Chapter 2 – Now
Two
Nathan
Now
The old woman gripped Father Roy’s hand so tightly he had to bite his lip to contain a startled yelp.
Not that he begrudged her the handshake. Doris Gauthier had been through a lot in the past year, losing her husband to a heart attack a few months before her daughter was diagnosed with cancer.
“Thank you for coming to the hospital on Wednesday, Father Roy.” Tears welled up behind her thick glasses, threatening to smear her thickly applied black eyeliner. “Janice appreciated it so.”
Janice had not appreciated it. Unlike her mother, Janice wasn’t religious and resented Mrs. Gauthier’s attempts at bringing her back into the fold.
But Father Roy hadn’t been there for Janice, although of course he’d offered whatever comfort he could.
He’d been there for Mrs. Gauthier. Praying together settled the old woman’s soul.
“It’s why I’m here, sweetheart,” he said, wriggling his hand out of her death grip. “Ministering to the sick is one of the most fulfilling parts of my vocation.”
“Oh, you’re just an angel, Father Roy. An absolute angel.”
Without turning around, Father Roy could sense the laser beams of Father McDonagh’s glare hitting the back of his head. Mrs. Gauthier was the last parishioner to leave Mass today, and the pastor always rushed back to the rectory to watch football on Sunday afternoons.
Father Roy didn’t care, although he might pay for it later. The people of the parish were his flock to shepherd, even if Father McDonagh didn’t see it that way. He couldn’t understand why the man had become a priest if he didn’t want to spend his life in service.
Bending down, Father Roy kissed the old woman on her cheek. “I’ll stop by again this week, alright honey?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Mrs. Gauthier smiled, zipping up her puffy orange coat and grabbing the railing to make her way down to her car, which was parked in the nearby handicapped space.
Father Roy frowned at the sight. At eighty-four, she probably shouldn’t be driving, but it would be such a blow to lose autonomy. He just hoped she was careful.
Shrugging, he turned back to the church entrance to find Father McDonagh standing with crossed arms, wearing a dark scowl. A paunchy, gray-haired man with a weak chin, the priest exuded harsh judgement, focused on Father Roy.
“Don’t spend so much time on her, Nate,” he said, his voice rough like sandpaper. “She’s not from the wealthy branch of the Gauthier family. Just an old lady tithing from her Social Security check.”
Father Roy bristled at the priest’s use of a nickname. His whole life, the only person to call him Nate was his mother. She was dead now. His name was Nathan, which is what friends called him, although if he was honest, he’d prefer the pastor stick to Father Roy.
“She’s our parishioner,” Nathan replied. He hated when Father McDonagh was like this, but he couldn’t push back too hard, unless he wanted to bring down trouble on himself.
“And you’re the associate pastor. You’re the leader. She’s the follower. You spent hours with her daughter a few days ago.” Father McDonagh shook his head and glowered. “Come on. We’re playing Indianapolis. I don’t want to miss the pre-game.”
Father Roy stifled a frustrated sigh as Father McDonagh locked up St. Stephen’s and they headed up the hill toward the rectory.
The town of Purgatory was near-perfect. At least, that’s what Father Nathan Roy believed. As they walked, he breathed in the sweet smell of the honeysuckle lining the street, a potent mix of honey and vanilla.
When he’d started here, his mother’s death had been fresh, only a few years in the past, and the calm and kindness the people of Purgatory had shown let him find his bearings in a turbulent time.
Nathan had been nursing a white-hot anger, a violent rage at the universe, and although it still reared up now and again, the parish and parishioners had helped him.
Since the bishop had assigned him to St. Stephen’s five years ago, he’d had no complaints about the beautiful town or its people.
Father McDonagh, on the other hand, could complain a lot. And would. Nathan couldn’t tell if he actually wanted to be a priest or not. He relied on Nathan to do most of the community outreach, as well as to preside over weekday Mass.
He was always there for a wedding or a funeral if someone wealthy was involved, though.
Nathan sent a quiet prayer toward the sky, asking Jesus for help in tempering his harsh judgement of the superior priest. The man was his supposed mentor, even if they disagreed much of the time.
Or not even disagreed, since Nathan feared what would happen if he voiced opposition to the pastor’s ideas. Father McDonagh sometimes threatened to get physical, a holdover from his rough Southie upbringing, though he’d never followed through.
Nathan had learned to keep his opinions to himself.
“Move it, Nate.” Father McDonagh, who’d gotten a few steps ahead, turned back with a sneer. “You’ll never get your own parish if you don’t stop being so lazy. I definitely won’t recommend your advancement to the bishop.”
