Faith (21 page)

She lay awake a long time, thinking. As always, her worries seemed larger at night.
It happens to us all
, Father Art had once told her.
The dark night of the soul.
The black sadness that sometimes engulfed her: he hadn't tried to advise her, or talk her out of it. He simply saw her anguish and pronounced it normal, and this had comforted her. Father Art at her kitchen table, before everything had gone so horribly wrong. It seemed very long ago.

The next morning she slept through the alarm. She skipped breakfast and snapped at Aidan: “Jesus Christ, kid. Can you get a move on?” On the way to work she bought a pack of Newports. Her cell phone she placed squarely on her desk. All morning long she glanced at it periodically.
Ring, you motherfucker. Can't you just fucking ring?

At lunchtime she got a salad from the deli but couldn't choke it down. She contemplated the unopened pack of Newports. She wasn't supposed to smoke in the office, but Chris Winter wouldn't know the difference. He had gone out in one of the trucks.

Her cell phone rang.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “About fucken time.”

“Miss Conlon?”

It took her a moment to understand that it wasn't Mike McGann calling to apologize.
I'm sorry I didn't call. I miss you. Can I see you later?

A woman's voice said, “Please hold for Ron Shapiro.”

W
HAT WILL
you do when the money comes?

“The Archdiocese wants to settle,” said Shapiro, talking fast. “It isn't a fortune, but it's a healthy number. Miss Conlon, I believe we have won.”

Kath sat a moment, dazed. She lit a celebratory cigarette. She'd imagined this moment so thoroughly that her next move required no thought. But Chris Winter wouldn't return for at least an hour. She was denied the pleasure of telling him to fuck himself. Instead she simply walked out the door.

It was a high bright day, the sky vivid blue.
Ceiling unlimited.
She got into her car and drove.

F
or eight years, Phyllis Gruber has been my brother's secretary. She remembers that Monday in vivid detail. First, Mike was in a foul mood, a rare occurrence. As soon as he walked in the door she'd been treated to a scolding: “Yesterday, that showing in Milton: what were you thinking, giving out the address?”

The question confounded her. She'd been told again and again that every caller was a potential buyer. The goal, always, was to get them in the door.

In all the time she'd worked for Mike McGann, his personal and professional lives had seemed refreshingly uncomplicated. She had never been asked to lie. Now, clearly, something had shifted. Phyllis understood this at one o'clock that afternoon, when the girl walked through the door.

“Where's Mike McGann?” she demanded.

Phyllis eyed her short skirt, her tattooed arm and leg. “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

The girl seemed agitated, restless. “He showed me a house the other day. Twelve Fenno Street.”

“I'll see if he's in,” Phyllis said.

Mike's office was in the rear corner, just opposite a small kitchen. As always, his door was open. Phyllis knocked lightly at the door frame.

“There's a—young lady here to see you,” she said carefully.

Mike gave her a blank look.

“She says you showed her a house. Twelve Fenno.”

(
No poker player, your brother
, she told me later.
I knew right away.
)

Phyllis showed the girl in. When Mike's door closed, she busied herself in the kitchen. She made coffee and wiped the counters. She checked the supply of creamer and tea. The girl's voice, she could have heard in New Hampshire. Mike spoke more softly, at least at first.

I imagine Kath looking around the office, which I suppose impressed her. It impressed me the first time I saw it, the big picture window, family photos arranged on the heavy oak desk. On the wall were two framed certificates. For two years in a row, Mike had been South Shore Realty's Salesperson of the Year.

“I tried to call, but your phone is turned off,” she said. “I couldn't wait.”

“Kath, what the fuck? Are you crazy?” His skin turning colors—pink, red, purple—as though he were bench-pressing his own weight. “You can't be coming to my office like this.”

“It's okay.” Kath grinned. The astonishing news welled up inside her, but she was determined to take her time. She had learned to make the good things last: sex, drugs, the sweet pleasures you never had enough of. Kevin used to laugh at her, the way she rationed her happiness—trying to stretch the moment, like a little girl with a treat.

“I'm a customer, remember? You're going to sell me a house.” She took a framed photo from his desk and examined it for a moment. “They're beautiful,” she said. What she meant was
She's beautiful
: Abby with her long dark hair, her dazzling smile, Mike's ring on her finger. Mike's two babies in her arms.

He took the photo from her hands. “You need to go.”

“Wait a minute. I'm ready to, you know. Make an offer, or whatever.” The news expanding inside her, so big she could scarcely contain it. I'm rich, she thought.

Mike eyed her suspiciously. “What's the matter with you? Are you high or something?”

