Boston Noir

“Could you be making it up, Train?”

And then there’s a knock, and Mr. Markey opens the door and steps into the room. He stamps his feet, tosses a fifth of brandy to Lionel and a newspaper to Father Tom. “You’re famous, Father.”

The man behind Mr. Markey takes off his glasses and his balaclava. He wipes his glasses with a hanky and puts them back on.

Mr. Markey says, “I believe you’ve already met my friend, Mr. Hanratty.”

“Twice,” Father Tom replies.

Mr. Markey says, “You’ll excuse us, gents,” and Lionel gets up and follows Mr. Hanratty down the hall to the kitchen.

“He’s a reporter,” Father Tom says.

Mr. Markey smiles. “Terrance doesn’t write for the Globe; he delivers it.”

Father Tom points to his face. “He did this to me.”

“He can be a little feisty. I try to keep him on a short leash.” Mr. Markey shrugs. “So tell me, Father, does our Lionel still make your heart beat faster?”

Father Tom stands and steps toward the door. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.”

Mr. Markey grabs Father Tom’s arm at the wrist and twists it until the palm is behind his back and the elbow is locked. “I’ve read somewhere that pain elevates our thoughts,” Mr. Markey says, and he tugs at the arm until Father Tom feels like it’ll snap at the wrist and shatter at the shoulder. “Of course, I’m not a theologian.”

Father Tom is bent at the waist and in tears. “Please, you’re hurting me.”

“Keeps our mind off amusements.”

“You’re insane.”

“Have you ever slept on a bed of crushed glass, Father?”

“Please, dear God!”

“Worn a crown of nettle?” Mr. Markey lifts the arm slowly. “These are not rhetorical questions, Father. Answer me.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Mr. Markey releases Father Tom and shoves him back onto the sofa. “What excruciating bliss when the pain ends. You feel grateful to me right now, don’t you?”

Father Tom can’t move his arm.

“Thank me.”

“Thank you?”

Mr. Markey leans over him. “Thank me!”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Mr. Markey tousles Father Tom’s hair, pats his head. “Pain releases endorphins. You feel a little high. I believe you have practiced certain endorphin-releasing austerities yourself, have you not?”

“I’m not a masochist, if that’s what you mean.”

“The time you slammed your hand in the car door?”

“An accident.”

“That’s not what you told your therapist. Why on earth would you have wanted to punish yourself like that?” Mr. Markey walks to the window and admires the storm. “You don’t get to see but one or two nor’easters like this in a lifetime.”

Father Tom wonders if he could make it out the door before Mr. Markey catches him. And then what?

“I’m sure you struggled, Father, fought the good fight. You always wanted to do the right thing, but those little cock teasers wouldn’t let you. Always with their sweet little asses and their angelic smiles.” He leans forward and whispers: “You liked bending their heads back and kissing their exposed throats, didn’t you? Absolutely divine, isn’t it?”

“You filthy-”

“An ecstatic moment and yet so difficult to put into words.” Mr. Markey takes off his gloves and pulls up the sleeves of his car coat. “Nothing up my sleeve.” And then he reaches behind Father Tom’s ear and holds up a folded piece of loose-leaf paper. “What have we here?” He unfolds it. “My associate, Mr. Hanratty, discovered this in your dresser beneath your unmentionables while we were speaking earlier. It seems to be a list of boys’ names. Should I read them?”

“Boys from the parish, boys I’ve worked with.”

“But not all the boys you’ve worked with. What’s special about these boys?”

“Everyone has his favorites.”

Mr. Hanratty returns and hands a manila folder to Mr. Markey, who holds it up for Father Tom to see. “You can guess what this is, I’m sure.”

“Class photos,” Father Tom says.

“Of boys.”

“Perfectly innocent,” Father Tom says.

“They help you get off, I’ll bet.”

Father Tom feels the throbbing pain in his closed eye. “Look,” he says, “it was a constant battle. I was always thinking about this…this abomination and trying not to think about it. I had no time for friendship or music or dreams or joy or charity or anything else that makes life worth living. If I had relaxed for a moment, I knew I might lose control. But I did not!”

“You are a victim of yourself. Is that what you’re saying? You’re the victim?”

Father Tom notices that the Pope’s painted eyes seem to shimmer in their sockets and spin like pinwheels and Mr. Markey’s voice sounds tinny and far away, and then Lionel’s a boy again, and he and Lionel are kneeling by the kid’s bed saying their prayers, and then he tickles Lionel until he begs him to stop, and Father Tom stops and says, What a great relief when the pleasure ends. And he drapes his arm around Lionel’s shoulders and kisses his blond head, like a father saying goodnight to his beloved son, and then, he can’t help it, he tickles Lionel again until the boy yells, Help! And then Father Tom feels his head snap and realizes he’s been slapped.

“Thanks, you needed that,” Mr. Hanratty says.

“Why were you screaming for help, Father?” Mr. Markey puts the watch cap on Father Tom’s head. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Mr. Markey closes the door behind them. He stands on the porch with Father Tom while Mr. Hanratty shovels a path through the waist-high drift to the middle of the windswept street where the snow is only shin-and ankle- deep.

“Where’s Lionel?” Father Tom asks.

“Sleeping it off.”

Father Tom pulls the cap down over his ears. The ringing in the left is worse. “What’s the best I can hope for?”

“That we’ve been wrong all along, and there’s no afterlife.”

“That’s absurd.”

“That way you won’t know you’re dead. And in hell.”

“You have no right to judge me.”

“Who would want to live forever anyway? We’d be so bored we’d kill ourselves.”

Mr. Markey leads Father Tom to the street. Mr. Hanratty spears his shovel into the snow. All Father Tom can see out of his squinted eyes are the slanting sheets of blowing flakes, the snowy hummocks of buried cars, and the indistinct facades of houses. He hears what might be the distant drone of heavy machinery or the blood coursing through his head. Mr. Markey and Mr. Hanratty stand to either side of him and lock their arms in his. Heads bowed into the wind, they begin their trudge down I Street.

“Where are you taking me?”

Mr. Markey says, “We thought you might need help.”

“I have hope.” Hope is the last emotion to leave us, Father Tom thinks. He sees the lyre player on her rock and speculates that you don’t hope for something, do you? You just hope. To wait is to hope. Hope is a rebuke to the cold and starless sky. Iam, it says. I will be. Father Tom sees movement to his right and makes out a bundled and hooded figure sweeping