Nathan swallowed and sped up. This was a test from God, and he was determined to endure it. Who was he to question God? He needed to prove his faith and his ability to overcome adversity. Once he had, God would allow him to lead.
Someday, someday soon, he would have his own parish. He could nurture his congregation in all the ways he saw fit, and build the community he’d always needed as a kid. A supportive, kind community. A monument to his mom.
Until then, he would keep his complaints to himself.
As they approached the rectory, Nathan pushed down the sense of dread the modest Cape Cod-style house elicited in him. It was as if every loose gutter or chipped plank of siding was an indictment. He hated being alone in the aging building with Father McDonagh.
Why was he stuck with a pastor so different from himself? Nathan was an academic. He loved to talk about art and theology. His supervising priest watched sports and was otherwise a walking storm cloud.
Nathan rushed ahead to unlock the door—adorned with a stark grapevine wreath—and rushed up the stairs in order to avoid having to interact with Father McDonagh any further.
“Nate!”
Nathan froze, turning to face back down the stairs where the stern priest glared up at him. The man’s complexion was ruddy, which was only exacerbated by his temper.
“Father McDonagh?”
“Next Saturday is confession. I don’t have any desire to listen to those idiots. You’ll do it.”
Nathan nodded. He didn’t mind performing the sacrament, although Father McDonagh wanting to give it up was a surprise. The man always enjoyed confession. He viewed it as serving as an instrument of God’s wrath.
Which made Nate crazy. It was called the sacrament of Reconciliation for a reason. Nathan enjoyed supporting his people as they worked out their guilt and shame to move forward and make better choices.
Rushing the rest of the way up the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor, Nathan shut the door and locked it. Then he let out a breath.
This was his sanctuary. The dingy floral wallpaper was almost invisible, as Nathan had covered the walls in art, and a well-used record player sat on a cabinet in the corner.
He didn’t have a television. He didn’t need one. Instead, he had books. Six tall bookcases lined the perimeter of the bedroom, filled with his babies.
He grabbed a tattered copy of an old fantasy book he’d loved as a teen. It was his escape, his way to forget about the parts of his vocation he chafed against.
Lying back in his double bed, he lost himself in a world of dragons and quests. He could deal with anything else tomorrow.
“Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession.”
The penitent’s voice was low and gravelly, and Nathan recognized it as Owen Hughes, the local mechanic. Despite his working-class gruffness, he was a good and kind man. Nathan doubted he had sinned all that much in the last couple of months.
“May the Lord be on your heart and your lips that you may make a good confession.”
A deep sigh came through the confessional screen. Few churches had anonymous booths with screens these days, but St. Stephen’s had been around for almost two hundred years, and the antique wooden stalls were works of art. Nathan could sense from Owen’s weary tone that he had something on his mind.
“I lied to my wife three times this month. I told her I was having a beer with a few of my buddies, and I did that, but I also went to poker games.”
Nathan shook his head, confused, even though Owen couldn’t see him. Why did the man sound so guilty?
“There’s nothing so terrible about a poker game at a friend’s house.”
“It wasn’t at a friend’s house, Father. It was in the new gaming hall. I lost a thousand dollars. It made things tight this month, and I lied about where the money went. I said I lent it to a buddy who was in trouble.”
There was an illegal poker hall in Purgatory? This was news to Nathan. A little card game was one thing. Organized gambling was something else entirely.
“Where is it?”
“Uh…” For a second, Nathan wasn’t sure the man would answer, but he must have decided, because after clearing his throat, he continued. “In the back room of Jim’s Garden Bar, right across the street.”
Hold on. There was an illegal gaming hall across the street from St. Stephen’s? That was unacceptable. Purgatory was a lovely place with lovely people. It didn’t deserve such a destructive element. And right by his church?!
“Do you have anything else to confess?”
As Owen rambled on, Nathan couldn’t help but ruminate on the poker games.
A few things had finally clicked into place.
Several parishioners had confessed to gambling and lying about it during confession today, and he’d chalked it up to coincidence.
He’d assumed they’d all been at the same home game.
This was different. He knew Tristan Ward, the proprietor of the bar. He’d known Tristan’s father, Jim.
Occasionally, Nathan would head over for a drink or two.
Recently it had been more than two, if he were honest with himself. Being under Father McDonagh’s thumb was getting to him, and he kept dreaming of his mom. Alcohol made him forget. Nathan still didn’t remember how he’d made it home the last time.
He only went to the bar once a week, though. No big deal.
And Tristan was a good guy. Why would he dip his toes into criminal enterprise?
Nathan wasn’t sure. But he was going to find out.