She flinched as though he'd slapped her.

“Look, I thought we understood each other.” He ran a hand over his head. “You know my situation. For Christ's sake, I have a
family.
I can't have you following me around like this.”

Her temper flared then. “
Following
you? Are you fucken kidding me?”

I have a family, too, she thought. I have Aidan. I am lovable and whatever
.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” She stared at him, hurt and stunned. She had good news, the best news of her life. She just wanted to
tell
him. How had it gone so horribly wrong?

“I came here to talk to you,” she said, choking on the words. “You think you know everything about me? You don't know a fucken thing.”

“SHE STORMED
out of here,” Phyllis told me later. From the window she'd watched the girl get into a dilapidated old Buick. She sat there for several minutes, smoking. Then she made a call on a cell phone.

A
idan stood on the sidewalk, waiting. The sky had darkened; wind ruffled his T-shirt. He had forgotten his sweatshirt, his rain jacket. One by one the yellow buses pulled away from the curb.

All right, all right, I'll come and get you
. His mother had been crabby that morning, but she had promised to pick him up. He'd told her a hundred times how he hated the school bus—loud and crowded, the rear seats occupied, always, by fifth graders, Jordan Dailey and his friends. When Aidan climbed aboard they erupted in fart noises, four boys farting for all they were worth. Jordan Dailey's farts were always the loudest; he was the ringleader. Without him, Aidan felt, the other boys would leave him alone. In March Jordan had been absent for a week, taken skiing by his parents, and without him the farts seemed halfhearted. Then Jordan returned, farting louder than ever, a paper tag hanging from the zipper of his jacket. A lift ticket, it was called, for riding the ski lift.

Father Art had promised, once, to take him skiing. But winter had come and gone. Aidan didn't care about skiing, not really. But he'd have liked a lift ticket for his jacket.

At his old school ski jackets weren't allowed, which would have solved the problem. No blue jeans, no sneakers. You didn't have to worry about wearing the wrong kind. But his old school cost money, and his mother couldn't afford it. Talking about it made her feel bad. That was how his grandmother had explained it:
The less said, the better
. So Aidan said nothing at all.

He missed the old school: Sister Paula, his friend David Chilicki. More than anything or anybody, he missed Father Art. A few times he had seen the priest's car parked in his neighborhood, Father Art at the wheel reading a newspaper.

He hadn't told his mother.

Aidan watched his bus depart, the last to pull away from the curb. Through the rear window he could see Jordan Dailey shouting, his arms flailing. Jordan Dailey farting at someone else.

A raindrop fell, then another. Aidan watched the teachers leave through the back door. His teacher, Ms. Bilback, wore a long raincoat. She crossed the street with the others, to the parking lot behind the school.

It wasn't the first time his mother had forgotten. At his old school she forgot him all the time. There it didn't matter: he simply went next door to the rectory. “Homework first,” said Father Art, leading him into the office. Later they had milk and peanut butter cookies. They watched
Dora the Explorer
on TV.

Aidan crossed the street and started walking. Down the street was the hospital, where the city bus stopped. He had taken the city bus before, with his grandmother always. He had never taken it by himself. Each bus, he'd noticed, had a different number. His grandmother's bus was number 6.

At the plastic shelter he stood and waited. Buses came and went. The 19 came first, then the 46; then the 11, then the 4. Aidan stood at the curb, watching people get on buses. Gradually the sky darkened.

He was all alone.

Finally a bus pulled up; its doors opened. The driver looked at him and smiled, a black man with a shiny bald head.

“Which bus are you waiting for, son?”

“Number 6.”

“The six don't stop here. That's a different route. You want to go to Dunster, you could take the nineteen.”

“Thank you,” Aidan said.

The rain started. Aidan waited under the shelter for Bus 19. When it finally arrived he got on board. He had a dollar in his pocket, two nickels and a penny. When he handed it to the driver she shook her head.

Aidan felt his eyes tearing.

“Oh, Jesus. Get in,” she said.

He sat on the bus a long time, staring out the window, watching for something familiar: his street, the corner store, his playground, his house. Again and again the bus stopped. Passengers got on and got off: a fat lady, a lady with a baby, an old man with a cane, a girl with giant boobs. A bearded man talked to himself loudly, his mouth jerking. He caught Aidan looking at him.

“What did I do now?” the man demanded.

Aidan looked away.

Finally the bus pulled into a garage. The driver turned off the engine and turned on the lights. “What are you still doing here?” she called over her shoulder. Only two people were left on the bus, Aidan and the man who talked to himself.

“I want to go to Dunster,” Aidan said.

