closed door and swallowed hard, wondering if Rich was coming back to torment me.

“Why are you refusing representation?”

I just shrugged.

“Michael, I know all ‘bout you, son. I’ve interviewed at least sixty people and any one of them will go to the mat for you. You got a real chance of getting out of this.”

“What if I don’t want to get out of this?” I reached for the cigarettes but the pack was empty. I tossed it toward the trash bin and missed. “Besides, what the hell do you know about me anyway? I walked away from the scene of a crime, for Christ sake!”

He rolled his shoulders and sighed, fingering the folder as he spoke. “I know a lot, son. I know about your life, about your mum’s passing. Your grandmum was a dear friend of my family … my condolences.”

I nodded numbly.

“I know about your father, hell I’ve arrested the drunken bastard more than twice just this month alone. You’re a good young man. I don’t want to see you in prison for something you couldn’t do a fucking thing to stop.”

“I should’ve.”

“And what could you have done? Are you Superman? Could you have jumped in front of that bullet, taken it for Randolf Henderson?”

“I would have.”

“I know that, Michael.” He stood with a grunt. “Listen, just think about it. Decent legal representation can get you off with minimum damage to your future.” He dropped his clean handkerchief on the table. “That eye’s bleeding pretty bad. I’ll get someone to take a look at it for you.” And he left.

***

Paul and I were in his car, driving to the nearest motel. It was almost dawn, my eyes were bleary and my throat was raw from talking. I still had that strange feeling, like I was outside of myself, talking about someone else. How else could I say it all?

“Was it tough?”

“Prison?” I shook my head and watched his profile. He was doing some serious concentrating on the road ahead, eyes squinted, shoulders tense. “Yeah, mate. It was tough. I spend a total of forty-eight days in prison. The first week was fucking hell. I was a kid. Just a kid trying to be strong but I was scared shitless. I did what I could to stay out of everyone’s way, but I guess I was conspicuous in my attempts to be invisible, you know? I barely saw Petie, his arse was always in some kind of trouble and they pretty much kept him away from the general population.”                     

We passed a motel, but I didn’t say anything. Paul was drunker than me and I figured he’d come to his senses and remember we were looking for a place to sleep sooner or later, no point in embarrassing the bloke. “It was tough. An experience I don’t ever care to repeat. Hell Paul, prison makes the priesthood seem like freedom.”

He grunted a laugh, then blinked and pulled a sharp u-turn, heading back to the motel we passed. “Did you get a lawyer?”

“Petie and I just took the provided defender. It was all we could do. It wasn’t like there was money for such luxuries. He wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but that bloke really tried hard. Trial lasted just two days. That’s all. Less time than it took to put a jury together. I got on the stand and just told the truth; but Petie, it was like he was out to get the death penalty. The prick told the jury he wanted to see what the gun could do, so he shot Randy in cold blood.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. I got fifteen years. Petie got life. Just as I was figuring out how old I’d be before I could get back to my life again, the judge offered me a deal.

“If Alex agreed, I’d be placed in Father Benedict’s custody for three years on the condition that he guaranteed I’d stay in the country, stay out of trouble and finish my education.”

“And that was it,” Paul marveled. “ Prison or the priesthood.”

“Well, not exactly.

***

We left right after the trial. I sat beside Father Benedict in silence. I was sure he was disappointed in me and wondering what the hell I was doing, going back to Sydney with him, thinking I’d just keep on working at the church, living in the rectory. After all, I was partly responsible for his mate’s death. I was frankly surprised he even let me in the car. Then, as if he was reading my mind, he spoke.

“Michael,” he pulled the car onto the highway. “I’m getting a pretty clear idea of your life. How hard it’s been for you, son. How desperate you must have been. And I just want you to know, I understand.”

That made me mad as hell. I can’t explain it, but what he was saying shot an overload of adrenalin through my veins and I wanted to take a swing at the man. “I’m not a fucking child, ya know!” I shouted, then swallowed hard and calmed myself a bit. “I’ve done things Father, things I’m not proud of. Nothing justifies – ”

“Whoa, son. I’m not judging you. I’m not saying that doing the wrong thing is okay, even if it is for the right reason. I’m just saying that I accept and understand. That’s all.”

