Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“I’ve remained faithful to my wife, Father. That is, up until recently.” Driscoll studied the priest’s face for any sign of condemnation. Finding none, he continued. “I’ve become friendly with a woman that I work with. Her name is Margaret. She’s a good woman who understands my circumstances. The thing is, I have feelings for her. Romantic feelings. The other night we had dinner together at her place. One thing led to another, and I found myself in her arms, kissing her. I haven’t kissed a woman in six years. I gotta tell ya Father, I liked it.”

“Were you raised Catholic, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. Catholic grammar school. Catholic high school. I even did a stint as an altar boy for four years. Back in those days, the Mass was in Latin.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Father, I guess I’m here for absolution. Absolution for a sin I’m yet to commit. Does that make sense?”

“And what sin is that?”

“Breaking my wedding vows. Cheating on my wife.”

“You’ve already made up your mind you’re going to pursue this relationship?”

“That’s where the guilt comes in. I realize that Colette is never coming back to life, life as we know it, but a voice inside me is demanding that I stay faithful to her, regardless of her physical condition.”

“You said before her doctors all agree that she will never regain consciousness. Right?”

“Right.”

“Aside from how you perceive the Catholic Church would look at your circumstances, what advice would your wife give you, if she could?”

“Colette was my best friend. I’m beginning to believe she would understand. Am I just looking to sidestep my vows here?”

“I think the answer to that question lies within you. You’ve got to live with yourself. But, let me say this. Jesus Christ, who walked this earth as a human being, chose twelve apostles, not one. And his love for each one of them was immeasurable.”

“Are you condoning a relationship with this other woman?”

“It wouldn’t mean you stopped loving your wife. It’s important you realize that.” McMahon leaned his small frame across the top of the desk and let his eyes fall level with Driscoll’s. “You said before Colette was your best friend.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, I’d say it’s time you had a conversation with your best friend.”

Driscoll approached the house. He felt like his knees were going to collapse. He steadied himself, and as he reached for the brass doorknob, he felt his stomach curdle. Like a schoolboy late for class, he guiltily turned the knob and stepped inside. The whirring sounds of his wife’s life-support system, which before had gone unnoticed, clamored in his ears.

“Are you OK, Lieutenant? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” It was Colette’s nurse, Lucinda.

Driscoll forced a smile. “I’ll live,” he said as his eyes fell upon Colette’s ashen face. “Would you excuse us, Lucinda? I need some time with my wife.”

“You got it,” the nurse replied, then quickly disappeared as the Lieutenant straddled a bedside chair.

Behind him, an orchestra of high-tech medical gadgetry played their monotonous and repetitive symphony. Before him lay his wife, his beautiful and loving wife. How could he love again? How could he run the risk? He often felt it was his doing, somehow, that brought about his wife’s fate. Punishment for some unconfessed dereliction, perhaps. Would he then imperil Margaret? Would she fall victim to his ill fortune?

Driscoll took hold of his wife’s hand. How lifeless her skin felt. Tears blossomed as he fingered the wedding band that encircled her finger. He opened the drawer to her night table and reached for the emollient Thomlinson had given him, then applied the lotion to her hands and arms, the same hands and arms that had held him lovingly through the years. In sickness and in health, a tiny voice sounded. He grimaced. What was he about to do? How could he trample on his wedding vows? He played back the message Father McMahon so reverently had given him. Christ had chosen twelve apostles, not one.

“I met someone,” he murmured as his heart pounded in his chest. “Her name is Margaret.” His admission was greeted with silence.

He leaned in and planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead while pushing away two strands of errant hair from her face. “I met her on the job. She and I are working together on a case. She’s a caring woman who would like to further our relationship.”

Driscoll stood up and walked over to the wall unit, which contained a small wine rack and an assortment of liquors. He poured himself two fingers of Tullamore Dew and returned to his wife’s bedside, slowly sipping the whiskey, hoping the spirits would give him the courage to tell her what he knew needed to be said. Hell, he’d bite the bullet. “She would like to further our relationship,” he said. “And so would I.”

Again his disclosure was greeted by silence. He had half expected his wife to sit upright and scold him, take him to task for such a selfish transgression. Driscoll had hoped, on some level, that the admission would bring her to consciousness, allow her to break free from the forceful grip that held her so unmercifully. Of course, it did not.

Driscoll leaned forward and held his head in his hand. He thought of the once-vibrant Colette, a wonderful and doting woman who would change heaven and earth for him.

An epiphany unfolded. It was a vision of Colette, his loving wife, who smiled and took hold of his hand. You poor soul, he heard her say. You poor troubled soul. It’s all right, my dear. I know you love me, and I know you always will. But, it’s time you moved on. Beyond my illness. Beyond your worries. It’s time for you, my darling, to live among the living.

He felt a rush, not unlike the surge of adrenaline he felt when he apprehended a criminal. Then a calmness settled over him. He had thought his guilt would cripple him, but it did not. Relief. That’s what he felt. He knew in his heart she understood.

The five-year-old boy stuck his head out the Maxima’s rear passenger-side window. “Whirr! Whirr!” he intoned, mimicking the sound of the emergency vehicle sirens that could be heard in the distance.

The boy’s mother veered the sedan off onto East Fifty-seventh Street. She’d have to travel four blocks to Mill Avenue to avoid the traffic jam, but the detour would be worth it.

A beep erupted, startling her. “What was that? Robbie, did you unfasten your seat belt?”

“No, Mom.”

The boy stuck his hand in the pocket of his jacket and produced a telephone pager.

“Where’d that come from?” his mother asked, craning her neck.

“I found it.”

“You found it? Where?”

“At the mall. In the store with the candy.”

“Sweet Delights?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But that was last week.”

The boy shrugged.

A phone number showed on the device. She used her cell phone to punch in the number.

“Hello?” It was a male voice.

“Hi! Did you just beep someone?”

“Ah! I see you found my pager. I’ve been trying the number for days.”

“Well, my son found it.”

“Thank God! Where are you?”

“On the Belt Parkway. Why don’t you give me your address? I’d be happy to drop it in the mail.”

“Are you near Exit 10? We could meet at The Lobster Trap. It’s a great new eatery on Emmons Avenue. I can retrieve the pager and thank you personally.”

“That’s the sweetest offer I’ve had in weeks. But I really can’t. I teach violin, and my class is giving a recital on Sunday. I’ll be tied up with practice tonight, tomorrow, and into Sunday morning. I’m on my way now to drop my son off at his grandmother’s.”