Chapter 16: Agony, Revelation, Atonement, and Knowledge

"How's the old man, Mark?" Jamie asked as he shook hands with his friend and embraced him.

"I'll let him tell you, Jamie. He's in the wing down the hall. I'll take you."

The two men walked together through the antiseptic corridor. They dodged gurneys and wheel chairs, squeezing by a crowd of anxious families waiting at the elevator.

"I'm glad that you called me, Mark. You know that he wouldn't have."

They arrived at the end of the hallway. The receptionist, a stern, young woman, sat on guard, an authoritative scowl stopping them in their tracks.

"We have to sign in, Jamie. It's ICU rules."

They took turns signing as the receptionist shouted into a speaker-phone. "Can McNulty have visitors?"

"Come in," came the muffled voice from the little box.

"Just one can go in at a time," the receptionist decreed as they unbuttoned their coats. She saw Father Mark's collar. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were clergy. You can go in too."

Father Brendan lay in the hospital bed. There were monitor cables leading away from his body and tubes filled with clear fluid leading into it. There were cannulae placed inside his nostrils. As they approached, Jamie wondered if he was sleeping, but as they drew nearer the old man turned his head toward them.

"Jamie, I've been missin' ye, boy," he uttered with hoarseness that Jamie had never known. A nurse was checking the IV lines and he looked at her.

"It's not what you think," she said. "His throat's dry from the oxygen and sore from the biopsy. The tumor isn't near his vocal cords. It's farther down."

"Let me give you some water, Father."

Jamie took the cup of ice chips and raised it to the old priest's lips. Father Brendan took a few into his mouth.

"T'anks, 't feels good, Jamie; an' t' what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked.

"I came to see how you're doing," Jamie answered.

"I'm doin' jist fine, boy, as ye can see."

Jamie was short of words. He grimaced and looked away.

"Ye could ne'er lie t' me, Jamie. What really brings ye here?"

"I came to confess, Father."

"And ye t'ink a sick old man will be easy on ye?"

"Reach inside me and pull out my sins like only you can," Jamie pleaded. "I need to be cleansed. It's not only for me."

"I'll just visit the other patients," Father Mark said, excusing himself.

"Ye know I haven't the power, Jamie. Only ye can pull the sins from yer own soul. Are ye ready for 't?" Jamie nodded. "D'en, confess t' me ye shall, Jamie. Kneel here and tell 't all t' me, boy."

Jamie sank to his knees alongside the hospital bed of his old mentor. He was barely able to see over the rails of the hospital bed. He did tell him all, whether he was sure that it was a sin or not. It was his story since he left the priesthood nine months earlier. He confessed his acts of commission, and omission, too. At first his knees ached from the hard, tiled floor pressing back at him. As his unburdening progressed he felt like he was floating, a kind of high—a euphoria—that he had nearly forgotten; he welcomed the feeling back.

As he concluded, the old priest closed his eyes. His lips moved in unintelligible speech, but Jamie had no need to hear the words to know what they were. Finally, Fr. Brendan opened his eyes; he snapped his head over to look at Jamie kneeling beside his bed.

"I'll grant ye absolution, contingent on ye doin' the penance," the old priest croaked. "Come closer and I'll whisper 't to ye."

Jamie stood and bent over the bed, his ear next to the Father's lips, waiting for the dictum. Father Brendan grasped Jamie by the collar of his shirt with one hand, and by the hair with the other. Intravenous lines and monitor wires flailed like the lines on a derelict schooner in a gale. He pulled him even closer. Jamie could feel the old man's skin on his own, the coarse whiskers ground against his cheek. Fr. Brendan whispered the penance, and then released him as he finished. "It's a hard penance, boy, but 't'll do ye good."

Jamie stood up straight. "I'll do it, Father," he promised. By that time the floor nurses had gathered around the bed, along with Father Mark, as all the alarms connected to the old man's hospital bed had sounded.

"Father McNulty, that just won't do," the floor nurse scolded. "Your visitors will have to leave if you can't lie still."

"We're leaving soon, nurse," Father Mark assuaged her as she rechecked all the lines and cables.

