He asked for you by name, Father. Said you were his friend. Doesn’t want a lawyer. Won’t talk to anybody else. We wouldn’t have called at all but the duty sergeant’s a Catholic and he suffered a bout of guilt and compassion. Lethal brew. I hope you don’t mind, but we couldn’t leave him like this and we sure couldn’t walk away. Poor bastard—he’s taken the beating of a lifetime but he won’t point the finger.”
Father Whelan likes the earnestness in the tall, handsome detective’s eyes. He looks like he’s of German ancestry. He has pale skin and blue eyes and he parts his hair neatly just above his left ear. He’s wearing a smart beige suit, which looks too flimsy to provide much protection against the bitter autumn chill.
“I’ll do what I can,” says Father Whelan, and reminds himself how many times he has told his flock that this, along with trusting in the Lord, is all that can be asked of anyone. He wonders whether he believes it.
Father Whelan and Lieutenant Lofgren are whispering together in the corridor of the emergency room at St. Clare’s Hospital. It makes Father Whelan feel strangely discomfited to be back in Hell’s Kitchen, where half the people still call him Jimmy and the others look disappointed in him for leaving to go to swanky St. Colman’s. He doesn’t begrudge them their displeasure. He has made a lot of poor decisions in past months. He has listened to confessions that made his blood turn to water. He has absolved bad men of terrible deeds.
“You ready, Father? I’ll leave you with him. If he wants to file a report, you got my number.”
Father Whelan nods a curt thanks. He finds it harder to smile than he used to. He finds good manners wearisome. When he raises his hands to bless people, he looks as though he is lazily swatting flies. His soul is beginning to weigh him down.
The curtain offers no resistance and he swishes it aside.
It is all he can do not to gasp at the sight that greets him.
The man in the hospital bed has been beaten purple. His face is a mass of swellings and discoloration that make Father Whelan think of trampled grapes. He is bare-chested, and upon his skin has been carved the words SICK FUCK.
A smile splits the battered features of the plump young man. Tears leak from his eyes and he winces in pain as he tries to pull the blankets over the wounds on his torso.
“Father,” he says through broken teeth. “Jimmy. Oh thank you. Thank you . . .”
Whelan looks again at the man. Through the bruises he sees a face he half recalls.
“Peter?” he asks. “Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?”
Father Whelan’s mind fills with a jumble of images. Peter was a couple of years below him in the seminary. He was bookish. Clever. He could recall perfect passages of Scripture. Could name chapter and verse. But there was something unappealing about him. He was not popular with the other trainees. His Catholicism was different from Whelan’s. Peter served God dutifully, but it was without the compassion that Whelan hoped to bring to his own ministries. Peter searched for the Lord in books while Whelan sought him out in the hearts of others. Peter nodded sagely at the acts of self-sacrifice and martyrdom in the Scriptures. Whelan pitied the poor men and women for their agonies. For all that they shared a seminary, Whelan could not remember more than a half dozen conversations between himself and the younger man. Why had he asked for him? What had happened to bring him here?
“Do I call you Brother? Father? James? Please, bless me. Forgive . . .” His features crumple in a wave of weeping.
Whelan crosses to the bedside and takes a plump, purplish hand in his own. It is clammy and Whelan remembers what they called him when he was not around: Sweatball. Suddenly Whelan recalls why Sweatball had left. He looks at the words on Peter’s chest and lets the question show in his face.
“You swore,” says Whelan coldly. “Swore in front of the bishop that you would turn from that path. You were helped, Peter. You could have gone to prison but they came to your aid. You could not be a priest but you could be a good man. What did you do?”
“I tried,” sobs Peter. “I’m so alone, Jimmy. You were always kind to me. Do you remember what you said when I begged you for answers? Do you remember telling me that God had a plan for all of us? That He would forgive me? That I was loved beyond my imagining? You saved me with those words, Jimmy.”
Whelan tries hard to recall. He was something of a big brother to the younger seminarians. He doled out kind words and motivational chastisements as he saw fit. He was popular and knew how to bring the best out of people. For all that, he recalls feeling little for Peter that could be considered a source of salvation.
“I was watching,” says Peter. “They were so full of life. So perfect. The light in their eyes was the light of God. That was all I sought—to be closer to Him through their perfection and innocence. I tried to talk to them and they ran away. I stayed, hoping they would return to the park where I had seen them. But when they came back they were with men. And those men hurt me, Jimmy. They did this to me. And I did nothing to stop them. Their every lash brought me closer to God. Every moment of pain helped my redemption.”
Whelan wants to drag his hand away from the fat man’s. And yet he cannot. He is a priest because he wants to heal and to save. He wants to bring his fellows into God’s kingdom and he believes, truly, in the forgiveness of sins and the intercession of saints.
“I cannot be the man I am any longer,” sobs Peter. “Tell me, if you forgave my body, could my soul still enter heaven? If I sought out my death at the hand of another, would that be suicide? I search the words in the Book but my soul cannot fathom answers . . .”
Whelan closes his eyes. These past months, he has seen the cold, empty blackness that can reside within a man’s heart. He has heard Paulie Pugliesca gloat as he recounted the deaths of those who wronged him and has granted absolution in the face of his own revulsion. In Peter, he sees a sinner but he also sees a man in search of redemption. He sees a chance to buy back a little of his own soul.
“Peter, God has not forsaken you. Nor does he wish for you to suffer. Jesus died for our sins and through His suffering we were born anew. Your suffering is a sin against God, not an act of reverence. Peter, will you pray with me? If I become as brother to you, will you trust your goodness to me?”
Something wondrous and perfect flares in Peter’s eyes. Whelan witnesses the birth of hope.
“You were always a fine scholar. You have a good mind. I can help you. There are charities that can use a man such as you. I recall you saying you had read legal textbooks. Could you consider studying for such a profession? There is much you could do to help the Church. And I could be there beside you. I could help you overcome your temptations and in so doing you could help me toward my own salvation. I believe in you, as does the Lord. Tell me, Peter—will you allow me to bring you back to God’s path?”
For a moment there is silence. And then Peter gives in to sobs of pure joy, tears trickling down his cheeks like a baptism from within.
And as he prays at the bedside, Whelan waits for the warmth of God’s love to fill him. Waits for the slightest flicker of reflected peace to enter him.
He is still cold as he whispers his final “Amen.”