“Dunster is inbound. You got on the outbound.” The driver turned around in her seat and started the engine. “Don't worry, we going back out in a couple minutes. You set tight. I'll get you there.”

I
N THE
dark Aidan crossed the street to his house. His mother's car was gone, the front door closed, the windows dark. He took the key from under the mat and unlocked the front door. “Mom?” he called, though he could see that she wasn't home.

He put on dry clothes and switched on the TV. The kids' shows were over, the news starting. Still it was better than a quiet house.

In the kitchen he rifled through the cupboards, thinking of the cookies at the rectory, two Nutter Butters on a plate, a third one if he asked. His mother sometimes bought Oreos, but the cookies never lasted. She and Aidan ate them together in front of the TV, the whole bag in one night.

In the refrigerator he found beer and Coke, orange cheese slices in plastic wrappers. There was ketchup and mustard and mayonnaise. He poured himself some Coke and ate a slice of cheese in front of the television.

The news ended; a program began.

At the commercial he went into the kitchen and called his grandmother. He let it ring a long time. His grandmother was slow, her knees hurt her.

Nobody answered the phone.

He remembered, then, that she had gone for the day, away on a bus trip. She wouldn't be back until late.

He ate another slice of cheese.

There was one other phone number he knew by heart, but he didn't call it. He was not to speak to Father Art.

There was a knock at the door.

M
ike left the office early that day. “I have a showing,” he told Phyllis, avoiding her eyes. He wondered how much she had heard.

He drove to Quincy in a panic. Be cool, he told himself. There was no reason to think Kath would go to his wife. (Except the look on her face when she stared at Abby's photo. Except that she knew exactly where he lived.)

Please God, Mike thought, Mike who prayed rarely. Don't let this happen. He understood that he'd brought it on himself, that in every way he deserved it. He had betrayed his wife, his family. He had a great deal to lose.

Abby's Explorer was parked in the driveway. He looked up and down the street, but there was no lime-green Buick, thank God.

He parked and went in through the back door. In the kitchen Abby was unloading the dishwasher. “You're home early,” she said. “What happened?”

“Hey.” He came up behind her, kissing her neck. The clean smell of his wife, no cigarettes, perfume or alcohol. Just shampoo, soap and skin. “I skipped out. I wanted to have dinner with the boys.”

“I thought you had a showing.”

“Not tonight.” He watched her move around the kitchen, stacking plates in the cupboard, sorting the clean silverware into its drawer. “Ab, I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

Mike felt his face coloring. “It's been crazy lately. I haven't been around much. It isn't fair to the boys. Or to you.” He reached for the medal hanging at his throat. St. Christopher raced back and forth on his chain.

To anyone who knows Mike as I do, his guilt would have been obvious. And Abby—it pains me a little to say it, but Abby surely knows him better.

She closed one eye.

I'll be different
, he wanted to say.
I promise.
A criminal's mistake: the guilty always said too much.

“Where are the boys?” he said instead.

“Ryan's room, last time I checked.”

Mike climbed the stairs, relief flooding him. Life could return to normal now. There would be no more lying. He would have nothing else to lie about.

He would never see her again. Unquestionably, it was the right decision: for a guy in his shoes, an affair,
any
affair, was madness. And Kath Conlon—he saw it clearly now—was an unstable unit. Crazier, even, than Lisa Morrison; she was a midnight fistfight. Years ago he'd had the stamina for it—the passionate theatrics, the angry tussles and pulsing reconciliations. Okay: he'd gotten off on it. But no more.

He had failed in his mission. His questions about Art had gone unanswered. In all probability they would remain so; but at the moment it seemed a secondary concern. He had risked too much, a fact painfully evident. He had far too much to lose.

The boys were sprawled on the floor in Ryan's room, hunched over a board game.

“Daddy!” Michael called, rushing toward him.

Mike swept the boy into his arms. Ryan looked up from the game and grinned crookedly. Mike gave him a high-five. Lately Ryan had dodged his parents' caresses; he was getting too old for hugging. Mike was grateful that the twins still clung to him.

“Where's Jamie?” he asked.

“In his room,” said Michael. “He's mad. He hates losing.”

Mike looked down at Ryan, who simply shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, his new favorite word.

Mike put down Michael and headed down the hall. “Hey, James?” he called. “What's up, dude?”

Jamie lay on his bed, staring out the window.

“Your brothers said you were mad.”

“Nah,” said Jamie. “Just bored.”

Mike sat on the bed and stroked his son's hair.

“You guys have a birthday this month,” he said. “Any special requests?”

