“So what’re you calling this, mate? A friendly visit?” I shuffled in my chair. “Let’s call it what it is. My fucking exit interview, okay?”

Paul leaned back. “Michael,” he groaned. “Hey, maybe it’s not an exit interview. I’m just here to talk to you. Do a little exploration. Maybe you’re just dealing – ”

“I’m dealing with leaving, why can’t you see that? If it’s your job to talk me out of this, you can give up right now. I got my reasons.”

Paul Shanahan was a young priest, maybe forty, only a few years older than me but there was graying at his temples. His was a difficult job, helping priests enter, live within and leave the priesthood. He assisted average human men through the difficulties of life as God’s chosen servants, and I was sure that over the years I’d proven to be, if not his toughest case, among his most challenging. For twelve years he’d been a confidant and colleague, a taskmaster and troubleshooter. Sure, it was his job, but Paul was a real friend. A good man trying to be a good priest and I admired him. Hell, I liked him. I even trusted him. So why was I giving him such a hard time?

The Vatican gets what the Vatican wants. And that day, it wanted my soul. For the next week, by papal order, I’d be sitting with Paul, exploring my decision. Well, a decision is a decision and I’d made mine. Nothing Paul or the Vatican could say was going to change that, but I had to play the game. It would be the last one I’d have to play with the big boys in red. Ever. Even so, I didn’t want to. “Do we really have to do this, mate?”

It must have been the last straw; Paul slammed his folder shut and tossed it. It hit the bookcase, scattering papers across the floor. He glared, stood and paced then pointed to the door. “No Michael, we don’t. To hell with it. Just go. If that’s all it is to you, just go.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

We were in my small office at St. Bartholomew’s rectory. The poor rural parish was old and run-down, smack in the middle of the great, rustic state of Kentucky. St. Bart’s was my penance. Apparently, sitting in the close summer heat that afternoon made it poor Paul’s cross to bear as well. He drew a sleeve across his brow and thumped into his chair.

“We’re at an ugly crossroads, buddy.”

He squinted then a smile pulled at the corners of his lips and brightened his eyes. “Well, that’s complex, isn’t it.” He was quiet for a moment. “It’s the most important thing I can do with my life. And, it’s the best way I can think of to help people.” He smoothed his rumpled, drying hair.

“Especially priests. You know, I talk to hundreds of priests every year. Some like you, on their way in; some on their way out. Some struggling with the new identities they have to deal with since Vatican II. But mostly, I talk to priests who struggle with everyday stuff. The stuff of mankind. The simple baggage that comes with being human.

“Now, Michael, your turn. Why the priesthood?”

His statement was so articulate, so fascinating, that I wasn’t prepared to make my own answer. I dropped my face in my hands. I’d screwed myself in the very first round. Thank goodness that I hadn’t chosen clerical law as my major. “Well, ah, wow. It’s really hard to explain how I came to be here. But I too believe that the priesthood is where I belong, where I’m supposed to do my work. How did you come to Seminary?”

“On a bus. Next question.”

“Are ya homosexual?”

“Nope. You?”

“No.” I sipped tea then set down the mug. “So you’re a healthy heterosexual male of the species?”

“Healthy as they come.”

“Me too. Are you sexually active?”

He eyed me. “No. You?”

“Alright, alright. Of course not, but these are the questions I thought you wanted to ask me.” I stretched out in the chair and thought for a moment. “Are you a good priest?”

He was silent and I listened to the rain thud against the windows as the storm built to its climax. Finally Father Paul Shanahan spoke. “Michael, I think I'm a good man… trying to be a good priest.”

His answer nearly overwhelmed me. That was exactly what I wanted to be. “Why psychology? Doesn’t all that psycho-babble conflict with your spiritual training?”

“Not really. I have an acquaintance. Twenty years a priest and an astronomer. Do you know what he does? He runs a small facility somewhere in the New Mexico desert. He’s searching for extra-terrestrial life. Really. And, get this, Michael. The place is completely funded by the Vatican. See, men of science simply have to find peace with men of the cloth, especially if they both occupy the same space.

“I feel a lot like him most of the time. But, if you really think about it, who needs psychological help more than a priest? I mean look at us. We choose this lifestyle that limits our personal freedoms, exposes us to extreme emotional stress and denies our human need for physical intimacy. Here we are, smack dab in the middle of a world full of people who have everything we don’t. People who expect us to be more than human, but need less than a human needs.

“Take celibacy. It’s not easy, but with a healthy psychological approach, we have the tools to help us keep our vows and still function in a world with real love and intimacy. Celibate loving; friends, men and women, who actually complete us. You can’t just go out there and be celibate. You have to learn how to live celibate.”