"T'was the last confession d'at I'll ever hear," the old priest said. "Ye made it a good one, Jamie," he said with a chuckle. Jamie and Father Mark shook their heads and laughed a little, too.

"I s'ppose ye know d'at I'm dyin'," he told them. "T'was m' old pipe d'at did it, or so d'ey tell me. It was such a friend; I must've overindulged. D'ere was a time when a small dram o' whiskey would take away the little tickle in m' t'roat—but no more."

"Father, please don't say that. We'll miss..." Jamie tried to console him, but Father Brendan would not hear it.

"Quiet, boy," the old man admonished. "Jist be hopin' d'at I'll put in a good word fer ye when I'm wit' Himself, speaking directly to Him 'bout ye."

A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, signaling it was time for the visitors to leave.

"And don't ye be t'inkin' that ye'll live ferever," he called after them as they turned for the door. "And bring me a dram o' Irish Whiskey next time, er don't ye come at all," he called louder, and then collapsed into a fit of coughing.

"Whiskey, of all things," the nurse scolded mildly as she soothed him and straightened his blankets. His coughing subsided.

"I should 'ave made it part o' his penance," he told her.

All the Feed Mill employees had left for the day, except Jamie and Bert. They sat in Bert's office finishing off the coffee.

"I was hoping that you would take it, James," Bert said. "I had a feeling when you started teaching those classes at night you'd turn it down."

"It's not that I don't like working for you, Bert. I almost said 'yes'. My heart would never have been in it. You would be thinking that it was, but I would be giving you ninety percent. The other ten would have been day-dreaming about some math class somewhere."

"But, James, you don't even have a job to go to. Why don't you think it over for a while?"

"Some day there'll be an opportunity. Nathan might even give me my old job back. In the meantime, you've got to move the Mill forward."

"You don't have to leave; you can keep working here. There'll be plenty to do with spring planting just around the corner. You can show Beth how you set up the inventory ledgers."

"It's for sure that I won't be back full time in teaching until September. I'll stay with you until then."

"I don't know how you've done it," Bert said. "You're up to nearly forty hours a week here at the Mill, and you're teaching three nights a week. You must be bone tired all the time."

"Not really. I kind of like it, especially the teaching. It's not like it's a job; more a battle against time and numbers. I'm on a mission. Of course, Raymond's my star pupil. One day soon, he'll be teaching me."

"You'd take your job back from Nathan, after what he what he did to you?" Bert asked.

"I might," Jamie answered. "I won't say that I wouldn't have second thoughts about it. I don't know how much of it was Nathan's decision or Bob Jackson's."

"This whole town hasn't treated you very well. There's still some who point when you walk down the street. I wouldn't blame you if you packed it in and moved back to Boston."

"I admit that I thought about that more than once, but I'm staying."

"You've got guts, that's for sure," Bert said.

"I've learned that once you stop running away from others, you can stop running away from yourself," Jamie said. "If I ever do that, I'll have real guts."

"I thought that maybe you'd done that already," Bert told him.

"I'm working on it," he laughed.

"You're one of a kind, James. If you change your mind about that job, be sure to let me know."

Jamie found the pace of his steps slowing as he marched down the sidewalk. He was approaching his destination and he wasn't looking forward to what lay waiting for him. It was a breezy day in March, with a little chill. His hair was tousled from the wind. It was his lunch break at the Feed Mill, so his clothes were dusty. He finally stopped at a large stone house with a black, wrought-iron fence. The gate was open and he climbed the stone steps to ring the bell.

Jamie waited for the door to open. He became hopeful that no one was home; he hadn't called first. It occurred to him that he might have done it that way on purpose. He could always say that he tried.

"Courage, Jamie," he told himself as he waited. "You'll just have to come back if no one answers."

As he was about to turn to leave, he heard the doorknob turning. The man he was looking for pulled the heavy door open. Jamie looked him in the eye, wondering if he was staring at Satan in the flesh.

"Reverend Chandler, I'm Jamie O'Toole. I would like to talk to you."

"I know who you are," Ethan sneered at him. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

As Jamie eyed him, the evil boiling on Ethan's countenance began to appear less fearsome. Ethan gave him a look meant to convey hate; Jamie saw it as fear. It was making his task easier.

