It was a small memorial service held in the Rectory of St. Theresa’s Cathedral, officiated by Father Francis Dugan, Freedom’s senior cleric—friend and spiritual counselor to any and all who might seek him out. He had been in place for as long as anyone could remember, a wizened man, gentle and kind, short in stature but large in character.
I had first connected with him shortly after my seventeenth birthday, when I was suffering a crisis of faith. My mother had recently passed away after a lengthy battle with ovarian cancer. She had endured a great deal of pain and in the end, she simply surrendered, embraced the opioids she had previously forsworn and soon thereafter, checked out.
For much of her life she had relied on God to guide her along the path. She attended church regularly. She offered herself into the service of her Lord and his daily business. She volunteered readily to work with and support her beloved Father Dugan. But as her strength began to ebb and the illness sapped her spirit, she unwittingly started questioning her faith.
“Why has He forsaken me?” she asked frequently. “What did I do to warrant such suffering?”
Over time she became more and more desolate, wracked with pain and remorse, until ultimately she lost her faith. She stoically withstood her deterioration with no comfort forthcoming from her Lord. She stopped attending church services. She withdrew from the congregation, unsettled by the realization that her lifelong belief in a Godly heaven had crumbled.
I frequently sat with her, mostly in silence, always aware of her spiritual crisis which, over time, infected me as well.
When she passed, zonked on painkillers, drifting in and out of consciousness, facing the unholy death that was nothing like what she had envisioned, I realized that I, too, had lost my faith.
St. Theresa’s Cathedral had been built in the eighteen nineties, in the Gothic-revival style, and its concrete structure had withstood earthquakes, monsoons, and more than its share of ocean-precipitated deterioration. It reeked of incense, dampness, and age.
A small crowd had gathered and the service was about to begin. Marsha Russo and I were in the back, watching the events unfold.
Her Honor, Regina Goodnow, my stepmother and Freedom Township’s Mayor was in attendance, as was the school principal, Julia Peterson, along with a number of Freedom High students and faculty.
Kimber Carson sat in the front row, her parents on either side of her. A well-dressed middle-aged couple sat across the aisle, holding hands, clearly grieving. I assumed they were Henry Carson’s parents.
Although Father Francis was in excellent form, it was evident he was not an acquaintance of the deceased. He spoke in platitudes and beseeched his Maker to embrace the spirit of Henry Carson and allow him respite from the horrific manner of his passing. He prayed for Carson’s eternal peace and salvation. He offered communion and compassion.
I took note of the groupings of the young people in attendance. I recognized Bobby Siegler and Chrissie Lester, the swim team captains. Fred Maxwell, the team coach, was present, along with three of his associates.
Chrissie Lester sat with four young women, all somberly dressed, but withdrawn, not particularly invested in the service. At one point, I noticed two of them engaged with their smartphones. The same held true for several young men, also together, sitting apart from the other attendees, plugged into their devices, uninterested in the service.
Bobby Siegler was near the front, seated with a number of men and women, all raptly tuned into Father Francis. The boys and girls were intermingled in this group. I noticed a few of them holding hands, occasionally gazing at one another. None interacted with their cell phones.
I turned to Marsha and whispered, “Have you noticed the way all of these kids are seated? In those groupings?”
“I have.”
“Is there any chance you can find out their names?”
“You mean the kids in each group?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Try not to hurt yourself.”
She stared at me. “There’s something wrong with you, Buddy.”
I grinned at her and nodded.
As he neared the conclusion of the service, Father Dugan invited those in attendance to share any thoughts they might have about Coach Carson. No one volunteered. None of the family members chose to speak.
After the Father wrapped things up, the attendees quickly exited the church and scattered. As she and her parents made their exit, Kimber Carson briefly made eye contact with me. Then she was gone.
Father Dugan spotted me and came over. The smile that lit up his face brought a smile to mine, as well. “It’s a rare treat seeing you here, Buddy. I wish you’d come around more often.”
“It was a lovely service.”
“Albeit, an odd one.”
“How so?”
“I don’t really know. It was strangely devoid of any emotion. Maybe in the intervening days since the murder, they all cried themselves out. But it was likely the driest service I’ve ever conducted. I pride myself at being able to reach even the most unreachable. I always get at least a few tears. This one was unfathomable.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t such a likable guy.”
“Or maybe I’ve lost a step or two.”
“Who, you?”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Feeling a bit sorry for ourself, are we, Francis?”
“You know me too well, Buddy.”
“If it would make you feel any better, had I known the deceased, I surely would have cried.”
“Can it, Buddy. I’m not that bad off.”
“I’m just saying, is all.”
He flashed me his famous dead-eyed stare and changed the subject. “I heard about what happened at Temple Israel.”
“The graffiti?”
“I sent a few of my young parishioners over to help Rabbi Weiner clean it up.”
“Has me worried.”
“Because?”
“This graffiti business is on the verge of becoming a scourge. These idiots have taken to engaging in what they refer to as metropolitan beautification, which, translated, means desecrating the landscape. Removing it is costly. And once it’s been removed, these taggers are more than likely to target the same spot again.”
“I guess we’re lucky here at St. Theresa’s.”
“So far.”
“Can you put a stop to it?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
“You can pray for them.”
“Them who?”
“The taggers.”
“Pray for them, why?”
“Because when I catch them, I’m going to make them regret what they’ve done.”
“And you want me to pray for them?”
“I want you to pray for me. Pray that I don’t actually kill any of them.”