I blinked. “For a shrink, you sure talk a lot.” But I was grateful for his candid flow of ideas and feelings.

 “Any more questions?”

“Don’t know, mate. I haven’t been doing this as long as you.”

“Well, I have a question to match your last one. Michael, why theology?”

Theology. It was a major I’d chosen painfully, struggled with for years, suffering difficult and confusing ideology, completed successfully with nothing short of sheer will and determination.  But why I chose it? I wouldn’t tell him. I couldn’t.  “I can’t really tell you that. It’s not that I don’t want you to know. It’s just that I really can’t put it into words. It’s, well, complicated.”

“Does it have anything to do with Steven Belliard?”

“What?” My throat went dry and I tried with all my might not to remember an incident some years earlier with Stevie.

Paul shuffled through a file and retrieved a document. “I received a letter from young Steven about a year after he left this Seminary. He mentioned that you were one of the main reasons he left here.”

I drew in a breath of pure shock. “That’s crazy. I tried to make him stay!” What the
hell was this about? “I tried to talk him out of leaving – ”

“Yes, I know that. But he wrote that he’d experienced something spiritually powerful and life altering in your presence. Can you talk about that?”

“No.” But I certainly couldn’t wait to track down Stevie and give him an earful. “He had no right to tell anyone. I clearly asked him not to – ”

“Relax, Tonto. He didn’t say what happened, just that something happened. I simply thought it might be something you’d like to talk about.”

“It’s not,” I hissed and shuffled in the big chair like an angry kid. After several frustrated grunts and at least two beginning attempts at rebuttal, thankfully stifled before I spat words probably never spoken within those walls, I finally rubbed my eyes and started to laugh. Maybe it was time to look up Stevie after all. He’d certainly enjoy hearing about how the cowboy shrink was making me squirm. “Guess I have a few buttons you don’t have any problem pushing, Doc.”

“A few. You don’t have to talk about anything, you know. My job is to give you an opportunity to get some things off your chest. To kind of side-track a bad train wreck that might come along somewhere down the road.”

I shook my head. Maybe Paul Shanahan was a nosey shrink but maybe he was a good one too. One thing was sure. I liked the bloke. “So,” I smiled, “was I right about your questions?”

“Not one.”

“Are you saying that not one of those questions were on your list?” I was astounded.
“You’re a lying sack of – ”

“Not one,” he smiled that casual American smile.

“Then what did you want to ask me?”

He shuffled in the sofa and leaned forward, his face so compassionate that I suddenly wished I was somewhere else, anywhere else. “Michael, I want to ask you about your father.”

I looked around like I’d just been attacked, took several deep breaths. “Why? I’ve been working through this with Father Benedict. Working on forgiveness, understanding. Praying, praying hard about it. What do you need to know?” I was more than afraid. I couldn’t even look the man in the eye.

“Have you forgiven him, Michael? Do you understand what happened? Why it happened? Have you even recovered from it?”

I couldn’t answer; I just sat there with my head hanging.

“You were right about one thing today. There was a very important reason I wanted to talk with you. See Michael, priests who come from abusive childhoods have special challenges, face a unique set of hardships.”

“I can handle it, I swear I can.”

“You certainly will try. I don’t doubt that for a minute. But my job here, right now, is to help you find the right tools, to help you see the signs, avoid the meltdown that’s sure to come.”

“It won’t. I’m strong, mate, I can handle this. I’ve handled it all my life. I’ve controlled my temper, my drinking, I’ve worked hard ...” I didn’t even realize that I’d started pacing the room, stomping hard and shouting at the man who simply sat still and quiet, listening. “I can handle this just fine. I swear I can.”

“Alright, why don’t you sit down? Come on.”

I did, attempting to look as relaxed as possible, to control the twitching in my fingers, my heartbeat, my thoughts. “See, I can do it, control myself. Be appropriate, walk tall and straight and make my dad proud…” I stopped breathing and blinked. “Ah shit.” I swallowed hard and blinked again.

“Michael, can you tell me something?”

I nodded, grateful that he’d been kind enough to ignore the tremendous Freudian slip I’d just tossed on the floor between us.

“What’s going to happen the first time you encounter an abusive father in your congregation? The first time you listen to a bleeding little child say that he was a bad boy, or that she deserved to be beaten? What are you going to do? Because sure as the sun comes up tomorrow, it will happen. The first crying young wife covered with bruises? The first drunken man with blood on his knuckles? What are you going to do?”

I looked at him. My throat tightened and I felt my eyes sting. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He reached out and placed a comforting hand on my arm. “That’s good. That’s acknowledging the challenge. One you can overcome. I’ll help you. I’ll show you how to deal with this, but it’s not going to happen in one afternoon.”

