“I understand. That can be hard.”
Jake turned serious, his brown hair and chiseled face stern. “I’m not here for an update, Father.”
“I know, son. It’s written in your gait. Your tone of voice. But niceties are called niceties for a reason.” The priest sat down and motioned for Jake to do the same. “What’s bothering you?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
The priest laughed at the child-like delivery of the statement. “Jake, I am a man of the cloth, but unfortunately that does not make me a mind reader.”
“You knew my mother. Ever hear her mention a woman named Marilyn Ford?”
“Marilyn…?” Father McKenna said. He looked toward the ceiling trying to recall a face to go with the familiar name.
“She works for my father,” Jake added. “She was my father’s secretary.”
“Marilyn Ford,” the priest said, the weight of the woman’s name heavy on his tongue. “Her last name threw me off a bit. Thought it was a trivia question there for a minute. Like Henry Ford’s daughter or something. Yes, Marilyn, I know her.”
“Did you ever meet her? She said she attended my parent’s wedding.”
“I don’t remember her from the wedding, Jake. But I do vaguely know her from the church. She was a parishioner here years ago.”
“She came to the same church as my mother and I? I don’t remember her.”
“Used to come to the early Mass if I remember correctly. Not sure your mother ever spoke to her. I don’t recall them being friends.”
Jake thought about his mother and Marilyn in a throwdown, hair-pulling fight outside the entrance to the pearly gates. Settling earthly scores with a heavenly catfight.
Father McKenna continued. “Haven’t seen Marilyn in, gosh, five years. Maybe longer. Time just flies by,” the priest said, stroking the bookmark that hung from the pressed pages of the Bible on the table.
“She passed away on Friday. Fell down an escalator at the Metro station. We had just had a few drinks at a bar near my father’s office.”
“I hadn’t heard. Poor woman.” Father McKenna closed his eyes and muttered something undistinguishable in Latin.
Definitely old school, Jake thought.
“No one contacted me about a service.”
“There is a brief service at a funeral parlor in Alexandria. Her brother is flying her body back to Wisconsin on Wednesday.”
“Does your trouble have to do with Marilyn?”
“Maybe. She and I had been doing a lot of talking lately. She told me some things I could have gone without knowing. Things involving her and my father. Not very flattering revelations if you know what I mean.”
“I see,” Father McKenna answered noncommittally. He had probably received both ends of the story in anonymous confessionals, but it was a million affairs ago. A billion sins by thousands of sinners.
“And on top of that, it seems that my father has managed to get some Asian girl pregnant and is refusing to help her.”
“Sounds like life has been interesting.”
“You have no idea.”
“So how can I help you, son?”
“How would you feel, hypothetically speaking, if I helped someone get an abortion?”
“Hypothetically, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to answer that as a priest or as a friend?”
“Either,” Jake said. “Or both.”
“Well, as a priest, all I can say is that the Catholic Church has a very dim view of abortion. The fetus is a living human from the moment of conception. Undoubtedly this is not a new thought to you.”
“No, Father. I understand the Church’s position… What would you say as a friend?”
“Do you believe that God loves you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to believe that God loves you more than even your mother did?”
“I’m willing to believe it is possible.”
“If your mother were alive, do you think she would still love you even if you did something she did not agree with?”
“Sure, she would.”
“Then, as a friend, and not a priest, I believe God would also.”
Jake sat quiet for a moment. “Thanks, Father.”
“Sure, Jake.”
Jake stood and the padre pushed himself out of his chair using his palm against the corner of the desk.
“Mass on Sunday is still at eight, ten, and twelve. I will be doing the ten o’clock service. Bring your new girlfriend.”
“Nice sales pitch Father. I’ll try to make it.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” the priest said, patting Jake on the shoulder and going back to his menial daily tasks.
Jake stopped and looked at the priest as he walked out the door. It was the closest thing he was going to get to a spiritual green light. ***
Jake walked through the vestibule to the back of the church, past the lone sinner, rosary still in hand. He dipped his finger in the holy water again, made the sign of the cross, and followed the short hall to the right, past the bathroom and the water fountain. At the end of the hall, he stopped and looked through the glass window in the door. The “silent room” as it was called among the parishioners, was built for parents to take their restless children during Mass. It was constructed a hundred years after the main church was built, a niche carved out from a few rows of pews and an old coat closet. The large glass window on the far side of the room offered a distant view of the altar. Two speakers were perched in the corners of the wall so the parishioners could hear the Mass in progress. When the speaker was off, the room was dead quiet. A pay phone, a rapidly disappearing species of technology, hung on the wall in the close corner. Jake stepped over a pile of religious children’s books and shook his pocket for loose change.
The maddening, bureaucratic world of the D.C. Police was a shock to Jake’s system. His first call to headquarters was picked up by Tonya Freeman, a woman with three kids, as many ex-husbands, and a dislike for her job. She tried to transfer Jake’s call and promptly disconnected him. Jake shoved another fifty cents in the phone and called back. On his second attempt, Tonya put down her coffee long enough to connect him to the First District. His second transfer was as difficult as the first and Jake found himself talking to Officer Charlesworth from traffic enforcement. Ten minutes after his journey had begun, Earl Wallace, the detective who filled out the accident report on Marilyn, picked up his phone.
“Detective Wallace.”
“Good morning, detective.”
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I wanted to ask a question about a recently deceased woman. Her name is Marilyn Ford and she died Friday night in an accident at the McPherson Metro station.”
Detective Wallace started shuffling papers around his desk. “What did you say your name was again?”
Jake stalled. “I’d rather not say.”
“Then may I ask if this is an anonymous tip?” It was an early stalemate and Jake realized he wasn’t prepared for what he was doing.
Detective Wallace followed his instincts and didn’t push. “Okay. How do you know the subject?”
Jake noted the word ‘subject’, not ‘victim.’ “We go to the same church,” he answered. It was stretching the truth like spandex at a Weight Watchers meeting, but it was still technically true.
Earl Wallace switched gears and eased into the soft approach. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks for saying so. Detective, I’m curious as to the specifics of how she died.”