"Can I come in, Reverend? I'd appreciate a word with you."

"Why should I let you in? I've never allowed a pervert in my house."

Jamie absorbed the insult, choosing to turn the other cheek.

"I can say my piece here on the steps, if that's what you prefer, Reverend. It would be easier in the house—just in the foyer."

As Ethan looked him up and down a voice came from inside the house. "Ethan, who's at the door?" Jamie heard steps approaching on the hardwood floor.

"It's James O'Toole, Jarrod," Ethan reported, keeping his scowl. "He wants to come in."

"What do you want, O'Toole?" Jarrod asked.

"I'd like to speak with Reverend Chandler," Jamie answered.

"Well, Ethan, let the man in. Don't keep him out in the cold," Jarrod flourished his arms in an exaggerated sweep. "Let him speak."

Ethan backed up to make room, and the three men stepped into the hallway. "Make it fast, O'Toole," Jarrod ordered. "We were eating lunch."

"I came to seek your forgiveness, Reverend Chandler," Jamie began. "I ask you to forgive me for the hate that I felt toward you, and for not doing more to understand you, and for failing to put your mind at ease about me."

"This is a trick!" Ethan exclaimed. "I'll not listen to more."

"Calm down, Ethan," Jarrod said. "I'm enjoying this. It's good comedy."

"There's more," Jamie continued. "I'm going to pray for you, and your family. I'll especially pray for Becky and her child."

Ethan's eyes widened and the veins in his neck stuck out as he clenched in rage.

"Easy, Ethan; you know he's a fool," Jarrod cautioned. "Is that all, O'Toole?"

"Almost," Jamie replied. "I also wanted to tell you that I forgive you for the transgressions that you committed against me."

"Blasphemy!" Ethan roared. "I'll accept no forgiveness from Satan's Child. You'll not ruin my hatred for your evil soul."

Ethan rushed Jamie, his arm raised to strike him.

"I'll smite Beelzebub!" he shouted.

Jamie easily parried the blow, and then grabbed Ethan's wrists as tight as he could so that the Ethan was unable to move against him again. The two men stood toe to toe—their eyes burning into the one another's, mere inches away.

"Like I said," Jamie repeated in a low voice, "I forgive you, and I'll pray for you."

He released Ethan, turned and let himself out the door. As he closed it behind him he heard Jarrod.

"Ignore him, Ethan. He's just playing games with you."

Jamie was happy on his brisk walk back down the street and to the Feed Mill. He had performed the penance that Father Brendan had given him. He felt good. It had been less difficult than he envisioned; the cleansing made him ready for better things.

Ethan spent the rest of lunchtime panting with anger. "Ethan, you're letting this get to you," Jarrod admonished. "You're playing right into his hands. Can't you see that?"

His advice was to no avail, as the enraged preacher said nothing, only panted, and stared straight ahead.

Jarrod finally gave up. "I'm not going to stay here if you won't communicate. I have work back at the office, anyway."

Ethan remained frozen as Jarrod walked out the door where Jamie had stood. As he heard the door close, Ethan roused himself. He walked to his desk in the study and sat down, picked up the phone book and paged though it.

"I'll have an anointing," he mumbled. "I'll seek out the sacred harlot."

Not long afterward, Ethan was parking on Tracey's street in front of a house a few doors away from hers. As she arrived home from work she saw the car and thought it was a lookout that Hal had sent to check on her. The car was an odd style to be a police vehicle. She wouldn't have guessed that they would drive station wagons, even in plain clothes.

"I could really use a shower," she said to herself as she walked into her house.

She went straight to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She was alone, so she walked nude to the bathroom and started the water.

The bruises from Jarrod's beating were nearly gone. She could hardly feel them as she glided the soap over her skin and it mixed with the soothing, hot water. The scar on her lip was healing well. Soon, one would have to look closely to even see it. She poured some shampoo into her hand and spread into her hair. She saved some for her triangle below and spread the lather in it. It made her think about Hal. She was hoping to start seeing him when he was relieved from her case and was free to socialize with her.

Her pubic hair was naturally black. She thought of the contrast with her carefully dyed blond hair and regretted the coloring that made her look like what she was not. The blonde would have to go soon, she decided.