Hell, it might take an entire lifetime and I was to be Ordained in seven short days. My heart ached with despair. I think he read my mind.

“We can work together as much as you’d like between now and Ordination. After that, if you wish, we can find you another therapist to talk to, or you can just call me when you need to talk.”

I nodded numbly, unaware of tears dripping off my chin. “You, mate,” I said. “I'll talk to the cowboy.”

“Good,” he smiled.

***

“What didn’t you tell me that day?”

Paul’s voice tugged me back to the moment, at the end and no longer the beginning of the life I loved so dearly. I cleared my throat. “Lots, mate.”

“Why did you become a priest, Michael? I really want to know. Did you get a calling? Was there a revelation? Why the priesthood when a man like you could have chosen anything?”

God knew how much I didn’t want to walk through the fire, didn’t want to open all the wounds again and bleed. Had they sent someone else, I would have gone a completely different way. It wouldn’t last a week, wouldn’t take more than a day. I’d have lied, said I was gay, told them anything, done whatever it took to end the ordeal once and for all. But they had sent Paul. The man had helped me through some of the toughest times of my life as a priest. I owed him, big time. It was going to be the week from hell and already my heart warned that I wouldn’t survive it. But I’d try to follow his lead; say what I had to say. If I was lucky it would be over in a few days. Then it would be done. Finished. Forever.

“There was a time when I had only two choices.” The room was silent, un-natural in its surreal peace. Pain intensified in my chest and I rubbed it unconsciously. “Father Benedict never told you?”

He shook his head.

“Two choices, mate. Prison or the priesthood.”

“Prison? For what?”

“Robbery and accessory to murder.” I watched his face drop in astonishment. “I was released into Alex Benedict’s custody. He became my savior, my family, he had… shall we say… a plan for me.

“I came to be at his rectory, well, sort of by accident. I was seventeen, running away. He took me in, gave me work, a place to sleep.”

Paul stood. “Wait a fucking minute. Robbery? Murder?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry but I just couldn’t talk about it.”

He glared at me, pacing, his head swiveling. “You couldn’t talk about it? You couldn’t tell me about it? Twelve years. Twelve years we’ve been friends, twelve years! You prick, you should have told me. Now you have to; if not for your mental health, than to satisfy my own curiosity. Just how the hell could you hide such a thing?”

I shrugged and lit another cigarette. My chest was thumping and I discovered that I really wanted to talk about it, but first I’d let Paul have his rant. He earned it, and Lord knows I deserved it.

He stomped to the locked door, then back again, never taking his eyes from me. “You have the damn nerve to demand that I confirm my friendship when all this time…”

“Paul, believe me. If there was anyone I’d discuss this with – ”

He waved me off and dropped back into his chair, showing far more irritation than I’d ever seen him display. “You are a genuine prick, Michael Becker. How the hell did you manage to tell me all the shit you have, and never this?” He blinked, fingered his white collar card then looked into my eyes. “Damn,” Paul turned and stared out the window. “Damn, I’m a blind man.”

I closed my eyes and prayed. I wasn’t sure for what, perhaps Paul’s forgiveness, his tolerance, his compassion?

Finally he shook his head slowly. “I guess you did tell me, just not in words. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. Some friend I’ve been.”

“I don’t think I was trying to hide it from you but I sure as hell wasn’t disclosing much. It’s not your responsibility to read my mind, is it then?”

Paul sat, head in hands and tried several times to regain his professional demeanor, his mouth opening, but wordless. Finally he leaned back and blew all his frustration at the ceiling. “Let’s get drunk, Michael. Let’s go out and get stinking drunk.”

“When was the last time you got stinking drunk, mate?”

He shrugged. “Fifteen, twenty years ago? It’s like riding a bike, right?”

“Are you all that sure you wanna get stinking drunk with the likes of me?”

He pointed the white collar card at me. “I know you, Michael. I know the man you are. I know the priest you are, and if it takes my last breath, I’ll find out what would make you a thief and a murderer.”

***

We were like two Catholic school blokes out to break every rule we knew. We changed into street clothes and drove sixty miles out of town before locating the perfect bar. Hidden in a back booth where the jukebox was the quietest, we sucked down beer after beer. And I wanted to tell him everything. I just didn’t know how to start.

“So,” I said, slouching in the bench, trying to look real cool. It had been a long time since I’d just had a few with a mate. This sure wasn’t fitting so well in that category, but it would do. “How’d you draw this shitty assignment?”

