Revelation 21:4
Wednesday 24th October: Sean Hartnett had had a tough day at work. Tough enough to have almost dulled the sheen of his dark brown eyes and wiped the boyish smile off his face. That smile was one of his most endearing attributes. He was drinking bourbon on ice.
Bishop O'Malley was boyish too in his way, with that shock of black hair, a lock of which always seemed to manage to fall forward over his forehead. His delicate long-fingered hands were caressing a matching glass of bourbon. No stingers this time.
They sat, as so often in the past, in the bishop's study in the bishop's house next to the cathedral up on that hill in downtown Springfield. The bishop had phoned Sean at work to ask him to stop by on his way home. He came straight to the point. "She's blackmailing me you know. About us."
Sean was startled. "How's she doing that?"
The bishop raised a forefinger. "She came to see me. Demanded money."
"She wants to punish us maybe."
"So she said." Bishop O'Malley smiled ruefully at his friend, "She's succeeding."
Sean wanted to say it would all be OK, to tell Patrick not to worry. But he had never seen Trish like she'd been lately. She was cold. Unforgiving. Relentless in her anger.
"That's the hell of it. We have to be careful, Patrick."
The bishop looked up, his eyes sharp. "We have to not see each other any more. I as good as promised her that."
Sean stared into his glass. "Maybe it's for the best," he heard himself say.
"Are you worried?"
Sean nodded.
The bishop smiled. He twisted around in his chair and reached out a hand to comfort his friend. "You know the story of the boy with the bicycle?"
Sean shook his head. His eyes grew distant and focused on the lapel of the bishop's jacket.
The bishop felt a tension he wanted to hide from his friend. Almost unconsciously, he screwed up his eyes and wrinkled his forehead before allowing his features to relax. Then he started his story, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling as he spoke. "This boy was given a bicycle for his birthday but his family was poor and had to scrimp and save to afford the gift. What they'd not been able to afford was the little extras. There was no bicycle bell. No puncture repair kit.
"Anyway the boy was thrilled and rode his bike about all day. At the end of the day he got a puncture. Depressed and worried, he parked his bicycle in the yard behind the house and couldn't get to sleep that night for fretting about how he'd find the pennies for a puncture repair kit.
"The next morning he got up, went to the backyard, and looked at the bike. It still had a puncture."
The bishop's piercing blue eyes searched for Sean's and when his friend at last met his gaze he added, "So the boy didn't worry anymore."
"Don't get it," said Sean. He had contorted his right hand to bite at the inside edge of his thumbnail.
The bishop shrugged, "Worrying hadn't done any good."
Sean looked at the thumb he'd been gnawing and laughed. The bishop had a story for any eventuality. He tossed them around like an old vaudeville juggler tossing oranges. But that still didn't deal with the problem. "What should we do?"
The bishop shrugged again, and chewed at his lower lip like a schoolboy.
It was Sean's turn for a moment of inspiration. "We'll speak to Father Seb. She trusts him."
And Bishop O'Malley managed a smile. Clutching at straws was always useful, he thought. If only because it delayed facing the inevitable.
No comments:
Post a Comment