'Well, when he died it was hard on Mark. They were so close the two of them. Monsignor O'Sullivan, although he was only Father O' Sullivan back then, asked if he could come over for dinner, spend some time with Mark. He said he was worried about him. I was always raised to believe that there was no better way to grace your home, your family, than for the parish priest to come to dinner. You have to understand. Well, you probably can't understand,' she said, shaking her head.
'No, I do,' Pakula said. 'I'm Catholic.'
'So am I,' O'Dell said.
The woman looked from him to O'Dell and back to him like she was seeing them for the first time. Pakula wondered if knowing they were both Catholic would help her trust them or simply strengthen her distrust.
'When Mark finally told me what Father O'Sullivan did to him whenever he volunteered to tuck Mark in bed after dinner… well, I'm ashamed to admit, I didn't believe him. He was ten. Boys make up all kinds of stories at that age.'
'But I wasn't making it up,' Mark interrupted.
Pakula noticed that all of them jerked their heads to look at him, surprised to realize that he was even listening.
'I know, I know,' Brenda Donovan said, bobbing her head. 'But that's what Father O'Sullivan told me when I finally got up enough courage to tell him why he couldn't come to dinner anymore. He told me that if I believed my son's lies then I couldn't come to his house for dinner anymore, either.' She looked up at them again, searching their faces for understanding. Evidently she saw their confusion because she tried to explain. 'You know, his house being the church and dinner being Holy Communion. I was devastated. I didn't know that a priest could punish you like that. So I went to Archbishop Armstrong.'
Pakula waited, watching Brenda Donovan shake her head as if she still couldn't believe it. He glanced at O'Dell who was now not only paying attention but sitting forward in her chair.
'Tell us what the archbishop had to say, Brenda,' Hamilton said.
'Father O'Sullivan must have warned him that I'd be calling. The archbishop asked me why I would want to ruin a good priest's reputation with such lies. Then he held my hands and asked me to pray along with him. He said we'd join hands and pray for him. It wasn't until we were halfway through our prayer that I realized the 'him' we were praying for was not my son, but Father O' Sullivan. That was the day I left the Catholic Church. I haven't been back since.'
There was an uncomfortable silence but Pakula sat through it. He had learned a long time ago that when people confided something gut-wrenching, they didn't necessarily want someone telling them it'd be okay. They knew it would never be okay. They just wanted someone to listen.
'Mark wasn't the only boy,' Hamilton finally said. 'I've found seven others who are now thirteen to twenty-five years old. Two the archdiocese paid over a hundred thousand dollars each. One told me his father forfeited a payoff when Armstrong promised he'd send O'Sullivan away for treatment. O'Sullivan was gone for two months.'
Pakula rubbed his jaw. He wasn't surprised. He had heard about the various scandals all over the country, but had to admit he hadn't paid much attention. He remembered being grateful that the Omaha Archdiocese seemed to have escaped it. Once, he and Clare had gotten into an argument about it when he suggested that he didn't understand why the boys didn't fight back. Why they waited until years later when they were adults and the statute of limitations had long expired. At the time he couldn't help wondering if many of the cases were simply about money. Okay, so a priest put his hand down some kid's pants, he's definitely a sicko, but is it traumatic enough to equal a couple million dollars? Clare had told him that he had no idea what those boys had gone through.
'I'm sorry both of you had to go through that, Mrs. Donovan,' Pakula told her. 'I just wish you had gone to the police instead of the archbishop.'
'I know, I know,' she said.
'Who the fuck do you think the police would have believed?' Mark asked. This time his outburst made his mother jump.
'I've got to ask you something, Mark,' Pakula said. 'And I don't want you to think that I'm being insensitive to what's happened to you, whatever it was, but why didn't you tell him to stop it?'
'I was ten years old.' Mark's voice was suddenly low and calm, the anger evidently pushed back somewhere. 'This priest who I've been taught is like God comes into my bedroom and kneels at my bedside.'
He looked around the group as if making sure they were listening. Pakula noticed all of them were literally at the edge of their seats.
'He told me that God and my dad were watching us from heaven. Then he asked me to close my eyes and pray the Our Father with him, so I did. We wouldn't get halfway through the prayer and I'd feel his hand under my covers. He'd dig into my pajama bottoms, grab hold of me and start jerking at me. Sometimes so hard it hurt. I remember once opening my eyes and that's when I saw that he was still on his knees but I could see his fly was open and in his other hand he had hold of his own penis, too, and was jerking it just as hard as he was jerking me.'
Mark stopped and looked Pakula in the eye. When he spoke this time he sounded like a small boy, 'He told me my dad and God were watching us. I kept telling myself they wouldn't let this happen to me if it wasn't okay.' Then as if that wasn't enough of an explanation he added, 'I was only ten years old.'
CHAPTER 61
Father Paul Conley rang the small bell on his desk a second time. Where was that woman? He craned his neck, trying to see beyond the doorway without leaving his chair. He had purposely positioned his desk in the rectory's den so that he could see into the living room with a view of the kitchen _ though only a slice __ if he slid his chair clear to the right. But Anna Sanchez was nowhere in sight.
He contemplated ringing for her again. The woman was getting too old. He had tried to tell the church council that he needed someone younger with more energy. Someone who could not only handle the housecleaning and the cooking but also make sure there was a pot of fresh coffee available in the afternoons. Was that too much to ask?
He tipped his coffee mug, an exaggerated gesture, to double-check. Yes, it was empty. He twisted in the chair again but still refused to get up. He grabbed the bell and this time gave it an angry shake. Was it too much to ask for someone who could at least hear, for heaven's sake?
'Mrs. Sanchez?' He decided to yell in case she had chosen to ignore the bell.
Ever since he had complained to the church council about the old woman she had gotten slower and more selective in what she heard. It was probably just his imagination, still he couldn't help wondering whether one of those loudmouthed council members had blabbed to her. Most likely it was Mrs. MacPherson. The woman couldn't keep anything to herself even if the good Lord asked her directly.
'Mrs. Sanchez, what about some coffee?'
He let out a heavy sigh and pushed up out of his comfortable leather office chair, shoving it back with as much noise as he could muster. He grabbed the coffee mug and brought it with him, stomping out of the den. In the living room he stopped long enough to glance around. Where was that woman? He marched into the kitchen, expecting to see her at the sink or coming up from the laundry room.
Instead, he was startled, clutching his free hand to his chest.
'What in the world?'
At the small kitchen table sat a young man he didn't know, sipping a cup of coffee.
'Hello, Father Paul,' the stranger said with a smile, then took a long slurp of coffee. 'There's plenty more.' He waved at the Mr. Coffee on the counter. 'Mrs. Sanchez must have just made some. It tastes very fresh.'
'Who are you? Did Mrs. Sanchez let you in?' Again, he started looking around the room for the woman, past the doorways and out in the backyard.
'I must admit, I'm disappointed you don't recognize me, Father Paul. Although I guess it has been over fourteen years.'
