Tormented

Chapter One

San Francisco – April 1971

Tormented by thoughts no priest should ever have, Father Anthony rose from his nightly Bible reading and fastened the buttons on his cassock. Behind the dark and rain-streaked window of his ten-by-ten bedroom at the rectory, night closed in on him. He was lonelier than he’d ever been. Anthony prided himself on being a man of principles. But nothing in his world felt principled anymore. It was as if he, the one who knew from boyhood visions he was destined to be a priest, had switched lives with an ordinary man or, worse yet, a lovesick teenager.

It was 8:30 p.m. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet her so late. Or, God help him, maybe he did know. There was still time to cancel. He could tell her to come during the day on Wednesday after the regular confessional hours. He hurried down the hallway to his office.

When he flipped on the overhead light, he found her sitting in front of his desk, her head resting in her hands. Dozens of frantic moths flapped their wings inside his chest. He took a step back. He always left the rectory door unlocked when he expected a parishioner to visit. But how long had she been here, and why hadn’t he sensed her presence?

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, and bluer than any eyes he’d ever seen. I know I’m early, but it’s urgent. I can’t go another night without…

He looked away. Seeing her sitting in his office was terrifying and marvelous at the same time. He glanced back again. Her bottom lip was full; the top one thinner, but shaped like a perfect Cupid’s bow. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her. She wore black slacks and a blue silk blouse that gave her eyes a deep sapphire color like Crater Lake in the sunlight. He wanted to dive into them and never resurface.

Mrs. Wittier, he said, unable to form any other words. Even as a boy, he’d been afraid of loving a woman, afraid of the wildness it might release in him.

Please, call me Rita. She stared straight at him and her eyes caught a spark of light from the ceiling lamp. I have to confess tonight, before something awful happens to my daughter.

The fear in her voice unsettled him. I’m really sorry, he said. But we hold confessions on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. The sacraments are scheduled by the parish. He was tempted to add, not by the whims of parishioners, but couldn’t make himself say those harsh words to Rita. She’d attended Mass at St. Catherine’s for nearly two years, but this was the first time she had asked for confession. How could he deny her so sincere a request?

Her face darkened. This can’t wait, Father. God is going to punish me by hurting my daughter. Connie is only a little girl. What I did wasn’t her fault.

He pulled a chair in front her and sat, their knees nearly touching. God doesn’t punish children for their parents’ shortcomings.

"Losing Connie would be my punishment, not my daughter’s, she said. Please, you have to help me. God is already tormenting me with nightmares."

Have you considered talking with a psychiatrist? He knew psychiatrists could be helpful. His social worker took him to see one as a teenager when his divine visions first called him to the priesthood.

She shook her head. This is between me and God.

What was he thinking? Rita was his parishioner. She was suffering and needed her priest. But he had to obey the tenth commandment that he not covet his neighbor’s wife. He had to keep his vow to the church and to God. He would do what Hebrews 12:1 directed. He heard Father Timothy O’Brien’s voice, the voice of his childhood priest—the one voice he trusted above all others: Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus.

He was a priest. The race marked out for him was clearly defined. And he must finish it. Follow me, he said. I’m going to make an exception.

She smiled.

He led her down the rectory hallway, then pushed open the door into the nave. Tiers of vigil lights near the altar flickered. His breathing grew more regular. This was God’s house.

They moved silently through the thick, sweet perfume of ancient devotionals, of candle wax and incense—the smell of death and baptism. He stopped in front of an old and elaborately carved confessional. They entered through separate doors.

He sat on the narrow wooden bench, then flipped on the dim light. The mahogany wood gave off a soft and reddish glow. After removing the white stole from a peg on the wall, he kissed it and smoothed it around his neck. He drew the door back covering the grill that separated him from Rita, made the sign of the cross, gave her a blessing and then read a verse of scripture.

She knelt, made the sign of the cross, and began with no prompting. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I confess to you and Almighty God the Father that I have fallen far short of His grace.

Through the smell of old wood and dust, the scent of her perfume found him. Keenly aware of her presence, so close he could almost reach out and touch her, he leaned forward so he could see her face. Her eyes met his for a moment in which he saw the pain and fear inside them. How long since your last confession?

It doesn’t matter.

Everything matters, he said.

Too long to remember.

