His mother bent down and hugged him fiercely. “Oh, Denny, I miss them.”
“Me too,” whispered Denny, forgetting all about Father McCarthy being parked in the driveway of Paul Greymore’s house.
Father McCarthy drove slowly down the hill, shocked by what had just happened. McCarthy had filled in for Father Krieger frequently before being permanently assigned to Haven. He remembered the O’Brien family well and the tragedy that had befallen them. He was aware that Janice O’Brien had given up her faith since the accident, but the sheer hatred she had displayed had affected him deeply. The priest pulled the car into the driveway of the Greymore house and left the engine running as he stepped out. Paul got up from the front steps and walked toward him. “Are you alright, Father? You look upset.”
“Fine, fine,” the priest answered. “Let’s get going, shall we?”
They drove in silence until they reached the small cottage that served as the rectory where McCarthy lived. They stepped inside and Paul took in more details of the house than he could the night before. They stood in a large living area furnished with only a couch, a recliner and a reading lamp. The walls all around the room were lined with bookshelves, crammed with volumes of all sizes. The priest’s bedroom was off to the left, a small kitchen and bath were in the back of the house, and the guest room where Paul slept was off to the right. Paul had gone straight to his room last night, and this morning they had left the house right after breakfast. For the first time, Paul glanced at some of the titles on the closest bookshelf and was surprised to see titles ranging from the expected religious works to mystery and suspense novels. One entire shelf was filled with books on such diverse subjects as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster to works on voodoo and witchcraft.
“Quite a collection, Father.”
“Reading is my hobby. I’m afraid I have a weakness for mysteries of all sorts. I often think if I didn’t become a priest I would have either been a detective or off searching the Himalayas for the Abominable Snowman.”
Paul smiled at the old man, “I can’t thank you enough…” The old man waved his hands to silence him.
“I won’t hear it again, Paul. I wish I could offer more comfortable lodgings…” This time it was Paul stopping the old man in mid-sentence.
“Don’t forget, Father, my previous host.” He said with a grin. The old man hinted a smile but his face remained somber.
“What happened with that boy, Father? It’s really bothering you.”
The priest shook his head slowly; he seemed to have aged years in just the last few hours. “His name is Dennis O’Brien. He and his mother live just up the hill from your house.”
Paul thought about the Hillview Street he knew, from before. “The only houses up there were the Lovells’ and the Blaakman’s, I thought.”
“That’s right, Paul, Dennis’ mother Janice is Moses’ daughter. O’Brien is her married name. Up until three years ago, the O’Brien family were very active members of the church. James O’Brien, Denny’s father, worked at the Converse factory in Malden. Denny’s older brother, James Jr., was a gifted student and a great athlete. He played varsity football as a freshman, filling in for the injured quarterback late in the year. James Sr. had gotten him on at the factory for the summer, plans of college and tuition already on his mind. He was to train Jimmy on the machinery on weekends before Jimmy could start full-time.” The old man paused, running his hands through his generous head of white hair.
“On one of those Sundays, the two left the house. They stopped at Teddy’s for coffee and donuts, and then headed for the factory. At the next intersection they were broad-sided by a speeding car that ran the stop sign. O’Brien’s car skidded off the road and rolled down a steep embankment. James Jr. was killed instantly, his neck broken. James Sr. sustained severe head injuries and died three days later, never regaining consciousness.
“The driver of the other car was thrown from his vehicle and ended up with some cuts and bruises and a broken arm. That driver was Father Jason Krieger. He was running late for Mass, copying Bible verses while he was driving to use in his sermon that morning. He had also been sampling the stock of the wine closet all night with another priest. He was convicted of reckless driving and manslaughter, given a suspended sentence, and was never seen by the people of Haven again. Not long after, he committed suicide in the confessional of a New Hampshire church.” The old priest sighed deeply, obviously pained by the story.
“Ironically, that’s how I ended up here, to replace Father Krieger. Dennis’ mother never really got over the accident. She chose to vent her grief by rejecting the Lord and blaming anyone involved with the church for the deaths.”
Paul watched the man as he spoke, wishing he had the right words to say to the priest. Instead he remained silent.
“I’m going to read for a while before turning in. We can take in the rest of Haven tomorrow. Goodnight, Paul. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Goodnight, Father.” Paul watched the man move slowly into his bedroom, wanting to stop him and tell him about the memory he had at the lake. But the old man was so deeply troubled by the boy and his mother that Paul didn’t want to burden him. He went into his own bedroom and flopped onto the small bed. He inadvertently ran his fingers across the grooved scars that mapped his face while he considered his chilling recollection earlier in the evening. What did I think I killed? Was it some kind of animal? Seconds later he was sound asleep, while the old priest read well into the night.
(10)
Denny sat next to his mother on the couch, his eyes on the television but his mind far away. He couldn’t concentrate on the mindless sit-com with its canned laughter and meaningless conversation. His mother had settled down quickly during dinner, saying nothing more about the accident or Father McCarthy, not saying anything at alclass="underline" they had eaten in silence. Denny wanted to talk to his mother, talk about how he felt about the church, which was not at all how she felt. Denny missed the weekly Mass he had grown up with. He was unlike most kids his age who were forced to attend church every Sunday: he had actually enjoyed it. Church always had a strange calming effect on Denny and he deeply missed that. Several times he had tried to spark conversation but he was beginning to think he missed an opportunity to really open it up in the driveway after Father McCarthy drove away. He mustered up his nerve and tried again.
“Mom, do you remember that time in church when me and Jimmy were fighting over a candy bar?” He watched his mother’s eyes for a sign. Her face seemed to soften at the memory. “It was a Hershey bar. I tried to grab it from him and knocked it out of his hand onto the seat in front of us. Before we could grab it, Mrs. Benson sat down right on it. It was so hot in there that day. When she stood up…” he suddenly started giggling at the memory, hoping it would be contagious. His mother remained motionless, staring at the television. “When she stood up the chocolate was melted all over the back of her dress just like she…” his laughter was out of control and he struggled to finish. “She… she looked like she had… had an accident…” he was doubled over now but his eyes never left his mother. Her face lit up and a smile cracked the corners of her mouth, then it was gone.
Denny stopped laughing, “Mom, you remember that, don’t you?” For a moment Denny didn’t think she was even going to answer.
“Of course I remember, Denny.” And that was all she said.
“Mom, I really used to love Sundays. Dad would get up early and cook us all pancakes or French toast, and then we’d all go to church together.” His mother remained silent. Denny waited as the seconds stretched into minutes and knew this time she wasn’t going to answer. He decided to go for it. “Don’t you miss those times, Mom? Because you and I could go…” Denny felt sick to his stomach, felt tears welling in his eyes. She was gone. “Mom, I miss them but I miss you, too. The way you were before…” She remained silent. Giant tears rolled down his face. “…when you were my mother,” he choked out.