I took a deep breath. Acceptance? I didn’t know what the hell that meant.

“Look,” he continued. “You did what you had to do; to take care of your grandmother, your family. You are a remarkably good young man, Michael. I’ve only known you a short while, but I can see. See your work ethic, your commitment, your willingness to take responsibility for everything. Even things you have no control over.”

“But Father, I’ve failed, so many times!”

He groaned. “I like American baseball, Michael. Do you know anything about the game?”

I blinked and shook my head.

“Well, in baseball a batter can fail seven out of ten times and still be a hero. It’s a pretty good concept, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer. Personally, it sounded like a bit of a cop out to me.

“Besides, if you failed, so what. You tried.”

“I failed my mum.” I was rubbing my eyes, thinking about all the times I should’ve been able to keep dad from hitting her.

Father Benedict grunted with disgust. “You were a little boy, Michael. How could you have possibly done anything to help her?” He drove silently for a moment, then slowed down and turned fully to me. “Besides, and I mean no disrespect to your dear mother, but it was her job to protect you.” I open my mouth to protest. “I can see how you wanted to help her, but you couldn’t. You’ve got to start to accept that, and you got to learn how to forgive yourself for the things you couldn’t have changed or done differently.”

I shifted away, staring out my window at the darkness all around then suddenly he shouted. “Michael Becker, who do you think you are? Are you better than God?”

I turned, watched him drive the car and wondered what kind of question that was.

“If you don’t think you’re better than God and if God can forgive you, which He has, than maybe you should start forgiving yourself.”

My head was starting to hurt and I was suddenly exhausted. I couldn’t hear anymore, I couldn’t think about it anymore and we traveled in silence for several hours. It was just before dawn. We were probably fifty miles out of Sydney when he cleared his throat and I sighed, preparing to hear more of the same, but this time, he had things to say that I didn’t expect.

“What are your plans, Michael?”

My plans? I didn’t have any plans. I was sort of hoping that at least for a while, I could go on like I had been before the trial. Report to the courts on time, work at the church and keep my nose clean. I shrugged.

“Well, I’m sorry to say that I don’t have much more work for you at the church. Some repairs on the rectory porch, a two, maybe three day job.”

“Ah.” Now what?

“But, I do have a suggestion.”

“What suggestion?” Why did that make me nervous?

“The seminary is about forty miles outside of Sydney. I teach there three days a week. They’ve just lost their handyman. It would be steady work. The job includes room and board and a small wage, but I’ve spoken to the instructors there and they’ve agreed to permit you to sit in on classes. That way you can fulfill your obligation to the courts and I can keep my agreement with the judge.”

I gawked, he continued.

“Now, Michael, these are university level courses, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re an intelligent boy. Father Freeman has offered to help you get your high school equivalency diploma. I figure with that in hand, you can get your life back on track.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “A seminary? Are you saying you want me to become a priest?” Lisy’s face soared across my memory, I wasn’t sure I was willing to give up what I had with her, never get another chance at loving a woman again.

He smiled. “No, that’s not at all what I’m saying. I know you were fine living at the rectory, but Father Theo and I are hardly good company for a young man like yourself. And Father Phil, as kind and generous as the man is, well, Phil has the personality of a gnat.”

I smiled, he was right about that.

“At seminary, at least you’d be with young people.” He sighed. “It’s just a suggestion, Michael. I don’t want to see you out on the street. Desperation can make even a good young man like you go bad.”

Hell, like I didn’t already know that. “But seminary? What classes would I sit in on?”

He chuckled. “It’s not all spiritual studies. We educate our students well. Who knows, with your high school diploma and a few of those university level courses under your belt, you might be able to command a decent salary somewhere. I really think this is a good opportunity for you. Like I said, it’s just a suggestion. Think about it”

“I will, Father.” I was already thinking about it. It was a no brainer; a place to live and work, an education and the perfect way for Alex to fulfill his obligation to the court. I owed it to him. Granted seminary might be a lot like prison, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

As I glanced up through the windshield, I saw her and it shocked me almost out of my skin. An old woman was walking slowly down the dead center of the highway in the freezing pre-dawn cold. As we moved closer to her, she strangely seemed to meet our speed and direction and as she passed my window, she looked directly at me and smiled then swept by so quickly, I could swear she was never there. I didn’t think we were moving that fast.