She rinsed off, stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. Normally, she would put on her terrycloth robe. She remembered that she had thrown it in the wash that morning, so she wrapped a towel over her wet hair and walked back to the bedroom. The shower had relaxed her and she enjoyed the nakedness.

"I wish Hal were here right now," she said to herself. "Case—or no case."

She smiled a little as she let the thought drift through her mind. She thought to touch herself to bring the thought of making love to him alive. She decided not to. She'd just save it up until he could touch her. She couldn't remember when she had been so long without being in bed with a man.

There was a presence in the bedroom that did not belong there. She glanced to the side.

"What—what are you doing here?" she demanded. Ethan was grinning, sitting unclothed in her bed, waiting for her.

"You have avoided me, woman. I came for an anointing."

He pulled the covers away. His hardened penis stood straight up from his groin, demanding satisfaction.

"Get out!" she ordered, pointing toward the door. "How did you get in here?"

She remembered that she had forgotten to lock the door.

"I'll have you first. You are my woman," he cried, jumping from the bed, rushing her.

Ethan wasn't as strong as Jarrod, and Tracey wasn't afraid of him. As he lunged, she grabbed hold of his outstretched arms, catching him before he could fully close on her. They struggled, locked in each other's grip. Ethan started spinning the two of them around.

Suddenly, somehow, she flew out of his grasp. The force threw her against the sharp edge of the bedroom door jamb. Tracey felt a sharp pain in the back of her head and then herself hitting the floor. She saw nothing but stars. There was a vague feeling of Ethan on her. For a moment, it occurred to her to fight him off, and then she just wanted to sleep.

When she woke up Ethan was gone. She later calculated that it had been about twenty minutes. Her hair was stringy and dripping. She was again naked and injured, picking herself off her bedroom floor. She felt the back of her head and she winced in pain. She looked at her hand and there was blood on it. There was something on her thigh and belly. It was semen. She felt inside herself. She didn't believe that he had been in there, but couldn't be sure. She called the only number she could.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on the sofa in her living room telling her story to Hal who sat beside her. She had cleaned herself up and put on cotton-fleece sweats.

"We'll get you to the hospital and they'll have a rape kit. Then we'll arrest the bastard," Hal told her.

Tracey shook her head. "I already cleaned it off," she said. "I don't think he got any in me."

"You can't be certain," Hal answered. "Let's check it out to be sure."

"There's something else," Tracey said. "I've been in bed with him twice before—of my own accord."

"Hmmm," Hal grunted. "That complicates things. That still doesn't give him the right to..."

"Jarrod knows about those times," she interrupted. "He sent me to him." Tracey gave Hal a long, hard look. "You understand, don't you?"

"At least, let me take you to the clinic. You already had a concussion a few weeks ago, and now, probably another one. You have to be checked out. On that, I do insist."

In the car, on the way to the clinic, Tracey turned to Hal. "Did you mean what you said before?"

"What do you mean?" Hal asked.

"About wanting to see me when you're off this case."

"Sure, I did," Hal answered

"What about now—after this, and all you've just found out. Does that change your mind?"

"No, Tracey," he replied. "I'm just worried about you being safe. I won't be on the case much longer. The IRS will be taking it over. We were just lending a hand."

They drove a ways further without saying anything. Tracey's head ached, but she wasn't crying. The clinic loomed in the distance. "Please, Hal—get off this case as soon as you can."

Several days after Jamie returned from visiting Father Brendan he called Connie to invite her out to dinner.

Jamie: "I know it's short notice. There's a little Italian place in Corning that I know. Why don't we go there tomorrow night? You can give me some fine points on the cuisine."

Connie: "That sounds nice, Jamie, but I know a nice little Italian place that's even better."

Jamie: "What place is that?"

Connie: "Not many people know it. It's called Connie's Place."

There was a pause, and then Jamie spoke again.

Jamie: "Oh, I get it; sometimes I'm a little slow."

Connie: "Seven o'clock; bring some wine."