Paul shrugged. “I asked for it. Soon as I heard you were taking a walk, I went back to the Vatican. I had to fight for this, Michael. They were going to send Father Collier. If it wasn’t for Cardinal Galanti’s help, you’d be sitting here, drinking with George.”

“Yeah?” I snorted. “Heard about him. They say he never looses his man. Wouldn’t matter, ya know. I’m still leaving.” The music changed and I leaned my head back, strains of The Gambler sliding along my thoughts. Know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run. Oh hell yeah, I know when to run, known it was time to run for a long time. Would I be so damaged if I’d taken a powder two years ago? Six? Maybe fourteen years ago when I could have really steered clear of it all?

He was quiet for several moments, sipped his fifth beer. “This getting drunk thing isn’t as easy as I remember.”

“You need a shot or two before you really start to feel it.”

“You sound like you know these things.”

“I watched a lot of drunks growing up. Real drunks; not like these pussy American drunks. Take my dad. Now he was a pro.”

I could see him struggle not to ask, so I just answered.

“See,” I nodded at the waitress who kept bringing fresh drafts and smiling like a hooker, her cleavage showing more and more each time she came to the table. “Dad was a mean drunk. He was violent. Broke my arm twice, my nose, fingers. When I was eleven, I had to have surgery for internal injuries. He liked to kick. I wasn’t the only one he beat, you know. He put mum in hospital at least twice a year. One Christmas Eve, he beat my grandmum so bad, the poor old woman nearly died.”

“Why couldn’t someone stop him?”

I shrugged. “Paul, you’ve got to understand, it was a way of life where I grew up. We were all poor, desperate. Everyone drank, everyone’s dad drank. You do what you see, I guess.”

“Learned behavior.”

“If you wanna get clinical about it, I suppose so. It was tough all around. And it just went on and on. Almost every girl I knew was pregnant and in an abusive marriage before she was nineteen.”

He slouched in the booth. “So you were poor. I guess that explains the robbery.”

“Robberies,” I corrected and he just waited. Paul; always the therapist. As for myself, I’d somehow gone somewhere deep, padded myself against all the things I was saying. It was like I was talking about a parishioner, divulging someone else’s stories, some else’s secrets. It all just flowed. “My mates and I, we robbed convenience stores.”

He eyed the waitress as she walked by. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Got nice tits.” I sipped then lit a smoke. “Do you want to talk about her tits?”

“No. Well, yeah, but no, not really. I just …” He shrugged. “I’m human. You’re human. If you were poor and a teenager in that kind of environment, I can understand the attraction to theft.”

“No. No, it wasn’t like that. I needed the money to help out at home. I quit school at fifteen. See, I worked but I didn’t make much. Then mum died. Cancer. Grandmum couldn’t work; hell she was in her late seventies. Dad was useless.”

Silence fell between us. The beer tasted like piss and I was getting tired. I rubbed my eyes and checked my watch, wondering who would celebrate my six AM mass in the morning.

“Tell me about the murder, Michael.” Paul stared into his beer. I could hear the interest of a true friend in his voice.

I watched the waitress smile from across the room and I wondered if I could speak the words, really tell it all. The aching was back even though I’d convinced myself it wasn’t me I was talking about. It didn’t matter, I started talking.

“It was right after grandmum passed. Me and my friends, we had a clubhouse. Well, it was just an old shack we called our own. We grew up there together. It was a safe place, away from our dads and teachers, chores. We called it the Dry Dock. Just a place where we could be and say and do anything we wanted.”

I smiled. “Petie, now he was a real hell-raiser. Always in some kind of mess. And Frank, well Frank was in love. He and Brenda were only seventeen and already with a bun in the oven, but she was having none of it. She wanted an abortion and out of Melbourne. Frank was really broken up about it. Then there was me, pretty much alone, with grandmum so sick and all. What a crew we were. When I learned the old woman was dying I went a little nuts. I thought I wanted to rob a bank.”

I closed my eyes, remembering a time so painful I could hardly believe I’d experienced it at all.

***

“We’re all finished here, as surly as grandmum. We got to get outta this town, damn it.” I was slumped in an old smelly sofa and talking through a twelve beer fog. Petie and Frank were holding on to every word, even though I was drunk for the first time in my life and making no sense at all.

“Where? How?” Frank sat alone on the floor, his newly acquired portable tape player and headphones seemed to be permanently attached to his person. Frank had disappointed me, Petie, his family, and most of all himself, even though he didn’t know that yet. Frank was an exceptional student with a lot of promise, but he never took his university exams. He never showed up for his high school finals and if not for his extraordinary grades, would not have even graduated. Frank had lost Brenda, his baby and his drive. But had he lost his brains? That remained to be seen. I chalked it all up to depression, but I was still disappointed. I really hoped Frank would snap out of it and make something of himself. Most of us didn’t have those chances.