“Stop the car!” The old man slowed and pulled off the road. Before we came to a full stop, I leapt from my seat and nearly fell under the wheels. I scrambled for footing and ran several yards back.

“What is it?” Father Benedict was running behind me. A car coming in the opposite direction clearly lit the road and I was amazed. The old woman was nowhere in sight.

“Where the hell did she go?” I gasped.

“Who?”

I turned to him. “Didn’t you see her?”

He shook his head then scanned the road ahead and behind. “See who?”

“That old woman. She was just walking down the middle of the highway. She’ll freeze to death! She wasn’t wearing a bloody coat.” He was looking at me, his eyebrows all curled up like he was about to seriously question my sanity. “You didn’t see her?”

He shook his head. “Describe her.”

I stomped a circle in frustration. All I wanted to do was find her and get her into the car where it was warm and dry. I scanned the distance. She was so old, how the hell could she have gotten far? Father Benedict took my shoulders in hand and shook me gently.

“Describe her, Michael.”

“Just an old lady, mate. Old. Grey hair. Long, all the way down her back, blowing in the wind. No coat, Father she must be freezing. She wasn’t wearing a coat! Just a long black dress and,” I blinked, making sure I was remembering clearly, something I wasn’t so good at lately. I could see her in my mind, clear as a bell. I cleared my throat, proud to be able to answer with confidence. “A long black dress, her eyes were dark blue, she wore a small cross, like this.” I fingered my mother’s gold cross at my neck. “And, a long string – ”

“Of pearls,” he finished for me.

“You saw her!” I was thrilled. I wasn’t nuts after all. But my excitement was immediately extinguished and replaced with something else.

“No, Michael.” he said. “But I’ve met her.”

He tried to lead me back to the car; it was bitter cold and we were both shivering. I looked back at the road and wondered about the poor old woman. How cold was she? I stood strong. I wasn’t going anywhere until we found her.

“Michael,” he said as he gripped my arm tight. “You just described Angelina Lawford.”

I started wondering about his sanity. “No, mate. I saw a real living person. Not a ghost. I’m sure of it.” I yanked my arm from his grip.

“How? How could you have possibly seen the color of her eyes? The tiny cross at her neck if we were passing her so fast?” I turned to avoid his eyes. He shifted position and continued to hold my attention. “How?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Father.”

He snorted a chuckle. “And does that mean they don’t exist, boy? Just because you don’t believe in them? Listen to me. Angelina predicted that you’d bring the rosary to me. Maybe she just wanted to get a look at you, Michael. Wanted to make sure you were going back to Sydney.”

He was right. It was still very dark, we were going pretty fast. And there was something really strange about the way she looked at me. I ran a hand through my hair in frustration than leaned back against the fender, lit a cigarette and avoided his eyes. He joined me. Damn, it was cold but I was grateful for the sharpness of sensation. I dragged in the tobacco and shook my head. “Father,” I said. “You got some pretty strange beliefs for a fucking priest.” Then I turned to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

He leaned next to me. “It’s alright. It seems that people like you and Angelina seem to gravitate to me. And I, well I’m left to simply accept and believe even though I’ve never seen. It’s as though I’m a conduit for something bigger.”

“Bigger?” I was shaking hard, but had no real desire to get into the warm car just yet.

He stared at the dark highway, maybe wishing he too had seen the apparition. “There’s something special about you, Michael. I know you don’t want to believe that.” He turned to me and the pale, coming dawn struck a hard silhouette outlining his determined expression. “There is a plan for you. A job. Only God knows what it is, and only you can ask Him what it is.”

What the hell was the old man talking about? I tossed the cigarette and climbed into the warm car. After a moment he joined me, settled behind the wheel and steered us back onto the road.