“I didn’t say that. But you’re leading this expedition.” Al thought about Jake and the slim chance that someone was after his newest friend. “Let me give you my number,” Al said, looking for a pen. “If you see anything strange, duck first, then give me a call and leave a message.”
“And in the meantime?”
“What?” Al asked.
“What’s our plan?”
“Jesus, Jake. Life doesn’t just map itself out for you. Talk to your father again. See if he can’t straighten it out. Tell him you know he is lying and force him to give you some evidence that will rest your soul. Tell him you know the girl is still on Saipan. Rattle his cage a little. Write your letter to whomever.”
“So that’s it?”
“For now, that’s it. Feel free to come back anytime to visit. I’m usually around the Mall somewhere.”
Chapter 21
Jake rang the doorbell to the rectory on the side of the church. He waited and hit the buzzer again before walking back down the narrow walkway to the front entrance. He pulled open the oversized doors and light poured into the dark vestibule, reflecting off the top of the newly shined pew backs. He dipped his middle finger into the holy water and kneeled briefly while crossing himself in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
A lone parishioner sat in the sea of pews, head down, heavy into prayer, trying to vanquish years of natural Catholic guilt. It was the first time Jake had been back to the church since his mother’s funeral. He had been to Mass with Kate twice in the last month, both times at St. Nicholas in upper Northwest D.C. The nice part of town. But Jake wasn’t coming to pray. He walked down the aisle to the front of the altar, knelt one more time, and took a left.
Jake knew the church as well as anyone, save for Father McKenna and Sister Ann, the padre he had known since birth and the nun whose age could be measured in the wrinkles of her face. Jake knew the smell of the candles, the sound of the organ. He could identify the squeaky back pew with his eyes closed. Baptism, first communion, confirmation, four weddings, his mother’s funeral and three years as an altar boy. The church had long since lost the power of the silent spell it cast on most parishioners who showed up for an hour a week of spiritual due diligence.
Father McKenna was in the back room, straightening the small locker that held his collar when he slept. Jake knocked lightly on the open door, and Father McKenna turned toward his guest, arms open wide.
“How are you, Jake? I haven’t seen you since the service.”
“Yeah, I know Father, my apologies.”
“Don’t apologize to me… unless my sermons are the reason you stopped coming to Mass.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“How are you, son? How is your family?”
“I’m doing okay. I moved a few weeks ago.”
“I heard your mother’s house sold.”
Jake forgot how plugged-in the priest was to the local community. As a priest, Father McKenna knew about the births, the marriages, the deaths. He heard the dirt, the secrets, things he wished he didn’t know, and everything in between.
“Yeah, the house sold without a hitch. I’m renting an apartment in Cleveland Park.”
“Fabulous. Nice area. You know there is a church five blocks from the subway stop.”
“Yes, I know,” Jake said dipping his head in temporary shame. “And I have a new girlfriend.”
“How’s that going?”
“Great girl. Overbearing parents.”
“More often than not, one goes with the other.”
“Working at my father’s office for the summer.”
“Work is good.”
“It’s nice to be employed. Trying to get to know my father a little.”
“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.”