He nodded, understanding now why she never participated in the sacrament of Holy Communion. Approximately how long?

More than twenty years, Father. But I’m here now. And I accuse myself of killing my younger sister.

Instinctively, he reached up and touched the thick gold cross he always wore around his neck. Are you…are you…saying that you deliberately took your sister’s life?

Yes.

He said nothing, thought about his options. He should advise her to go to the police. But the last thing he wanted was for Rita to be arrested and sent to prison. He was bound by God’s law not to break the seal of the confessional. His only concern must be for the penitent’s soul. He would give her absolution and penance without offering advice.

Still, he had to know what she planned to do. Have you spoken to the police?

Yes, she said. Right after it happened. They concluded it was an accident.

His shoulders relaxed. And why can’t you accept that?

Because it isn’t true. And God knows it. That’s why He keeps giving me the same nightmare. My sister’s dead face turns into the face of my nine-year-old daughter.

God doesn’t cause our nightmares. And the police are pretty good at what they do.

I pushed her on purpose. Rita explained. I was five years old and, babysitting for my younger sister, Hannah. She was only two.

That’s awfully young to be put in charge of a two-year-old, he said.

Not where I grew up, in the backwoods of Hollow, West Virginia. It’s a small coal mining town. And lots of kids took care of their younger siblings. My family, like many others, didn’t have indoor plumbing, and I was always fascinated by the cistern. I opened up both sides of the cover that day and was lying on my stomach, staring at the mystery of my own reflection in the deep water when Hannah toddled over.

You were a child. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. You can’t hold yourself responsible.

I was jealous of Hannah. It was like my brother Gordy and I didn’t exist after she came along. And now God is going to take Connie away from me. In the soft light, he could see she held an unusual rosary. I strung the beads from her baby bracelet, then I made it longer and added the octagon-shaped medallion with the raised H. You see, I wanted to have something that had touched her skin.

He swallowed; such a sweet and beautiful thing for a child to do. God knows what really happened and He can forgive anything as long as the sinner is truly sorry.

Of course I’m sorry. There was a deep sadness in her voice.

Making the rosary had been an act of contrition. He prompted her with the usual questions and she confessed other, more common, sins. And when they finished, he assigned ten Hail Marys and a nightly prayer for Hannah’s soul.

I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Again, he made the sign of the cross.

Thanks be to God, she said, then broke down and sobbed.

He kissed the white stole and rehung it on the peg.

After exiting the confessional, he slipped open the door to the penitent side and handed her a tissue. He stood near the altar, waiting for her to regain composure. The wedding roses from the nuptial Mass he’d performed the previous Saturday were fully open. He caressed one of the petals between his thumb and forefinger. When his thoughts turned to Rita’s flesh, he jerked his hand away. The peach-colored petal loosened and drifted to the floor.

A moment later, Rita stumbled out of the confessional, looking so small and empty he wanted to wrap his arms around her and fill her with everything good that had ever lived inside him. If only he could swing open the front door to his childhood home and lead her into the clutter and chaos of his big, Italian family, into the sweet, spicy smells bubbling in the iron saucepot that always simmered on the back burner. The life he’d lived until he was eight years old and everything good ended.

She placed her hand on his arm.

The thrill of her touch passed through his body like a powerful current.

Would you mind walking me out to my car? I have a small thank-you gift.

As he stared at her pale hand on his dark sleeve, a contentedness came over him. He walked her to her car, careful to keep his arms at his sides. Surely, she felt the same things he did. The rain had stopped, but pools of water gathered in low spots in the walkway.

She stood under one of the streetlights at the edge of the church parking lot and reached out her right hand. He could smell the apple-scent of her shampoo.

Thank you, Father. I know you broke the rules for me. I’m so lucky you’re my priest.

It was one of the most intimate things anyone had ever said to him. He shook her hand, finding it warm and soft. Should he tell her it wasn’t luck, that God had a plan for them? He was filled with words he couldn’t speak.

She looked down, and then looked up at him through thick lashes. A reflection, he thought, of something deeper, something unrelated to his being a priest, but somehow related to his being a man. And God forgive him, he wanted to know about that something.

He opened the door to her gray, Volvo station wagon, a protective mother’s car, and waited while she slipped inside. She handed him a wrapped package that looked like a book. Are you familiar with the Persian poet, Rumi?

