A couple of days later, I called over to St. Catherine’s. I asked the secretary there when Father Cetrone, the pastor, heard confession. The woman, who had a Boston accent, told me he conducted the Sacrament of Reconciliation from four to five o’clock on Saturdays and by appointment. As it was a Thursday, I asked if I could make an appointment. For when, she asked. When I told her that day, she said Father Cetrone was quite busy but that she’d look in his appointment book. When she came back on she told me he had an opening later that afternoon at five. I said that would be fine. She asked if I wanted a face-to-face confession in his office or the traditional kind in the confessional. I told her the traditional kind would do.
As I drove over to St. Catherine’s, I thought about the conversation I’d had with Mr. Leo on the phone the night before. “Maggie, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been busy, Mr. Leo.”
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Over the past few days he’d left several more messages on the answering machine, each one more urgent than the one before. “I need an answer.”
“I know, I know.”
“We can’t fart around anymore. Either I submit your name as an alibi witness or not. I don’t have any more time.”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Christ, Maggie. You’ve already had a week and a half to think about it.”
“Tomorrow, Mr. Leo. Tomorrow, I promise.”
There were a couple of old folks praying in the front pews when I got there. I took a seat in the back of the church. I could recall when I was little the nuns marching us off in a straight line to confession, giving us a good clip on the ear if we misbehaved or didn’t do it right. Very serious business, it was. While I waited for Father Cetrone to arrive, I thought of Justin. He’d been on my mind a lot lately. I thought of that time out at the clothesline, him asking me why he couldn’t just tell his sins directly to God. How I’d tried to explain the importance of confession to us Catholics. That God, of course, knew our sins but that we still had to confess to a priest to receive absolution. I wondered what it was his brother had been so angry with Justin about, what secret he feared the boy would tell. I wondered also what had been so bad that he didn’t want to go to Father Jack with it, and if the two things had been somehow connected. Most of all I wondered why I hadn’t pursued it. Maybe he was trying to tell you something. And just maybe you didn’t want to hear it.
I recognized Father Cetrone. I’d seen him a few times before. He’d conducted Mass at St. Luke’s once or twice and Father Jack had had him to dinner. He was an elderly man, late sixties, with white hair and jet-black eyebrows. He was a decent sort, with a good sense of humor. Father Jack liked him though he thought him too old-fashioned, too much a believer in Church dogma, as he put it. After he closed the door of the confessional I went over and entered the other side. Father Cetrone slid the little door back. I paused for a moment, out of practice the way I was. Then I said, “Bless me, Father. I confess to Almighty God, and to you, Father, that I have sinned. It’s been…oh, I don’t know, at least a coupla years since my last confession.”
“What’s kept you away, my child?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Father,” I said.
I started with little things, cursing and having impure thoughts, to get the hang of it. The easy stuff. Then I moved up to the bigger ones, missing Mass and taking the Lord’s name in vain and having malice in my heart. Hating people like Abruzzi and Mrs. Mueller and those Robys. And the drinking, too. Once I got the pump primed, so to speak, the going got a bit easier, the sins coming out of me one after another. I didn’t stop, just kept right on confessing. When I was done though, the funny thing was I didn’t feel much better. Didn’t feel clean or shiny and new, the way you’re supposed to when you leave the confessional. I finished by saying, “For these, and all the sins of my past life, I am heartily sorry.”
Maybe because he sensed I wasn’t done, that I’d left something unsaid, Father Cetrone asked, “Is there anything else, my child?”
“No, I think that about does it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.” He started to give me absolution but I said, “Wait, Father. There is something else.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s not something I did, Father.”
“Is it something someone else did?”
“No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not something I did yet.”
“It’s a sin you plan on committing?”
“That’s the thing, you see. I’m not altogether sure.”
“Of course, you can’t confess to a sin you’re going to commit. To make a perfect confession, you must be sincere about never committing that sin again.”
“I know, Father. The problem is, I don’t know if it is a sin.”
Father Cetrone was silent on the other side for a moment.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Let’s say I’ve been asked to say something was one thing—black, for instance. And I’m pretty sure it was black. Almost positive in fact. But then again, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was a dark, dark gray and I only think it was black because it was a long time ago. And maybe even I want it to be black and that’s coloring my thinking.”
“So you’re not sure whether you’d be telling the truth or not. Is that it?”
“I’m pretty sure, Father. Just not one hundred percent.”
“Are you looking for advice on what to do, my child?”
“No. Well, I suppose I am.”
“You need to search your conscience and tell the truth, to the best of your ability.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that.”
“It’s the best advice I can give you.”
“But what if I say I don’t remember and the thing really was black? Which I believe it was and in my heart even know it had to be. And if I don’t say it somebody’s life might be ruined. Somebody who means a great deal to me. What about under those circumstances, Father?”
“Pray to God, my child. Ask Him to help you see your way to the truth.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
“No, Father. You have.”
