William Krueger: Blood Hollow

“You believed in Solemn when no one else would.”

“That was for Sam.”

“In the end, it was for Solemn.” She laid her head back against his shoulder. “And you believed in us, even when everything seemed hopeless. What do you think faith is, Cork? I think it’s believing in what you care about even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I care about Father Mal. I want to believe in him.”

“You still have to ask questions, especially the hard ones.”

She stepped away from the door. “What about Mal? Tonight?”

“I’ll take him back to the rectory.”

“I suppose that’s best. Let’s not say anything about this to Rose. Not yet.”

“All right.”

She put her hands gently against Cork’s chest, as if to feel his heart. “I know we have to be thorough and ask the hard questions, but I hope neither of us ever stops believing that the answers can be good.”

They found Rose sitting in the rocker, which she’d pulled nearer to the bed where the priest slept. The lamp in the corner was on low, and a soft light spread across the room. Mal looked peaceful.

“How is he?” Jo said.

“He hasn’t stirred.”

“I need to wake him up,” Cork said. “Take him home.”

Rose looked as if she were about to object, then nodded her agreement. “It’s probably best.”

Cork leaned over Mal, caught the smell of sweet bourbon coming off his skin. “Mal,” he said. Then louder, “Mal, wake up.” He shook the priest’s shoulder.

The man’s eyes flickered open and his pupils swam a moment before finding solid ground on Cork’s face. “Huh?”

“I’m taking you home, Mal. Back to the rectory.”

The priest considered this, and while he thought, his eyes began to drift closed.

“Come on, Mal.” Cork slid his arm under the priest’s shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position.

“Oh, Jesus,” Mal mumbled.

“Let me help,” Rose said.

They swung his feet off the bed and together helped him up.

“I don’t feel good,” Mal said, swaying.

“Hold on to us.” Rose positioned herself to one side; Cork took the other. Between them they managed to get him downstairs and out the door.

“My car,” Mal said as he slumped onto the passenger side of the Bronco’s front seat.

“We’ll take care of that tomorrow,” Cork said.

For a brief moment Mal worked on focusing, and he put out his hands to cup Rose’s face through the open window. “I didn’t want…,” he began, but seemed to lose the thought. “I’m sorry.”

“Go home, get some rest, and we’ll talk,” she replied.

Cork backed down the drive, his headlights holding on Rose and Jo, stark and worried in the glare. No sooner did the Bronco hit the street than Mal leaned out the window and threw up.

“Sorry,” he managed as he settled back. He closed his eyes and within a minute was breathing heavily.

Cork had wanted to question him, but that was plainly hopeless. He settled on getting him to the rectory and, with the help of Ellie Gruber, into his room and to bed.

As he headed back to Gooseberry Lane, he considered what Jo had said about believing in the people you cared about even when it appeared crazy to do so. Jo believed in Mal. Rose believed in Mal. So why didn’t he?

Next morning, Cork woke to a gentle knocking at the bedroom door.

“Dad? Mom?”

“What is it, Jenny?”

“Can I talk to you guys?”

“Just a minute.” Cork looked at the bedside clock. 7:30 A.M. He’d overslept, but not by much.

Jo stirred. “What is it?”

“Jenny wants to talk to us.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“Oh, my.” She was awake. “I have to get ready for work.”

“Come on in, Jen,” Cork called.

Jenny stepped in. She was still in her sleepwear, a long Goo-Goo Dolls T-shirt that reached to her thighs. She stayed at the door.

“What is it?” Cork said.

“It’s Aunt Rose. She’s in the kitchen, crying.”

“Rose?” Jo sat up.

“She won’t talk to me,” Jenny said. “She just cries.”

“I’ll be right there.” Jo threw off the covers.

Downstairs, Stevie lay on the floor in front of the television, watching Nickelodeon.

In the kitchen, Rose sat alone. On the table in front of her was a cup of coffee and an envelope. In her hand, she held a piece of light blue stationery. She was sobbing quietly.

“Rose?” Jo knelt beside her.

“He’s gone.”

“Mal?”

“I heard his car this morning. When I looked out my window, he was driving away. I came downstairs and found this taped to the back door.” She picked up the envelope from the table. Her name had been written on the front. “He left a note.” She looked down at the stationery in her hand.

“Rose, would it be all right if I read the note? And Cork?”

Rose hesitated. “Please,” Cork said. “It’s important.”

Rose handed it to her sister. Over Jo’s shoulder, Cork read Mal Thorne’s handwriting.

Dear Rose,

Forgive me. I looked to you wrongly for a redemption that was not yours to give. This burden I carry, this gluttony for sin, is mine alone. I don’t know if I’ve abandoned God, or God has abandoned me, or if we’re mutually disgusted and have simply turned our backs on one another. I do know that I feel lost and need to find my way again. I’m afraid it may be a very long road ahead. But I will always treasure the lasting memory of the one true beauty I have known in my life, the one perfect thing. A flower called Rose.

With the greatest affection,

Mal

“Gluttony for sin?” Cork said, his voice rock hard.

“What is it?” Rose said.

“It’s nothing. Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry.” Jo put her arms around her sister.

“He’s leaving Aurora,” Rose said. “He’s talked about it, now he’s going to do it.”

“Leaving for where?” Cork said.

“I don’t know. That’s never been clear.”

“I’m getting dressed.” Cork started out of the kitchen.

He hadn’t gone far when Jo grabbed his arm.

“I need to get some answers,” he told her. “Before the chance is gone. You know I do.”

He could see the struggle reflected in her face. Finally she released her grip.

The morning outside was deathly still, but high up, an unseen wind pushed scattered clouds relentlessly across the hard blue sky. The sun intermittently splattered the Bronco’s windshield with blinding light, and Cork squinted to see his way. There seemed to be a restlessness in the atmosphere, but he chalked it up to his own unsettled mind.

He was surprised to see the Nova still in the drive at the rectory. He jumped from the Bronco as a huge cloud swept across the sun, and he waded through deep, blue shadow toward the rectory door. Ellie Gruber answered his pounding.

“I need to see Mal,” Cork said.

Ellie wrung her hands and didn’t answer.

“I know he’s here, Ellie.”

“He’s in a state, Cork. I don’t know.” She looked behind her in a frightened way.

Cork put his hands firmly on her shoulders and urged her aside. “It’ll be all right, Ellie.”

He entered without her uttering an objection.

The door to Mal Thorne’s bedroom was open, and Cork found him packing. A big suitcase lay open on the bed, and beside it a pile of clothing. The priest stood carelessly folding a pair of pants.

“Leaving Mal?”

The priest looked up, startled. “Cork?”

“Taking off without saying good-bye?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not sure.” Mal went to the dresser and opened a drawer.

“Leaving the parish high and dry, aren’t you?”