I’ve heard the name, he said. But I’ve never read his work.

I hope you like him. He was a thirteenth century theologian and mystic. He believed in music, poetry and dance as pathways to God. She buckled her seatbelt, then looked up at him. Some say his poems connect us more deeply with our souls. Rita turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over and hummed to life.

May God bless and keep you safe, he said.

After a quick wave, she backed out of the parking place and drove away.

He stood watching as her car turned out onto the street. When he could no longer see her taillights, he raced up the front steps of the church and down the center aisle of the sanctuary.

Though it brought him shame, he no longer found God in the faces of his parishioners or in the stark whiteness of the hospital rooms where he ministered to the sick and dying. He now felt a divine presence only in the Contemplative Garden. Or late at night when the sanctuary at St. Catherine’s was empty and all the voices silent. The time when he could concentrate on nothing except his thoughts of Rita Wittier. Those were the two places where he could still find God.

He shook his head hard. His eyes started to well up. Jesus bore the weight of everyone’s sins. Surely he could bear the burden of the love he felt for Rita. He waited for his heartbeat to settle, then returned to the penitent’s side of the confessional. Rita’s homemade rosary lay on the floor beside the narrow wooden bench. He picked it up and kissed the tiny letters that spelled out the name, Hannah Marie, then carefully slipped the rosary into his pocket.

In order to enjoy the lingering scent of Rita’s perfume—lavender, rosemary and a hint of orange blossom—he remained in the confessional for another twenty minutes. He slowed down his breathing, deliberately inhaling every cubic inch of air. And when he could smell her no longer, he returned to his room, sat on his bed and unwrapped his gift. He opened the Rumi book to a random page and read.

It was as if he had slipped out of one skin and into another. Just for a moment, he was both a stranger to himself and yet more himself than ever before. Something that felt a lot like joy rose inside him. He placed the book face down on his bed, but Rumi’s words still echoed inside him. There are lovers content with longing. I am not one of them.

Anthony knew for certain now. He was not one of them either.

* * *

The following morning, at Nordstrom’s perfume counter in Union Square, Anthony sniffed tester bottles until he found the one that smelled like lavender, rosemary and orange blossoms. Oscar de la Renta. He bought a tiny, but expensive bottle and kept it hidden in his bedside table beside her rosary.

That night, and every night thereafter, in the privacy of his room, he opened the bottle and smelled her perfume. It was as enticing as if she were there beside him. He read Rumi’s love poems, touched himself, and imagined what it would feel like to make love with Rita Wittier. Once that thought entered his mind, he couldn’t dismiss it. The idea flew around and around in his head, like a frantic bird that couldn’t find the opening that had allowed it inside. He slept with her rosary under his pillow.

Satan whispered. Take her away. Give up everything. Now. But Anthony knew it was the one voice he should never obey.

What he felt for Rita was extraordinary and wouldn’t happen again in his life. But the price for acting on it was a mortal sin. He thought about Jesus carrying the cross, felt real pain at the thought of his Lord, stumbling beneath the heavy weight.

Three months passed. He understood he needed help. And there was only one man he believed could give him what he needed. He had to return to Delaware and confess to his childhood priest who loved him like a son. If anyone could save Anthony now, it would be Father Timothy O’Brien.

Chapter Two

The tires hummed a broken melody as Anthony drove the rented Camaro through the narrow, cobblestone streets of New Castle, Delaware. He’d never driven a muscle car before and wanted to try one, just once, before he made the most important decision of his life. Anthony hoped it would distract him, lighten his mood, and help him face the hometown to which he swore he’d never return—a place riddled with both bad and good memories.

Or did renting the Camaro mean he’d already decided to leave the church? Was he practicing for his life as an ordinary man in pursuit of a beautiful woman? No, it wasn’t that. Rita wouldn’t be impressed by a red Camaro. She drove a Volvo station wagon; a safe, child-friendly car. In some essential way, Anthony was in between lives—lost in a purgatory where his thoughts turned more often to Rita than to God.

But maybe he was right in his impulse to return. Maybe it was still possible to rediscover the great priest he’d intended to become. No half-starved dog ever hungered for rabbit more than he’d once lusted for greatness in the eyes of the Almighty. He wanted to be like the young Jesus who astounded the scholars in the temple. And for most of his life he got everything he needed from God.