That night, I was washing the supper dishes. Father Martin was working in his study. Out the window the lightning bugs flickered on and off, and the crickets were making their infernal racket. My head was filled with its own racket, which I’d found the booze didn’t make go away entirely, just kept it at a tolerable distance. Over and over I thought about the visit I’d paid Father Jack. How could you think me capable of that? he’d said. You of all people should know how much I loved him. He was like a son to me. I thought about what Father Cetrone had told me, that I had to search my conscience and pray to God to help me see the truth. And I thought about Justin too, what he’d said to me and how I might have been able to help him. I was thinking about these things when I heard someone speak from the darkness just beyond the screen door. Spinning toward the sound, I dropped a saucer, which shattered on the floor.
“Maggie,” the voice said. It was Mr. Leo.
“You scared the daylights out of me,” I said, letting him in.
He wore a wrinkled dress shirt, open at the collar, no tie. His face was sweaty, pink as an undercooked pork roast. His hair was sticking up, like he’d been driving with the windows down. I went and got the broom and the dustpan, and started sweeping up the pieces.
“We need to talk.”
“Sure enough. Just not tonight though. I’m not feeling so good. Some kind of flu bug.”
“Dammit, Maggie,” he said. “Are you drunk?”
“I’ve had a few.”
“I thought you were going to stay on the wagon until it was over.”
“Just a few.”
“Look, I could make you appear in court. I could serve you with a summons. Though I won’t. It’s up to you. But either way I need to know your answer—tonight.”
I dumped the pieces of the saucer into the garbage.
“All right. But not here. He’s home,” I whispered, meaning Father Martin.
“Let’s go get a coffee.”
Mr. Leo suggested the Old Mill Restaurant, about a dozen miles west on Route 38, a touristy sort of place way up in the mountains. Mr. Leo drove fast, with one hand on the wheel, seeming to take his anger out on the road. The tires screeched on the curves and the diesel engine clattered noisily on the inclines. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the muscles in his jaw working, clenching and then releasing. It was still warm out, and I had the window down. The breeze felt good. The night smelled of pine and mountain laurel, a sad sort of smell.
“Were you trying to piss me off, Maggie?”
“No.”
“What were you doing then, not answering my calls?”
“I needed time.”
“We’re running out of time.”
I thought he was going to ask me right then if I’d made a decision, but he didn’t. Instead he drove in silence for a while. I figured it was some strategy of his. Take his time and wear me down. Let me stew for a bit. The act of driving seemed to have a calming effect on him though. After a while he began to slow on the curves, didn’t punch the gas when the road straightened out.
“You might be interested to know you’re not the only one who’s having troubling remembering things,” he said, glancing over at me with his usual poker face.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Evidently Robert Roby told some Globe reporter that he wasn’t sure about his testimony in the first trial.”
“Not sure? About what?”
“I don’t know all the details yet. But from what I understand, he’s having second thoughts now about what actually took place between him and Father Devlin.”
“You mean he’s saying Father didn’t do those things?”
“He didn’t go that far. But I guess he’s having doubts. About what he remembers. He was quoted as saying that he thinks Father may have kissed him a few times. He doesn’t know if it went beyond that.”
“What about the pictures?”
“I don’t know. If the story’s true it certainly impugns his credibility as a witness.”
We arrived at the restaurant and parked the car. It was a log cabin situated on the side of a mountain which overlooked North Adams. The city’s lights sparkled in the darkness below. Inside the restaurant, we got a booth off by ourselves. The waitress was a young girl with buck teeth, who kept blowing a strand of loose hair out of her face. Mr. Leo ordered a cup of tea for me and a beer and an open-faced turkey sandwich for himself.
“I didn’t eat supper yet,” he said. “Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I already ate.”
“That’ll be it,” Mr. Leo said to the girl.
“Hey, I know you,” the waitress said. “You’re that guy. The one who’s defending the priest, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I saw you on TV. Do you think he killed that kid?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, miss,” Mr. Leo said. “I’m kinda hungry.”
After the waitress left, he said, “I told you, if I’m going to use an alibi defense, I have to submit your name to the prosecution.”
“I’m sorry. My mind’s been going every which way. First that Blake fellow coming to see me.”
“He what!” Mr. Leo said in disbelief.
“He came to see me.”
“The son of a bitch—”
But the waitress arrived back at our table with the drinks. As soon as she was gone Mr. Leo whispered, “Blake came to see you?”
“Aye. He came by the rectory.”
“What for?”
“He wanted to talk.”
“Did he threaten you in any way? Is that why you’re nervous?”
“No, nothing like that. He just…I don’t know. Wanted to talk.”
“Did he ask you about the case?”
I shook my head.
“No fucking way he should be contacting you. Wait till I talk to Lassiter. You sure he didn’t threaten you? Because if he did I’ll have his ass in jail faster than he can blink. Intimidating a witness.”