Petie was playing with a penknife, dropping it on the old wooden table, straight up every time. “Yeah, how can we get out of this place? It’s like fucking quicksand. And where would we go if we could?”

“Where is easy.” I stood up and wobbled a pace. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Why not? Who says we got to live and die here? And as for how? Money. Money. Money.”

Petie chuckled. “Michael, there ain’t enough cash in any convenience store in Melbourne
to get us very far. Our biggest take was three-hundred-twenty dollars. We’re not exactly big time, mate.”

“Yet.” I sat in a rickety chair, almost missing the seat. “Not yet.”

Frank turned off the music and joined me at the table. Petie picked up his knife and clicked it open and closed as he walked a circle around the table. “What’re you thinking, Michael?”

I shook my head. “Wait one minute,” I said, then went outside and forced myself to throw up several times. It worked. When I went back inside, my stomach ached and my mouth tasted like shit, but I was a bit more sober. I sat down and closed my eyes for a moment, thinking it through. Seeing it work. “The bank,” I announced. “We’re taking the bank.”

I mapped out the plan for them. I could see the bank from the hardware store window where I worked. Without realizing it, I’d learned a great deal about our little local financial institution. I knew a lot about how it worked; its hours, staff and the lack of effective security. “It’ll be only slightly harder than taking the ‘Toot n’Scoot’ on Fitzer.”

“Right. Slightly.” Petie sneered. “I don’t know, Michael. I got to think about this.”

“Fine. You think about it. I’m gonna do everything like normal. I’m going to work in the morning just like always. But on Friday, I won’t go home. I’ll go, take the bank then get the hell out of this town. You with me or not?”

I looked at them then stood to leave. I had to leave. I saw what was in their eyes. Pity, sympathy, and I couldn’t stand it. I went home but couldn’t sleep. I snuck into the hospital and sat beside grandmum’s bed. And I cried. She deserved a rest. All her life was so hard, so harsh. Maybe she’d join up with mum. I had a strong sensation of being watched and wondered.  Maybe they’d be happy, together, watching me, or maybe not. Maybe I’d disappoint them.

I couldn’t think about that. All I needed to do was get a life. I supposed I could just save my money ‘til I could afford a bus ticket. Maybe that’s what I’d do. I took her shriveled hand in mine and said a prayer for her. That she wasn’t in pain. That it would be easy.

I didn’t go to work the next day or the day after that. I stayed with grandmum. Both Petie and Frank’s mums took turns bringing me food I couldn’t eat. Begging me to go home and rest, but I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to die with her, I know that now.

It was just after dawn when she opened her eyes and looked at me. “Michael, my sweet boy. I love you. Don’t ever forget I love you.”

I smiled the best I could. “I love you too, grandmum. Don’t worry, everything will be alright. It’ll be fine.”

“Listen to me, boy.” Her voice was so soft. She hadn’t said a word in days, and it seemed to hurt her to even try. I leaned close; she looked into my eyes as she spoke clearly, forcefully.

“Michael, you need to go back to the rosary, boy. You belong to the rosary.”

And she was gone.

It would be years before I’d be able to clearly remember the events of the next forty-eight hours. It was like I was in the dead center of a horrifying nightmare and couldn’t wake up. Trying to recall events in order or sharply seemed impossible; like I was searching for a bar of soap deep in a pail of murky water. The facts would just keep slipping out of my grasp, and it wasn’t until I finally gave up and stopped splashing around that the ugly truth ominously floated to the top for me to see.

But as it was happening I was trying to stay on top of things; trying to keep my head together. At the time I knew some of what was happening.

I clearly remember watching grandmum die. It was quiet. Not a gasp or a cry. Not even a sigh. And I saw a blue light rise right out of her chest, coming from her heart. It floated then just dissolved in the air above her.

And there was silence. A deep emptiness crawled inside of me. I heard nothing, saw no one. I roamed the hospital halls in a daze and in that void, I felt a crushing loneliness that surpassed physical pain. Someone led me out of the building, I can’t recall who.

And I remember going to the Dry Dock. I remember crying… and drinking. When my mates came, I remember telling them that I was an idiot. That we shouldn’t rob the bank, and I do clearly recall the relieved look on their faces. And I remember telling them my new plan. But most of what happened after that was sunk deep in the water pail for years, although some images were always in hideous focus, always floating on top. These are the images I carried, the memories I suffered, unclear as they were for so long.