But that was before Rita Wittier.

He pushed his doubt aside and tried to prepare himself by emptying his heart of everything that wasn’t God, but found it was like trying to empty the midnight sky. Where would he put the moon and stars? Where would he put Rita?

A half hour early for confession, he parked on the Strand in front of the spot on the grassy banks of the Delaware River where his old, three-bedroom house still stood. He gazed across the small yard that sloped down to the water. The front façade was the same as he remembered, but much of the inside had been rebuilt after the fire that killed his parents and three sisters. He’d been eight years old and at a sleepover with his friend, Eric, when the fire broke out and everything good about Anthony’s charmed life ended.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories of his foster father who’d died ten years ago. But in Anthony’s memory that awful man still existed with a ferocity that could send his voice whistling through Anthony’s bones and lift him off the ground.

Anthony shifted his gaze to the house next door where he remembered standing on the front stoop on hot summer afternoons while Mrs. Willingham gave him grape popsicles made from frozen Kool-Aid.

Every May, during the fundraiser A Day in Old New Castle, tourists and locals paid to walk through the renovated Colonial row houses that their new owners had once considered slums. The idea of the tours seemed shameful to him, all those strangers parading through his house. Did they disturb the ghosts of his parents and sisters? Or worse yet, discover pieces of his good self still lurking there?

He got out of his car, left it parked on the Strand, and began to walk. After a few moments, Anthony wiped his forehead with his black shirtsleeve. He’d forgotten how humid July in Delaware could be, and a bead of perspiration dropped behind his clerical collar to remind him. As he walked the three blocks he’d walked so many times before, the wind spiked with the scent of his childhood, as if the ground beneath his feet remembered him. The rhythm and pace of his life there had consoled him through his terrible grief, the profound anguish he felt at being alive when his family was dead.

Unable to dwell for long on his lost family or the years that followed, he thought about the first time he sat in the confessional at St. Vincent's Church and knew he wanted to be a priest. He loved the sacred feeling so much he made up sins, just to learn how Father Timothy reacted to them. At ten, he was a regular in the confessional, sometimes making three or four trips in one afternoon. He laughed out loud at the memory. Time had lost all meaning. He was in the past, the present, and the future with Rita, all at the same moment.

More than anything, he wanted his old priest to be proud of him. But he also wanted him to understand that what he felt for Rita was real. The reason he left the car parked on the Strand wasn’t because he needed the exercise, it was because he didn’t want Father Timothy to see the Camaro and think Anthony had lost his mind. A laugh bubbled up inside of him. Maybe he had. A priest falling in love with his parishioner was insane.

As he crossed the playground in Battery Park, walking the same pathway he had as a child, sunlight swirled in the dust kicked up by his shoes. Detailed memories of his life on the edge of this park kept rising to the surface until they hurt, like splinters, throbbing and painful to remove. The awful weight of memory.

A boy about ten, wearing a pair of knee-patched jeans and a blue Dodgers baseball cap, leapt from the swing and landed a few feet in front of Anthony.

Anthony blinked and jumped back. How are you this fine morning?

The boy made no sign he heard, pivoted and raced toward the tennis courts. Dry leaves crunched beneath his high-top sneakers and released a scent that collapsed years until Anthony was a boy again, disappearing into a clump of maple trees to hide from his foster father.

Unable to catch his breath, Anthony sat on a park bench, stared out at the river, and then closed his eyes.

A few moments later he hurried toward St. Vincent’s, took the brick steps two at a time, his head pitched forward, his heart beating so hard he could almost believe Satan pounded up the stairs behind him.

He pushed open the carved doors into the sanctuary, into the familiar scent of cedar incense and sadness. Four rows of votive candles, lit for the dead, flickered on either side of the altar. A shadow of grief fell over him for his lost family and for all the immeasurable frailness in the world. He drew in a breath and waited for the ache in his heart to subside. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. Nothing about the old church had changed.

After genuflecting, he sat in the back pew. He could see his three sisters lined up in pastel Easter dresses, white straw bonnets tied with matching ribbons under their chins. He remembered the pride on his parents’ faces as they ushered him, their only boy, into the pew beside his sisters. Light from a stained-glass window painted the backs of his hands with colors. As an altar boy he’d washed that window, which portrayed Jesus as the shepherd guarding his flock.

