Road to Perdition

Nineteen

The story of the soldier who was my father ends here.

Over the decades, I read what was written about Michael O’Sullivan, Sr. (and Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.) — newspaper stories, magazine articles, sections of books, even whole volumes dedicated to our weeks on the road. Some have called Michael O’Sullivan a fiend; others an avenging angel. He was described as a modern Robin Hood; and he was termed a cold-blooded hitman.

In 1960, the Robert Stack TV show “The Untouchables” did an absurdly inaccurate episode about us; and there were three movies, one starring Preston Foster and Jimmy Lydon in the 1940s, another in the mid-’60s with James Coburn and Billy Mumy, and (as I mentioned earlier) a big-budget version with an Oscar-laden cast is in production as I write this.

Since everyone else has had their say about our story, I have finally broken my silence and spoken my piece. For years I rebuffed the advances of editors and would-be coauthors; still, I guess I always knew I’d write the story of the man who was neither fiend nor angel... just my father.

The Baums were Baptists, but — in my young adulthood — I returned to the Catholic church. In recent years, as other, later events of my life have come to light, more questions have arisen. As I’ve reported, my father’s last act was to spare me from killing Harlen Maguire; but I fully expect to be accused of manipulating the facts in this narrative — some will no doubt insist that I indeed did pull that trigger... that, there being no statute of limitations on murder, I have fobbed that deed off upon my father.

Believe what you will. Whatever happened in that kitchen in that house along Fall Rivers Lake, I did walk away with my father’s .45 Colt, inheriting the weapon he brought home from the Great War; and I was my father’s son, after all, with a family tradition of vengeance. That, however, is my story; and this has been my father’s.

Two things may help explain why I eventually chose yet another road for my life. Like my father... like so many of us... I finally came to understand my need for redemption. At the same time, throughout the life I’ve led since Papa’s death, I have been haunted by his dying request for my forgiveness, in absence of a priest.

These are high among the reasons why today I wear a backward collar, and sit on the listening side of the confessional booth. To date, however, I must admit I have not yet heard any sins to compare to those that turned a country priest ghost-white one winter afternoon.

There can be little doubt of what my father exclaimed that rainy night in Rock Island, when he stood against Looney and his army of bodyguards: “Pray that God never puts you on my road!”

If you will allow a preacher his sermon, what Papa failed to understand was that he had chosen his road; so take it from an old outlaw hiding out in priestly garb... God has nothing to do with the bad choices men make of their own free will.

Though I would make one simple request of you, in exchange for this wisdom: pray, would you, for the soul of Michael O’Sullivan?

Both of them.