“So, what’s your new plan, Michael?” Petie was careful to sound calm, to be supportive. I must’ve looked like I was going to go off on them or something.

I pushed the beer away; things were fuzzy enough without it. I cleared my throat and talked to the table top. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll just work, save my money. I’m never going back home. There’s nothing there I want, let them evict me, I don’t care. I’ll sleep here. When I’ve got enough, I’ll just get a bus ticket and…”

Frank and Petie were shaking their heads.

“What?”

Frank pulled off his earphones.

“You were right about one thing, mate. We got to get out of here, all of us.” Petie said
quietly. “And we’re going to do it. But were going to do what we know. Tonight, we’ll just take every convenience store on the way out of town. That’s six stores.”

I blinked; Petie was on a roll, fidgeting in his chair, almost ready to explode. “We take everything from the cash drawers this time. All of it. We’ll take each store one after the other within minutes of each other. That way, if the cops do get wind, we’ll be blocks away – ”

“Genius!” Frank shouted.

“Insane! That’s insane. Petie, we’ll get busted, I know it!” I was scared, thinking I’d end up in jail, not a prospect I really wanted to deal with at the moment.

“No, no it’s not, Michael.” Frank turned to me. “It’s really rational. Think about it. All those places, they kinda know us, they know we don’t take all that much, they’re not expecting this.”

Did they all know? And did they know it was us? If so, why hadn’t anyone reported us? Why weren’t we already in jail?

“We can do this! We can really do this. Damn, Michael. I need to get out of here.” There was desperation in Frank’s voice. I’d never seen him like that. “Brenda’s leaving town tomorrow, I can’t take it. I can’t be here when she goes to kill my kid. I can’t. Michael I just can’t do it. I got to move on. This is killing me!”

He was really messed up over it. And I thought I was the only one with problems. Frank was being torn apart from the heart out. I blinked and nodded, then looked to Petie, waiting for his reasoning. This should be interesting.

He just stared at me. “Fuck, Michael. I don’t want to go on here. I’m not you, mate. I got no desire to stay around here and take care of my family ‘til they get old and die. There are things I deserve. Things you and Frank deserve.”

Yes. There were.

Late that night, we started our crime spree with little enthusiasm, but a lot of determination. Hell, I just wanted to be out of town before the funeral. The first robbery went fine, it was as if we were such pros at it, we didn’t really have to think about it. I checked things out inside while Frank watched to door, glancing through the magazine rack, calm as can be. But when we left, jumped into Petie’s rusted-out Buick everything took a turn for the bizarre.

Petie had actually tied up the cashier and stolen a gun from under the counter. I realized they were ready and waiting for us if they were hiding a gun. Frank got spooked and bailed. He just couldn’t go that far to save his broken heart, I guess. But me, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I was trapped on a speeding train for the duration, unable to even consider getting off. My conscience and my logic went off someplace. Hiding from what was to come.

Frank left us just outside the second store, walking away, his headphones blasting. I stood and watched him for a minute then headed for the door, prepared to do my job. That’s when I saw it and I panicked. There was a car at the gas pump. That could only mean one thing. There was someone in there. Did Petie know?

I remember walking in the door. I remember the gun in Petie’s shaking hands. I remember the old man, coming from the back of the store with a carton of milk. And I clearly remember the perfect round hole the bullet made right between the old man’s eyes. Then it got really strange. Time stood still. Nothing moved and I wasn’t breathing. I heard it. I swear I heard it even though it’s impossible; the man was already dead before he hit the floor. But I heard him. His mouth never moved, but I swear I heard him.

 “Take the car, Michael. Go to Sydney. Now,” he said. I looked down and there, right at my feet, slid his keys.

And I did as I was told, leaving Petie to face hell alone. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking.

***

Paul was silent then he leaned across the table. I leaned close too. Between us were several empty glasses and a few full ones. “Jesus, Michael. You just left?”

“I didn’t realize, mate. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe self-preservation, I don’t know.”

“But you couldn’t have done anything to stop it.”

“I should have tried.” My head dropped. “I knew he had the gun, I guess I just didn’t think he’d use it. Maybe I should’ve left with Frank. Maybe I should have stayed and waited for the police. I don’t know. Maybe I couldn’t have done anything to keep that man alive, but fuck, Paul, I should have tried.”

“Where did you go?”

I shrugged, looked up into his eyes. “I went where the dead man told me to go.”

“A dead man can’t speak.”

“This one did.” 

***

It took two whole days for me to get to Sydney. I only remember a few things clearly.
Driving carefully, watching the sky turn light, then dark again in what seemed like a heartbeat. I got really tired and had to stop. I hid the car in an alley and tried to relax, but there was a buzzing, vibrating kind of noise that kept demanding my attention. It sounded like an old window air conditioner or something, I don’t know. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter. I finally fell deep asleep and dreamed.

