Psalm 73:13
Saturday 1st September: Father Sebastian had just closed O.L.P.H.
O.L.P.H. was the acronym parishioners preferred when referring to their mother church, Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Father Seb had celebrated evening mass, seen the last few communicants off the premises, closed the doors and headed for home.
Only the monsignor lived in the Parish House on Sumner. Father Sebastian had an apartment a couple of blocks away from O.L.P.H. in a pale grey house on Cherryvale. He was going home to think things out. He had begun to question his calling of late.
It had already grown dark, cloud obscuring the moon. Seb was walking briskly. Then he heard the angry male voice.
“Hey Sebby Boy, you want to talk a minute?”
He recognised the voice, just couldn’t bring the speaker’s name to mind. Then he had it. Bob Young.
Not the Bob Young that Father Sebastian was used to. This Bob Young had consumed more than a little alcohol – and was looking seriously intent on being disrespectful. His eyes appeared coal dark and angry in the half-light provided by the street lamp. His face seemed eerily white. He was wearing a blue suit that needed pressing. His voice had a metallic thinness with an edge of savagery, like a little bit of the monster in all of us.
“Hold up right there, Sebby Boy.”
So Sebastian did just that.
Like with most right-handed men, Bob Young’s left hand was his strongest. You haul bags with your left whilst the right is for the complicated but less taxing business of writing and such. Unfortunate for Father Sebastian that Bob Young chose to strike south paw. The fist, when it came, connected savagely. The punch was clumsy but carried Bob’s full body weight.
Father Sebastian dragged himself up into a sitting position from the ground on which he found himself.
“Why?” he asked. He was confused. Limited by not being able to read what was going on in Bob Young's mind.
And Bob Young paused. He knew it wasn't the big thing that still caused him pain. The fact of Mary's death. He could endure that agony, even grow from it. It was the little things that now hurt. The gnawing questions. Why had she done it? Who had she confided in? Why had he not known? He had given a name to his pain and that name was Father David Sebastian.
“Why?" he said. "’Cause you were with my Mary the night she died. Down by the towpath. But you never told a soul. That's why.” His voice was sneering, contemptuous and absolutely cold; his chest moved out and in as his breathing quickened. "She was an angel, the best wife a man could have - and now she's dead."
“I was not with your wife,” Seb said cautiously.
Bob Young frowned and leaned down, pushing his face nearer Seb's. His eyes widened. “You were seen,” he said, his voice shrill like a saw.
Father Sebastian responded wearily. “That was not your wife I was with.”
Annoyance brought spots of colour into Bob Young's cheeks. Father Seb felt absolutely no surprise at what Bob Young did next. It was, all in all, understandable.
He straddled the priest, then paused before slamming his knee into Father Sebastian’s face. “You were seen,” he replied a second time.
And this time Father Sebastian remained silent and wondered why he hadn't remained silent in the first place. In this kind of situation Christ would have been silent. Words only provoke.
And the normally gentle Mr Young cursed in his frustration, turned aside and stalked away, dissapearing into the New England night.
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