The Blameless Bystander

© Copyright 2006, 2007

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 was an oxygen tube with dual openings 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," 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 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," he 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 of 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 his countenance began to appear less fearsome. Ethan gave him a look meant to convey hate; Jamie saw it for the fear that it was. 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 Jamie O'Toole, Jarrod," he 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 have 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 screamed. Jamie easily parried the blow, and then grabbed his wrists tightly. 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 as he walked briskly down the street toward 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 entered 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 nicely. 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 and 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. 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 screamed. 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 commanded, pointing toward the door. "How did you get in here?" she shouted before 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. She vaguely felt Ethan on her. For a moment, it occurred to her to fight him off, and then she just wanted to sleep.

She woke up a short time later. 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. Ethan was gone. 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 food. 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.