“Binoculars,” Jamie said without hesitation. “We used them in school. They're cool.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to look at?”

“Birds,” Jamie said.

“I NEVER
wanted to see her again,” Mike told me later, and I believe him. Certainly the facts support his claim. That afternoon he'd left a message for Teri Pappas. He would unload Twelve Fenno, hand the listing to another office. Kath would have no excuse to bother him again.

So why, after the boys and Abby were asleep, did Mike grab his keys and jacket, get into his Escalade and drive the eight miles to Dunster?

He found it difficult to explain.

All evening long he'd replayed the memory, Kath storming out of his office.
You think you know everything about me. You don't know a fucken thing.
Tires squealing, the Buick peeling out of the parking lot. Where had she gone in that agitated state? If he'd known her better—if he'd known her
at all—
he might have been able to guess. Her mother's? A bar? Home to her son?

“I had a bad feeling,” Mike said.

H
E GLANCED
up and down Fenno Street. Kath's windows were dark, her car nowhere to be seen. He was driving past the house when a light came on in the kitchen.

He parked and climbed the steps to her porch.

“Kath!” he called, knocking. “It's Mike. Can I come in?”

He waited a moment, then went around to the back. The kitchen window was now dark.

Again he knocked at the front door. “Look, I know you're in there. Open the door, will you?”

He waited a moment. Finally the door opened slightly. Aidan peered out through the crack.

“Aidan. Are you okay?”

“I'm not supposed to open the door.”

“That's good, buddy.” Mike peered over the boy's head into the living room. “Listen, I need to talk to your mom.”

“She isn't here.” Aidan opened the door another inch. He wore Batman pajamas like the ones Ryan had outgrown.

“Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

“You're here by yourself ?”

Aidan nodded.

“For how long?”

“I don't know. A long time.” The boy was near tears. “She was supposed to pick me up. I took the wrong bus. I got lost.”

“Have you had dinner?”

The boy shook his head.

“Listen, I know you're not supposed to,” Mike said, “but just this once, I need you to let me in. I want to help find your mom, okay?”

Aidan opened the door.

T
HEY SAT
at the kitchen table. In the cupboard Mike found peanut butter and saltines.

Aidan ate ravenously. He didn't know where his mother was. With Kevin maybe?

“Who's Kevin?” Mike asked.

“Her other friend,” Aidan said.

His grandmother wasn't home, he explained. She had gone on the bus to play the slot machines. His face wrinkled; again he seemed ready to cry. He'd wanted to go along, but she wouldn't let him. She said it wasn't for kids.

Foxwoods Casino, Mike thought: a two-hour bus ride to backwoods Connecticut. “Grandma's right. It's not for kids.”

He rose and paced. On the side of the fridge he found a business card attached with a magnet. “What's Winter Towing?”

“Mom's work,” Aidan said.

Mike called the number. “I'm looking for Kathleen Conlon,” he told the guy who answered.

“Me, too. Crazy bitch ran out of here in the middle of the day.”

Mike glanced at the clock. “What time was that?”

“After lunch. One o'clock maybe.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“I could give a shit. When you find her, tell her not to come back.”

Mike hung up the phone. From work she'd driven straight to his office. Where she went next was anyone's guess.

“Is there somebody else I can call?” he asked Aidan. “An aunt or an uncle maybe?”

“My uncle Denny lives in New Hampshire.”

“You know his number?”

Aidan shook his head.

“Think, Aidan. There's got to be someone.”

Aidan chewed thoughtfully. His pajamas were dusted with cracker crumbs.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “we could call the priest.”

F
ATHER ART
had taken him to the beach, helped him with his homework. Twice they had gone to the movies. They'd eaten popcorn and Goobers for dinner. It was a long time ago.

More recently, Father Art had bought him a toboggan for Christmas, left it on the front porch tied with a bow. One time he'd promised: as soon as it snowed, they'd go sledding in the park. But the priest had never come.

“Why not?” Mike could feel his heart hammering.

“Mom's mad at him. They had a fight.” Aidan looked down at his plate. “I'm not supposed to talk about him.”

The priest was a bad man who hurt children. At this Mike nodded silently. It's what he would have told his own kids. How else did you warn an eight-year-old? For Christ's sake, what more could you say?

“Did he ever . . . hurt you?” Mike watched him closely.

“He was my friend,” Aidan said.

M
IKE WAS
sitting in the kitchen with an open beer when Kath burst in through the back door.

“What the fuck?” Her face was very pale, her makeup smeared. Somewhere she'd acquired a grimy sweatshirt. A man's sweatshirt, too big for her; it nearly covered her brief skirt. “What are you doing here?”