“He didn’t intimidate me. He just wanted to talk about his boy.”
“You didn’t say anything about the case, right?”
“No, of course not,” I said. I took a sip of my tea. It was too hot, and I burned my lips. I felt my eyes water with the pain. “I don’t know, but seeing him brought it all back.”
“Brought what back?”
“That boy’s death. How much it hurt everybody, I guess. How much it tore apart this town. Is tearing it apart.” I paused for a moment. “With Roby saying he’s not sure, will you still need me to testify?”
“I’ll need you ready to testify. I don’t like to count on what the prosecution might or might not do. I like to have all my ducks lined up.”
“And all I have to do is say he was home by midnight, right?”
“Right.”
“Just that?”
“You just have to stick by what you told Detective Guilbault. Say it was true then and to the best of your recollection it’s still true.”
“And that’s all you want from me?”
“That’s it.”
“All right, I will.”
Mr. Leo leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you positive, Maggie? One hundred percent?”
“Yes. For all the good it’ll do.”
“You let me worry about that. Now the D.A.’s going to try to rattle you, Maggie. Just like last time.”
“Let her. I know what I’m saying.”
“She’s going to try to break you down. It’ll be a lot tougher than last time. This is a murder trial. The stakes for both sides are bigger.”
“I know what I’m saying,” I repeated.
“You’ll have to be convincing. You’ll have to look the jury right in the eye and make them believe you. You think you can do that?”
“Aye. But you won’t put me on the stand unless you absolutely have to, right?”
“That’s right. Only if I have to.” Mr. Leo sipped his beer, staring at me over the glass. Those flecks of dark in the iris shaded his eyes. “Maggie, you’re not hiding anything from me, are you?” he asked.
“No.”
“I don’t want any surprises this time. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Afterward he brought me home. In the driveway he said, “I’m sorry about putting you on the spot like this again. But I don’t want to go in there without some insurance.”
“Anything so you can win, right?” I replied, an edge to my voice.
“Don’t you want to see Father cleared?”
“Of course, I do. You know that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I shrugged, glanced out the window at the night. The darkness had this grainy feel to it, like an old pot that had been scorched black.
“Maggie, I thought that’s what we’ve been fighting for these past two years. Trying to keep an innocent man from going to jail.”
“I know.”
“You wanted that every bit as much as I did.”
“I did want that. I do.”
“Then what the hell’s the matter? You seem like you’re having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Everything, it seems.”
“No, of course not,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. Even to my own ear my denial had a hollow ring to it.
“Then what?”
“It’s just that I’ve been thinking a lot about the boy. About Justin.”
“What about him?”
“Sometimes in all this, he seems to get lost in the shuffle. Like we forget about him.”
“That’s not our business, Maggie.”
“Not our business? Why, of course, it is. Somebody killed that poor child. It’s all of our business. Everybody’s. Or ought to be. Yours. Mine. The law’s. It should be our business that an innocent little child was murdered. That somehow we let it happen.”
“That’s nonsense, Maggie. We didn’t let anything happen.”
I thought about telling him of that conversation I’d had with Justin out at the clothesline. About that something he’d been afraid of. For some reason, though, I didn’t. Maybe it was that I was afraid, too. Afraid Mr. Leo would look into me with those X-ray eyes of his and see something in my heart I didn’t know was there.
“But we did, Mr. Leo. We did. We weren’t watching close enough. Or we didn’t pay enough attention somehow. Maybe we just didn’t love him enough. I don’t know. But it was our fault. All of ours.”
“By testifying for Father you’ll be honoring Justin Blake’s memory.”
“Will I? It almost seems like I have to be for one or the other. Father or Justin. Like I have to choose between the two.”
“No one’s asking you to choose, Maggie.”
“But that’s the way it feels sometimes. Like being for the one, I have to be against the other.”
“You just have to tell the truth, Maggie. That’s the best way you can help Justin.”
“That’s what I been telling myself. Just tell the truth and let the cards fall where they may.”
“Look, what happened was a terrible tragedy. I’m not saying it wasn’t. Don’t you think I feel bad for the kid? But that’s the prosecution’s job, to look out for the rights of the victim. My job is defending my client to the best of my ability.”
“And if your client was guilty.”
“But we both know he’s not.”
“Let’s say some other client then. Not Father. The one who did kill him. Would you still defend him?”
“Since you’re speaking hypothetically, yes, I probably would.”
“Even if you knew he killed the boy?”
“Yes.”
“How could you do that?”
“That’s the way the system works.”
“It doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“What’s the alternative? Should we take him out and hang him from the nearest tree? Would you prefer that, Maggie?”
“I only want to see justice done. I want to see whoever done that to justin punished.”
“So do I. But sending an innocent man away for life isn’t going to be justice. It’ll only be another tragedy.”
I started to get out. He reached over and took hold of my arm just below the elbow.
“Maggie, we both want the same thing.”
“Do we?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I certainly hope so.”