So it was that Jamie found himself in Connie's house, probing a home-made Veal Scaloppini with his fork. She had set up a table in her living room, complete with red and white checkerboard tablecloth and candles. She had done an excellent job preparing the meal. Jamie would normally be on helping number two, but he couldn't manage to get his appetite aroused. He took a sip of wine to help.

"I think that your new hairdo looks nice," he said, looking for a way to fix his mood.

"It's not really a hairdo, Jamie, I just had it trimmed and shaped."

"I thought that's what a hairdo was. Anyway, it looks nice."

It did look nice, and so did the slight application of makeup that she put on. It wasn't a dramatic change—hardly noticeable to the untrained eye. Perhaps it was the act of making the changes that stirred Jamie's comment, but understanding of that psychology eluded him by far.

"You haven't eaten very much," she complained. "I thought you would like this dish. It's my specialty."

"It's better than good—and I'm going to get to it," Jamie acknowledged. "I'm just thinking of some things right now."

"What are you thinking about, Jamie?" she asked, as she leaned forward.

When she asked him that way it made Jamie want to tell her everything. When he told her little things, she understood how he felt about big things. She possessed the key to him and he was happy to allow her to turn the lock.

"For one thing, I went to see Father Brendan yesterday. He's very sick; it's only a matter of time."

"It was good of you to go to see him."

"It would have been, if I had done it for him. I actually went for myself," he admitted. "I went to say my confession to him."

"It was a big step, Jamie."

"Yes," he answered. "It was less difficult than I once envisioned. I finally realized that I was never blameless, as I once believed. I thought it raised me on a pedestal and I wanted to stay there. There were some who refused to acknowledge it, and I was bitter. When I fell, I saw that no one noticed. It was the same as not existing. I was wrong."

"I knew this would come about one day," she said. "I thought it would be a longer time. Something must have happened."

"It was when you asked me in for coffee last Saturday. I wanted to come in, but I turned you down. I asked myself why; at first I couldn't find the answer."

"But you finally figured it out?"

"It would have ruined everything between us," he answered. "I couldn't bring you down to my level. I needed to be clean again, to belong once more—to not be ashamed of what's deep inside me."

"But I am not blameless," Connie said. "I have much to confess, and I do."

"Maybe so," Jamie replied, "but you have no arrogance of the soul, as I did."

"Was Father Brendan hard on you?" she asked, her happy mood returning.

"Yes," Jamie replied, "and he gave me a penance that I'll never forget." He told her of his visit to Ethan's house.

"That was some penance," Connie acknowledged. "He must be a very special man."

"He truly is," Jamie replied. "I'm going to miss him. I think that he's taking his death better than I am. He told me to bring him back some whiskey, or not to bother coming back at all."

Connie burst into laughter at hearing the part about the priest's demand for whiskey.

"I'd like to meet this man," she said, and then turned serious. "And so, the confession gave you what you sought from it?"

"Yes, it did," Jamie admitted.

"Then, what did you have on your mind that spoiled your appetite?" she demanded.

"That's one thing I love about you, Connie," he answered. "You always see right through me."

Jamie saw her face, framed by the candlelight as she leaned closer, her stare sounded his depths.

"Tell me, sir," she asked, "what else do you love about me?"

Jamie heart skipped a beat at the moment of truth. He knew the words, but not how to say them. He knew he had to say them. He wanted them to sound just right. He feared disappointing her with inadequacy, but he was no poet. The words were simple enough and he blurted them out.

"Connie, I love everything about you."

Her eyes watered, as she heard the words. The tears glistened in the flames' reflections. She didn't move, spoke plainly, without hesitation.

"I love you, too, Jamie."

They were the words that he'd hoped for, sounding sweet, as he imagined. He discarded the notion of rising from the table to make a romantic gesture. Such fakery would have sacrileged the honesty of the moment, and of her.

"I was hoping that you'd say that," he said.

"Then, you're going to stay for coffee this time?" she asked.

Jamie noticed her trembling as she waited for his answer. She must have known what it would be. He covered her hand with his.

"I never drink it in the evening, but I'd like some in the morning."

"I'm too old to be seduced, Jamie."

"I wasn't too old," he replied. "I was seduced more than once, and not just by lovers. I just went along with whatever happened. I knew that I would never seduce you, but it's not about age. If you ever came to me, it would be of your own free will."