It was the oddest dream. I was standing in the desert looking at a mountain and I was all alone, talking to someone who wasn’t anywhere in sight. Then, suddenly there she was. It was a young woman. Really beautiful with eyes as black as night and dark hair that flowed all the way down her back. We held a conversation in a language I never heard before, but we understood each other. I just don’t know what the hell we were saying. She smiled a radiant smile and I noticed blue, like the light I saw when grandmum died, glowing all around her, all around both of us. I was lifted up, clearly drifting in the air with her, blue light swirling all around like we were inside a snow globe. Then she opened her hands, and there in her left palm shined a flaming cross. The flame rose all the way to the heavens and I woke suddenly, my heart pounding out of my chest. It was daylight and I had to get back on the road.

That’s when I discovered what was making the noise. Sitting on the passenger seat was a small wooden box. I reached for it but couldn’t touch it at first. The box made the strangest buzzing sound then it spoke. I thought at first it was some kind of tiny radio, that someone was watching me. Paranoia flared and I thought I’d drop dead right there. I was never so scared in my life.

“Sydney, Michael. Now,” the box said. I picked it up and it vibrated in my hands. I wasn’t going to be intimidated by a silly box, I rationalized. I was imagining it. I open the lid and actually saw blackness close in for a moment. It was a rosary. Grandmum had told me to go to the rosary; that I belonged to the rosary. Now, I didn’t know what that meant and I was never superstitious, but it was far too much coincidence for me to ignore. I snapped the box closed and continued the drive to Sydney.

I don’t remember the road, making turns, or taking the right highways. I do remember it took me an extraordinarily long time to make a fairly simple trip. And I clearly remember, just as I was entering the city, I had an idea. A tiny light shined inside my numb brain. Granted, it wasn’t a great idea, but it was an idea; a sign that I was still lurking there somewhere behind my reactive pursuit. Alright, I thought. So I did what I was told. I went to Sydney. I had some kind of strange rosary sitting beside me, buzzing and humming and, God help me, talking to me. And I had no other instructions, so I decided that I needed a plan. As the city crawled around me, I realized that I did get what I wanted after all. I was out of Melbourne. Now what?

I decided that the tiny wooden box had to have some value, and I figured that someone would pay good money for it. Hell, I’d just sell it. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to do that. Maybe there was a reward for it. I turned a bend and suddenly the damn car just died. Stopped dead right in front of a church and I laughed. Where else would you go to sell a talking rosary?
 
I had to get out and push the car to the curb. I ran an arm over my sweaty face then picked up the box and headed in to the church. It was a really big cathedral. Saint Anthony’s. Old. Cool and dark inside. And as I held the box it buzzed harder and harder. It shouted at me, singing blessed joyful music, and my heart pumped hard. I almost couldn’t walk. My hands were burning. I had a strong feeling of comfort and fear at once. An old priest was praying at the altar. The rest of the place was totally empty and I was careful not to make a sound, figuring that I could escape if needed. But I was frozen there just inside the door.

The old priest slowly turned and looked at me. He grunted himself up and walked down the aisle, and I wanted to turn and run but couldn’t move a muscle. He walked right up to me and smiled sadly. “Michael?”

I couldn’t believe it. “How’d you know my name?”

“That’s a very long story, my boy. Is that for me?”

I nodded and handed the box over to him, relieved beyond reason to be free of it. I sighed and nearly fell over. He put a strong hand on my arm and I looked up into his kind eyes. “Are you hungry, son? Come with me.”
 
I followed him to the rectory kitchen where he gave me a plate of leftover dinner. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I nearly inhaled the food, then sipped hot, black coffee and looked around with refreshed vision, awake and fully aware. I tried to recall everything about my journey, but couldn’t. All I knew for sure was that I was supposed to go there. Beyond that, I was in the old priest’s hands. I blinked and cleared my throat, afraid to speak, afraid to think. Finally he began.

“I’m Father Benedict. Alex Benedict. Michael, do you know what’s in that box?” He nodded to the item sitting on the table between us.

I cleared my throat. “A rosary,” I said quietly. “A really strange rosary, Father.”

“Yes.” He hummed through his nose, then leaned back in his chair and watched me silently, making me nervous.

“Ah, it makes a sound.”

“Does it?”

“Well, I think I heard a sound.”

“Did it speak to you?”

I was so excited. Maybe I wasn’t crazy after all. “Yeah. What the hell is going on?”

