The Hammer of God

4

J ust after midnight, under a moonless sky filled with black ominous clouds, Father Ortega pulled up to Assumption Church, but didn’t bother to open Father Tolbert’s door. Nor did he offer his farewells. Dejected and sullen, the priest stepped out into the night chill, barely noticing the light mist that showed up as soon as his feet touched the pavement, and lurched towards his residence in back of the church.

“Good evening and goodnight,” he said to Sister Isabella Cacciavillian, a Spanish nun there on temporary assignment. She was a self-proclaimed night owl who almost never seemed to sleep. He considered turning back to apologize for his rudeness, but didn’t have the energy. Each step a burden, he dragged his feet along the marble corridor as though ten pounds of cement filled his black sole shoes.

Father Tolbert opened the door to his small apartment-like living quarters and felt his way through a tiny, sparsely decorated living room, to the bedroom in the back, like a blind man in familiar surroundings, not wanting to illuminate his despair. He plopped down on the full size bed, which was more a crime scene than a place of rest, and wallowed in the blackness of his soul. Ten minutes later, two soft-white bulbs on each side of the headboard bathed the room in foggy light, casting murky shadows that loitered around the room like vagabonds up to no good.

Two large, worn suitcases took Father Tolbert’s place on the bed.

Sniffling and wiping his nose, he tossed the items he deemed necessary for two weeks survival into each case. His thoughts turned to Samuel, and his fear for the boy gave way to lust and longing. He closed his eyes tight to fight off images of the boy in his embrace. Hopeless. He resumed packing, hands quivering so violently he could barely fold his clothes and place them in the suitcase. No, fight back! Fight dammit! His hands relaxed, but just as suddenly, the shaking returned. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together, searching for the strength to ask God for forgiveness, but unable to find the words. Call the police. Turn yourself in. Atone.

Father Tolbert picked up the phone and hit “9”. Cardinal Polletto’s voice pierced through his mind. Put that fucking phone down! Father Tolbert hit the number “1” knowing he wouldn’t go through with it, and dropped the phone on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on a pair jeans and a sweatshirt, snatched an overcoat from the rack next to the door, a brown London Fog, a gift from a wealthy patron looking for special prayer, and hit the streets for a walk. Self-prescribed therapy that often helped quell the pain.

The blanket of mist that greeted him earlier was now a light drizzle.

Collar up, he took his regular route, head down, the rain blending with his tears, his groans lost in the nearly barren, moonless night. I can control this. I can stop. I have to fight it. I have to fight.

A mile and a half from the church he turned right on Columbus Drive then left on Grand. Cardinal Polletto is right. He’s always right.

Rome is the perfect place right now. I’ve never even seen the Vatican.

There I’ll be able to draw strength. Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, mixed in with the night shift crowd of drug dealers and buyers, the homeless, the lost, and those who simply wanted to remain anonymous.

A sharp spark hit the sky, and nature’s faucet turned to full.

Father Tolbert crossed Grand in a light trot and stopped in front of a dilapidated brick apartment building, eyes focused on a third floor window, one of the few not shattered. His chest heaved in and out. He hustled inside, nearly tripping over an old woman wrapped in all she owned, the streetlight glimmering off the blade gripped tight in her fist.

He excused himself and bounded up three flights of stairs, hopping over bodies, some sleep, some high, along the way, stopping in front of a beaten wooden door with 316 painted neatly on front. I can stop. I can stop.

The door opened before he could knock.

“I saw you from the window,” said a soft voice from inside. “Come in.”

Father Tolbert hesitated and took a step back. A soft, smooth hand pulled him inside the damp, murky, barely lit room. A lone mattress, surrounded by crates and boxes, posed as a furniture ensemble.

“Over here by the light,” the voice continued, the hand gripping his tighter. “It’ll be fifty dollars, same as usual.” Father Tolbert lumbered along in a stupor, fighting the urge to stay.

Then Alex, a twelve-year-old runaway, fell to his knees and took the priest inside his mouth, and Father Tolbert surrendered.

Yes, Rome, that’s where I’ll do it. I’ll atone for my sins and end this nightmare. Hell is waiting for me anyway. I’ll end my life at the Vatican.