"It is, Jamie, but I'm as nervous as a schoolgirl," she pleaded. "Will you show me what I have to know?"

"I'll show you some things," he promised. "You'll show me some others."

"Give me a few minutes, and then come upstairs," she bade him as she made her way to the stairway.

Jamie poured out the last of the wine and sat in the living room trying to relax. It wasn't easy to do. He had never even kissed the woman he was preparing to introduce to physical love. In all his past encounters, he had always been the least experienced.

"What does it matter," he thought as he emptied the glass. "It's new for both of us.

When he arrived at the top of the stairs all was dark, except for a lamp glowing from inside Connie's bedroom. He walked in slowly; she sat in bed waiting for him. She had propped the pillows behind her back, pulled the covers up to her chin. She didn't say a word as he undressed. He stripped off all his clothes, except his boxers and approached the bed.

Her hands lowered as he approached, allowing the covers to pile at her waist. She wore a negligee made of white satin. He saw her breasts, cradled in the shiny cloth. The tops of them showed over the top of the bodice. Her nipples pressed an outline in the fabric.

"Wait, let me show you," she whispered.

She pulled the covers aside, reclining against the pillows. Her gown was full length. Only her feet showed below the hem. Her form pressed against the satin. He had never contemplated the features of her body. It was fit and trim, if not seductive, with ample, but not oversized, breasts. She smiled at him.

"Do you like it? I bought it last night, hoping that things would work out for us."

"I'm glad that you did," he answered. "It's a beautiful gown with you in it."

He began to reach his hands out to begin disrobing her, but she stopped him.

"Let me see it," she begged, her eyes glued to his groin.

He understood what she wanted and pulled the waistband of his boxers over his erection, letting let them fall to his feet. She gazed at it for several moments. Jamie was erect; the fluid of anticipation leaked out in viscous droplets.

"I'm ready," she said, and reached over her head to switch off the lamp.

"Wait," Jamie stopped her. "Let me see you."

He stepped forward, and pushed down the thin straps from her shoulders. He peeled the gown away from her breasts, letting them drape naturally on her chest. He placed his hands on them and softly stroked down from the tops and up from underneath. His thumbs caressed the nipples. He felt pleasure as she purred at the new sensation.

He leaned down and kissed each hardened bud. She took his penis in her hand. He kissed her on the lips. At first, she was unsure how to kiss back, but learned it quickly. When the kiss was done, he tugged the gown some more. She lifted her hips to assist him in removing it. She was revealed, as he was. He beheld the sight, promising himself to never forget it.

Jamie reached over her head to turn out the light. Connie slid down to lie on her back as Jamie joined her on the bed. He wanted to give her many pleasures; she opened herself to them. They were embracing, touching, pleasuring, and allowing desire to grow. They took their time; neither counted the minutes.

Jamie sensed that they were ready. He gently pressed the inside of her thigh. She knew what he meant and opened them wide. He placed himself between them and he bent low to kiss her once again. His penis pressed her at the juncture of her spread legs; the soft, warm flesh of her breasts pressed up against the skin of his chest.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I think so."

Jamie shifted his weight to his elbows. "Bend your knees up," he advised.

As she did the end of him nestled between her moist lips. She breathed harder; final joining was close at hand. Jamie pressed forward just a little. She sucked in a breath.

"Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

"It didn't hurt. I'm fine. It's just that I know it's really happening."

"We'll go slow," Jamie assured her. He pressed in some more. He was about half way inside her.

"It's so full, Jamie," she breathed up at him.

"We'll wait while you get used to it," he said.

"No, now!" she cried as she thrust her pelvis up at him and he slid all the way into her. She paused when he completed the journey. "Oh, Jamie—this is so good!" she panted.

Jamie withdrew and thrust forward again. She pushed herself up to meet him. Each time they repeated the motion, their pleasure grew. She cried out in climax. As she finished, he allowed himself to release into her. He stayed inside until he softened, and then dismounted her and they lay embracing side by side. Soon they fell asleep She had given her whole self to him, and he returned the same. It would always be that way.

When Jamie woke in the morning Connie was already smiling down at him as she propped herself on her elbows.