WHEN JACK LEFT THE COURTHOUSE after his interview with Nick, he had a five-day beard, pants soiled at the knees and a torn shirt. On the bus ride home he squirmed, obsessing about his jail time, past and possibly the future. He arrived home close to four, jumped in the shower, then wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich he found in the refrigerator. With a full belly and body scraped of three days grit, he laid down on the couch, beer in hand, closed his eyes and like all other attempts at sleeping lately, he thrashed, mumbling about his upcoming court appearance and what he failed to tell Nick. He had his own theory of what the map symbols meant, because he knew where he had seen them before. The lawyer did not need to know what he knew about marks on a pad in a Progressive day room when he dealt with a Chinese interrogator.
The next morning the sun beamed into his window partly shaded by the hundred-year-old oak in the backyard. He walked to the Silver Streak for a cup of joe. After downing two cups, reading the local headlines and avoiding eye contact with Mol the flirty waitress, he walked to the rectory to see Father Ryan. He knew the priest was an early riser because he served the six o’clock mass. He rang the bell. A haggard looking nun with a thin, sharp nose answered. Pulling her black cardigan taut over a starched, white blouse, she asked, “Can I help you, young man?”
“Sister, is Father Ryan in?”
“No, my boy, earlier he went over to the veteran’s home to give last rites.”
Jack twisted his lips and then walked past St. Patrick to the green park bench with a brass plaque that read: Purity, Innocence, Sympathy. PIS he mumbled to himself as he surveyed the stone rectory. At six, the church bell announced the recitation of the Angelus. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and put his hands over his ears. Eventually the bell stopped clanging, the noise giving way to screeching black birds sitting on the telephone wires across the street. He walked to the granite stairs into the basilica where a mildly obese priest shuffled up the left side on his way to the confessional. The first in line for confession was a woman with beagle-like, flaccid cheeks wearing a red pullover sweater and blue scarf. Next were two old men, one flour white, the other a jaundiced yellow. When the last of the penitents departed, Jack opened the curtain, kneeled before the shuttered wire separating him from God’s ear and said, “Father, the noise has returned.”
“What’s that, my son?”
“The ringing, screeching it’s come back.”
“My son, it’s completely silent here. Perhaps you need to see a doctor?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned, it’s been two weeks since my last confession.”
On Jack’s walk home he noticed a strange car parked beyond his house, smoke pouring from its exhaust. He looked out the front window several times to see if it had left, and eventually dismissed his concern.