the official announcement will be made. I cannot tell him the full story of how Blankenship and company departed this world, but I don’t have to. I only have to tell him what I myself willed to happen and that I asked others to make it happen. And beyond that, I will say nothing more. I can tell him that I sent people to murder Fulton Blankenship and they weren’t officers of the law. And when I do, I’ll tell him this in Confession, binding him to keep the circumstances secret, but to act upon the information as he sees fit.”
Reuben sighed. “Jim, they had marked you for death. They might have killed your family!”
“I know that, Reuben,” he said. “I’m not as hard on myself as you might think. I saw that wounded priest being carried out of my apartment on a stretcher. And I’d just seen the corpse of the boy they’d killed. I’m no saint, Reuben, I told you that. But I’m not a liar either.”
“And what if the archbishop gets carried away, thinks you hired some mercenaries or something and he calls the police?”
“He won’t do that,” Jim said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll tell the truth. But never the whole truth. I know what I have to do.” He smiled. In fact, his entire manner was almost cheerful and certainly resigned. “But if by some miracle he allows me to stay, well, then, I’ll stay. That’s what I want, to stay, to work right here as I’ve been doing for years, to make amends here. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, Reuben. And I don’t think it should.”
Suddenly he stopped and reached beneath his chasuble for his phone. “That’s Mom calling. Listen, come into the sacristy with me while I change. We’ve got to get over there. And let me tell you what I plan to do.”
They hurried back into the church and up through the nave and into the back sacristy, where Jim quickly peeled off his vestments, and put on a fresh clean white shirt. Then came the Roman collar with the black clerical shirtfront and his always impeccably pressed black coat.
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Reuben,” he was saying. “I’m thinking that perhaps I can somehow quietly run this rehab center here as a layman. I don’t know if you know about the rehab center.”
“Everybody knows about it, Jim,” said Reuben. “Two million dollars in donations so far, probably more.”
“Yes, well, if I can’t be the steward of this project, there are others. After all, I don’t deserve to be the steward of it and if the archbishop sends me away from this parish, well, that’s what I deserve. So what I’m thinking is, I’m thinking that maybe with some donations from you perhaps, little brother, and from Mom and Dad, who knows, and maybe from Felix too perhaps, maybe I can start a Delancey Street–type of operation of my own.”
“Absolutely,” said Reuben. “That’s entirely possible. Jim, that might be better than anything.”
Jim paused, looking into Reuben’s eyes. And only then did Reuben sense the pain there, just the faintest glimpse of the pain Jim was feeling at leaving the priesthood.
“I’m sorry,” Reuben whispered. “I didn’t mean to make it sound so simple.”
Jim swallowed, and forced a little accepting smile. He put his hand on Reuben’s hand as if to say, It is all right.
“I want to keep working with addicts and alcoholics, you know that,” Jim said.
As they walked back through the church, he went on talking about it, about the months he’d spent working at Delancey Street, studying their famous program, and about what he would do if he did get to be captain of his own little ship. They walked through the courtyard and out the gate.
“But you know, Mom and Dad are going to take it hard if you leave the priesthood,” said Reuben.
“You think so? When have Mom and Dad ever been proud of me for becoming a priest?”
“Maybe you’re right about that,” Reuben mumbled. “But I’ve always been proud of you and so was Grandfather Spangler. And I’ll be proud of you no matter what you do.”
“Look, I’m thinking I can volunteer for a while at Delancey Street again, or somewhere. There is so much opportunity, and this is all going to take time—.”
They were almost to Reuben’s car, when Reuben put his hands up and demanded to be heard.
“Now just wait a minute!” he said. “You’re telling me that after all these years, you’re just going to be shoveled out of the priesthood because you told me about that scum, that unspeakable scum, that scum that murdered that young priest, that scum that murdered the kid at the Hilton, that scum that targeted you for death …”
“Oh, come on, Reuben,” he said. “You know what I did. I’m not you. I don’t have some secret biological metamorphosis to blame for what I am! I suborned murder as the man that I am.”
Reuben went silent. Frustrated. Angry.
“And what if I do it again?” Jim whispered.
Reuben shook his head.
“What about the next time that some unspeakable scum stalks these streets killing kids and threatening me for interfering?”
“Well, what was all that in there about repentance, renewal, the miracle of time?”
“Reuben, repentance begins with acceptance of what one has done. And for a priest it begins with Confession. I have already done that part with my confessor, but now the archbishop must know what I have done.”
“Yes, but what if nobody … oh, hell, I don’t know what I’m saying, for God’s sake. Jim, did you talk to Mom this morning?”
“No, and I’m not looking forward to it now. She’s furious with me for disappearing. That’s why I’m counting on you to come with me and somehow steer the conversation to Celeste and the baby and anything else you can think of, please.”
Reuben was silent for a moment. Then he unlocked the Porsche and walked around to the driver’s side.
Jim piled in beside him. He went on again with that same easy energy talking about how he was resigned. “It’s like any failure, Reuben. It’s an opportunity—all failures are opportunities—and I have to see it that way.”
“Well, you are going to be facing a slightly more complex and interesting future than you realize,” said Reuben.
“And why is that?” he asked. “Hey, slow down, will you? You drive this thing like a race car driver.”
Reuben let up on the gas, but it was Sunday morning, and the usually crowded streets were relatively clear.
“Well, what do you mean?” asked Jim. “Mom and Dad aren’t getting a divorce, are they? Speak!”
Reuben was thinking, thinking just how to play it, just which way he should go. He could feel his iPhone throbbing in his coat pocket, but he ignored it. He was thinking about Christine, about those precious moments to come when she would lay eyes on Jim and Jim would lay eyes on her. She would be so vulnerable in those moments, but this man was not going to let her down. And Jamie, Jamie would walk up to his father just as he walked up to Reuben and extend his hand. Reuben sighed.
“Are we speaking to each other?” asked Jim. “What are you not telling me!”
The car was now speeding up Russian Hill.
“You didn’t kill Lorraine’s pregnancy,” Reuben said.
“What are you talking about?” And then, “How do you know!”
“She was at the Christmas gala,” said Reuben.
“Damn it, I
“She’s at Mom’s waiting for you now.”
Reuben resolved not to say another word.
“Are you telling me that she’s there and that I have a child?” Jim demanded. He flushed red. “Is that what you’re saying? Reuben, talk to me. You mean I didn’t kill the baby! Are you saying I have a child?”
He hit Reuben with another twenty questions, but Reuben said not a word. At last he slid into the narrow driveway of the Russian Hill house and cut the ignition.
He looked at Jim.
“I’m not going in with you,” he said. “This is your moment. And I don’t have to tell you that there are people depending on you in there, people eagerly waiting for you—and that they’ll be watching you, observing your most subtle facial expressions, your voice, whether you put your arms out—or not.”
Jim was speechless.