Feeding your kid
, Mike thought.
Putting him to bed.
“I came to check on Aidan,” he said.

“Oh, Jesus. Is he okay?” She threw down her pocketbook and headed for his bedroom.

“He's fine.” Mike put out a hand to stop her. A mistake.

“Get your fucken hands off me,” she growled, her eyes wild.

He saw, then, that she was on something. He would have to handle her carefully. He'd seen plenty of times how these things escalated. One false move and he'd end up in a squad car, jailed on a domestic. Good luck explaining
that
to Abby.

“Sorry,” he said evenly. “The kid's had a long day, you know? He's beat.”

Kath nodded, mollified.

“Here. I just opened it.” He offered her the beer from his hand.

She took a long pull. “I was supposed to pick him up,” she confessed, her speech thick. “I dead forgot.” She sat heavily at the table. “I'm a shitty mother. That's what you think, right?”

Mike ignored the question. He sat across from her. “Kath, about before. In my office. I'm sorry.”

She stared at him sullenly.

“I—wasn't expecting you, you know? You caught me off guard.”

“I had good news,” she said. “The best. I have money coming. I can buy that house.” She scrabbled in her purse for a cigarette. “I'm suing that fucken priest. My lawyer called. They're going to pay.”

Mike chose his words carefully. “The priest. You mean Father Breen.”

Kath eyed him warily. “What do you know about it?”

“I was talking to Aidan. About what happened. He said you told him not to talk about it.”

Kath shrugged. “Yeah, well, what's the fucken point? What's done is done. I just want him to forget it ever happened.”

“Forget
what
? That priest. What did he do?”

Mike reached across the table for her hand.

I
CAN
picture them in her tiny kitchen, Kath riding the tide of the last few hours, the dark back room of a bar in Southie, the owner a friend of Kevin's, a guy she vaguely knew. They'd been waiting for her with a full bag, Kevin showing unusual restraint. Fourteen months clean, and she couldn't get it into her fast enough.

Home, she thought as the wave broke inside her. I'm home.

By the time she remembered Aidan it was too late, dark outside. Well, she wasn't the first mother to forget her child; probably it happened all the time. The school would have called somebody, her mother maybe. Problem solved.

She thought, Whatever is going to happen has already happened. It was a comforting thought. There was no point in moving now, though she would soon. In a minute, she thought. And then time did what it always did, ticked away boringly. Time was petty and unforgiving, humorless and joyless. In her mind it resembled Sister Gertrudis, her eighth-grade teacher. Fuck time.

She'd crept in through the back door and closed it quietly behind her. With any luck her mother would be asleep on the couch. Instead she'd found Mike McGann in her kitchen, wide awake, waiting for her. She'd have been less surprised to find the house on fire. His face was achingly familiar, like someone she knew from another life, an old friend lost or dead: Jack Strecker, her father maybe. Was it just that afternoon that she'd stormed out of his office? It seemed very long ago.

She needed a moment to get her bearings. But Mike McGann wouldn't let her. He was large and loud and had surprised her. He was asking about Aidan.

He reached across the table for her hand.

“I didn't think anything at first,” she said slowly. “He was nice to Aidan. To both of us. I thought it was good for him. A father figure, or whatever.”

Mike frowned. “And? All that time he was—molesting your kid?”

“No. I don't know. It happened later.” She looked down at her hand, safe inside his. “We could—I don't know. You really want to hear this?”

“I do,” he said somberly, as though he'd just married her.

Kath stared at their entwined hands.

I
T WAS
the end of summer, the last week of August. In a few days school would start. Aidan's birthday fell on a Thursday. He'd clamored for a day at the shore. Kath's car was in the shop—the alternator, they said—and so it was Father Art who drove them to Nantasket Beach, paid for lunch and ice cream and gas and parking. He gave them quarters for the arcade, Kath and Aidan both, like a father spoiling his children. When did a day at the beach get so expensive? With kids everything cost a fortune. But Father Art had been happy to pay.

The beach had been swarming with kids—school out, the fine weather; whole families camped out under umbrellas, eating from coolers, enjoying the sun. (Who were all these people, she'd wondered: these dads throwing Frisbees; these mothers scolding and doling out snacks? It was a weekday, for godssakes; didn't people
work
?) Kath had taken her place among them, stretched out on her blanket. She'd spent the afternoon flipping through magazines, dozing in the sun. And it was a relief, not worrying about Aidan every blessed minute. Father Art was happy to look after him. For a day she was like other women, who had husbands to help them. For that one day, she could take a break.