Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“You believe.”

“Of course.” He looks at the statue, his back making a tiny hunch. “When was your last confession?” It sounds odd, coming from him.

“Are you a janitor?”

“Are you?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I’m a priest! Ha!” He cackles happily, banging his broom on the ground. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

I laugh. “That’s not fair, Father.”

“No, it isn’t, is it? I’m undercover, like inMiami Vice.” His eyes smile with delight.

I turn away from his bright eyes, confounded by his ruse and his warmth. I don’t remember priests being like this when I was little. They were distant, and disapproving.

“I’m Father Cassiotti. I’m too old to do the masses, Father Napole does that. I assist him. I help however I can. I hear confessions. I tend the Virgin.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what to say. I look at my navy blue pumps planted in the grass.

“See my Darwin tulips? They’re doing just fine. The hyacinths should be up any day now. They’re always slow in coming. They need some coaxing, but I don’t push it. They come up when they’re ready. I just wait.”

I stare at my shoes.

“I’m good at waiting.”

I can almost hear the smile in his voice. My heart wells up. He’s a good man, a kind man.

He’s the best of the church, of what’s right about the church. I take a deep breath. “Where were you when I was a teenager?”

Into my ear, he whispers, “Waukegan.”

I burst into laughter.

“Exiled,” he says, without rancor. “And where were you when you were a teenager?”

“Here.”

“You went to school atOLPH? So, a long time ago, you were a good Catholic. Tell me, are we gonna get you back?”

“I don’t think you want me back, Father.”

“Of course we do! God loves us all. He forgives us all.”

“Not me. Not this.” I look up at the Virgin, but she won’t look at me.

He slaps his knee. “Let’s make a reconciliation! Right now.”

“Confession? Here?”

“Why not?”

“There’s no confessional. I can see you.”

“Silly! Why do we have to sit in a telephone booth! In Waukegan, I performed many confessions face-to-face, although I’ll admit I’ve never done one outdoors.” He chuckles. “You don’t need a booth for a confession, my dear. All you need is to examine your conscience. If you resolve not to sin in the future, confess, and accept your penance, you’ve reconciled yourself with God.”

I search the eyes behind the bifocals. He makes it sound so easy, but I know it isn’t. There are bodies on my back, big ones and little ones, and despite the kindness in his eyes, I understand that they’re mine to bear. I can’t confess, not to his blue eyes, not in the yellow sunshine, not before the white Virgin on the green grass. The colors are too dense here, like a child’s box of crayons, and too painfully pretty. “God won’t forgive me, Father.”

“I’m sure that God already has, my dear. But I don’t think you have forgiven yourself.”

Suddenly, we’re interrupted by a flock of apoplecticmammarellas in flowered housedresses. “Father Cassiotti! Father Cassiotti! Thank God we found you! The church door is locked, and the mass is in fifteen minutes! We can’t get in!”

Their agitation rattles him. His hands shake as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a jingling ring of keys. “My goodness, I’m sorry, ladies.” He looks at me worriedly. “I have to go open the church. Will you excuse me?”

“I should be going anyway.” I rise to my feet, uncertainly.

“No, please. Stay here. Please.”

“Father, your flowers look so good!” chirps one of the women, grabbing Father Cassiotti by the elbow. “Look at them, Conchetta. So pretty!”

“It’s a sin!” adds a second, taking his other arm.

They surge forward like a rugby team, pound for pound outweighing the little priest, and engulf him in their enthusiasm. They sweep him to the church like a winning coach, and all I can see of him is his bony hand in the air, bearing its janitor’s key ring. I shout good-bye, and the key ring jingles back.

I decide to walk back to the office. It’ll clear my head, and it would be impossible to find a cab down here anyway. I realize that Father Cassiotti is right: I have to forgive myself. But I don’t know how, even so many years later. I head north toward the center of the city, leaving behind the blocks that measure my girlhood.

Once out of the neighborhood, I feel nervous again. The sun is white-hot, unseasonably so, and leaves me exposed on the bare sidewalks. My walk picks up to a run, and before I know it I’m hustling through the city blocks. I glance around for the dark sedan but keep moving, jogging past babies in strollers and teenagers hanging out on the corner.

I’m slowed by the busy lunchtime crowd at Pat’s, a popular cheese-steak stand across from a playground. I thread my way through the crowd; a couple of the men in line look at me curiously. My armholes are wet underneath my blazer and blotches itch on my chest. I’m about to cross the street, still going north, when I see the figures.

About fifty feet away, at the edge of the basketball court, two big men are arguing. A crowd of basketball players and truants collects around the pair. Even at this distance, something about the men looks familiar.

I freeze when I recognize them.

It’s Detective Lombardo. And Berkowitz.

Iduck behind a minivan parked on Federal Street and watch them through its sooty windows. The argument escalates as Berkowitz gestures wildly, almost out of control. Suddenly, he drives his fist into Lombardo’s cheek. Blood pours from the detective’s nose. He cups it in pain, staggering backward.

Berkowitz eyes the crowd uneasily, then stalks off the court. The onlookers applaud as he climbs into his black Mercedes sedan, parked illegally at the curb, and drives away. Lombardo shuffles off in the opposite direction, cradling his nose. The crowd boos loudly. “Pussy!” they shout. “Hit ’em back, you dumb fuck!”

I draw a breath. It feels like the first one in five minutes. What the hell is going on? What are they doing, having a fight in the middle of South Philly? I remember what Lombardo said after the memorial service-that Berkowitz was very interested in the investigation. Is the investigation what they were fighting about? What else could it be, if not something having to do with Brent’s death? And maybe even Mike’s?

I’m scared, and Father Cassiotti’s no help now. Apparently, neither are the police. I consider busting into Lombardo’s office and demanding an explanation, or busting into Berkowitz’s office and demanding an explanation, but who am I kidding? I’m not a gunslinger; I’m in way over my head. My first thought is to run, to get the hell out of Dodge, but where can I go? The only person I know who lives out of the city is Angie.

Angie!

In the convent, near Baltimore. The idea appeals to me immediately. I’ll bang on the convent doors, pound them until they let me in. I’ll say it’s a family emergency, which it is, and they’ll open the doors. They have to, they’re a convent. What could be safer than a convent?

I look around for a phone and spot one back at Pat’s. I walk over to it, trying not to break into a dead run in front of the noisy crowd of office workers and construction jocks. Almost as soon as I pick up the greasy receiver, a rangy black basketball player gets in line behind me to use it. Behind him comes a mailman. I reach Judy and tell her what I saw, shouting into the receiver over the crowd noise.

“Hepunched him?” Judy says. “What are they doing down there anyway? What areyou doing down there?”