Anthony was amazed by the way he’d stretched his roots across an entire continent, only to discover how firmly they remained tethered to the place where he began. Here in his childhood church where he had his first vision of the Blessed Mother, the place he’d found God, a recommitment to the priesthood seemed like a possible miracle.

The sun slipped behind a cloud, and the rainbow on the backs of his hands disappeared. Again, his hope threatened to turn to doubt almost as quickly as it found him. Kneeling, he gave the sign of the cross, then checked his watch. It was time. He glanced toward the confessional. Behind the closed curtain lay a silence he knew was Father Timothy.

Anthony crossed himself again, then stood and walked to the front of the church. He opened the heavy, blue velvet curtain and settled himself inside. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—

I know, I know. It’s been twenty minutes since your last confession. Richard Anthony Canaan, I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Father Timothy’s own voice held the reassuring, Irish sound, fertile with the promise of absolution. How are you keepin’?

Through the darkened screen that separated them, Anthony peeked at his old priest. He was a round, red-faced man in his early sixties, with thick curly hair that had turned as gray as his bushy eyebrows. Those eyebrows made his face look fierce. A priest ready to defend all threats to his parishioners’ souls.

So, tell me lad, have they closed all the confessionals in San Francisco?

It’s hard to talk about this to just anyone. His words echoed as if they had come from a faraway place. How odd, when they were right there, in the air in front of him. And even with you, I’m not sure how to begin.

Father Timothy slid the screen aside.

Maybe it will help if you imagine you’re ten again.

An old understanding passed between them, and held.

I never meant to fall in love with a woman, he whispered, knowing he couldn’t backpedal now. And I never thought I’d want to give up the priesthood to be with her.

The old priest laughed and slapped his knee. When I asked you to imagine you were ten again, I didn’t mean for you to make up the sins.

I’m not making this up, Father. And I really need your help.

Father Timothy took a loud breath, as if to center himself. Have you acted upon these feelin’s?

I haven’t told her. I pray constantly for strength, but I can’t think about anything or anyone else. I remember the exact moment I saw her at St. Catherine’s. She sat in the fourth pew, left side, three in from the center aisle. The shock of recognition leapt through my body. It was like I was lost in another country and found someone who spoke my language. It was all I could do to remain in the pulpit and not rush toward the sweet and familiar sound of home. Why was he talking so much about Rita? He came here to confess, to receive absolution, not to convince Father Timothy his love for Rita was genuine.

Aye, Father Timothy said. Now I understand. Don’t be so hard on yourself, lad. We’re men as well as priests. His fat little hands flapped. There are few of us who haven’t faced this test with a beautiful lass. Celibacy isn’t meant to be easy.

On the sill between them, a fly abruptly came to life, spun around on its back and buzzed loudly for a moment, then hushed.

The temptation to remain silent, to let the old priest believe Rita was an ordinary test, swelled until it breathed down the back of Anthony’s neck. The air seemed to thicken around him and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He had to tell him everything. There’s more, he said quickly. He told the priest about finding her rosary and the way he kept it in his bedside table, the bottle of her perfume he bought. I touch myself because I want to touch her. No, I want to do more than touch. I want to make love with her. I want to hold her in my arms and sleep with her every night. And even though I know divorce is a sin, I want her to leave her husband. I have so many impure thoughts.

You just can’t stop talkin’ about her, can you, lad?

Anthony hung his head. I’m sorry, Father.

I understand far better than you realize.

What was he saying? Had Father Timothy once loved a woman? Are you saying you understand because you’ve experienced what I’m going through now?

Yes, he said. Forty years ago, I fell in love with one of our parishioners. We had an affair for two years. It resulted in a pregnancy.

It was a hard punch to Anthony’s stomach. Why didn’t you leave the church to be with her and your child?

It’s complicated, Father Timothy said. She was married and had other children. I had me obligations to the church and its parishioners.

It was as if a pebble got stuck in Anthony’s throat. He tried to clear it. How did you…how did you manage to go on? He coughed again. Did you see her in church? Did you baptize your own child?

For a moment, the old priest was silent. "It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.