He leaned forward. “Oh, Michael, this has nothing to do with hell.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I don’t mean any disrespect, but that box … well ...”

“Do you know anything about spiritually empowered elements, my boy?”

I shook my head.

“Anything about people with spiritual powers?”

“No.” I looked around the shabby kitchen and began to wonder what he was doing. Was he planning to talk my ear off until the police arrived? What kind of bullshit was that?

“Michael, you’re safe here. You’re here for a reason.” His eyes were so compassionate, so gentle; I had no choice but to trust him. “Let me tell you about this rosary.”
 
“Fine, but first, how do you know my name?”

“Patience, I’ll get to that,” he said in a way that reminded me of Grandmum and my heart ached.

“This rosary was made over a hundred and fifty years ago by an aboriginal Maori man from Gisborne, New Zealand. He claimed that he was given instructions by God to create the rosary from stones that could only be found on a particular beach. It took him eight years to finish it, and with the completion of each decate, he was given a power. First the power of sight, seeing into the future; then the power of awareness, a knowledge of things anywhere in the world and the possible impact on his people. Then the power of insight, the ability to read people, to know their intentions, their strengths and their flaws. After that, the power of self-preservation, an ability to see impending danger to his own person and avoid disaster. You have to understand my boy, that with the acquisition of these powers, this man was fast becoming a target for those who would destroy him.” He cleared his throat and sighed, gazing at the ceiling in deep thought then continued in a soft voice that made me lean closer to hear clearly.

“Finally, when the rosary was complete, all the stones perfectly matched and fastened, this simple man was given the power to heal. And for the remainder of his life, was known as a gifted spiritual healer. People traveled from as far away as Europe to seek his help.

“After his death,” I raised my eyebrows and Father Benedict smiled, “after all, he was only human, the rosary was passed on along family lines, until twenty years ago, when it was carefully placed in the hands of an Australian woman named Angelina Lawford. Angelina was very old at the time, but very empowered already. The New Zealander who gave it to her told her that the rosary had instructed him to do so.

“You see, Michael. Sometimes God just reaches down and touches someone; a special person to do his work, an average person, usually a completely unsuspecting person. And sometimes God gives that person a tool, an empowered object to help them with their spiritual mission.”

I guess I was looking at him like he was crazy. He cleared his throat and leaned over the table closer to me.

“These are documented facts, my boy … throughout all of history … and there are striking similarities among the events in question. A sound, like a humming or buzzing. A vibration. Verbal instructions, sometimes in strange unidentifiable languages. And blue light –”

I jumped up, knocking my chair to the floor and startling the old man. I was sweating and gasping for air. My whole life had been based on hard cold facts. Pain. Hunger. Bills. What that old man was telling me flew in the face of everything I knew to be real but I was witness to all of it. He waited for me to calm. When I picked up the chair and sat down, I had a deep gut feeling that my life was just about to begin in that very moment. I ran a hand through my hair and blinked, waiting for him to continue.

He spoke slowly. “I sent my friend, Randy, with my car to pick up the rosary from Angelina. See, she called me last week; informed me that she was going to die soon and that the rosary was to be placed in this church for safe keeping. She also told me …” He reached over and held my arm in his strong hand. “Angelina told me that Michael would bring the rosary here.”

It took a full five minutes for me to catch my breath. How the hell could an old woman, a total stranger, know what events would take me to Sydney?

“Now, I have to confess, I wasn’t real sure about her senility,” Father Benedict said with a crooked smile. “Angelina was almost a hundred years old. I did try to find someone named Michael to go, but no one presented themselves, so when Randy volunteered I was grateful. I couldn’t leave and I was sure Angelina would probably die very soon. As it was, she passed away the very day Randy picked up this box.” He lifted it and sighed.

“Doesn’t it burn your hands?” I was amazed at how easily he handled it.

He looked into my eyes and shook his head. “Michael. I will not ask how you came to be here. I accept that everything is as it should be.” He set the box down and stood with an old-man grunt then walked across the kitchen, leaned back casually against the counter and watched me. “Now, it’s late. Do you have a place to sleep?”

I didn’t. I shook my head; it felt like a huge weight swiveling on the tip of a stick. I reached into my pocket and placed the car keys on the table, careful not to get too near the box. “It stopped running, Father. It’s just out front.”

He dropped them into his own pocket. “Does that all the time. Temperamental beast. Come with me. We have an empty room just now. One of our priests has been reassigned. You’re welcome to it. What are your plans?”

I had no clue. “Ah.” It was strange for me not to have a plan, a solution, some important job in dire need of finishing.

“Well, there is some work you can do around here if you’d like. Simple repair work, some painting, stuff like that.”