got over it.”
Again, there was no need to specify what it was.
“Get over it?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “Fucking get over it. You’re how goddamned old now? I mean, you’re not a fucking baby, so get over it.”
My gut tightened up.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “The past is the past. What are you going to do about it now? How long are you gonna whine about this? If you knew what my father did to me! Now, that was abuse.”
There we were again.
She had yet to take responsibility for anything she had done. It was part of her sickness: she did not understand the consequences of her actions.
Without comment, I turned around and headed up the stairs.
“Where you going?” she demanded, hurt in her voice.
“I’ve got to go to work.”
III
I GOT to the office early.
Despite the publicity for the “crucified kid,” no one had come forward to identify Earl Whitehead or suggest where he might now be found. A report sent to my inbox said tips had come in concerning sightings of Frankie, but none had panned out.
I took out the notes I had made the day before and looked through them, refreshing my mind on the business of traditional Catholicism and all its many groups and splinter groups. I cranked up the Internet and began searching for traditionalist groups in Missouri and was quickly surprised to see how many of them there were. In Kansas City alone, there were about a dozen addresses to check out. Statewide, there were numerous friaries, nunneries, schools, seminaries, monasteries, Mass centers, churches, and whatnot, with no immediate way of knowing whether Frankie Peters had been involved with any of them. If we had to look nationwide….
I did not want to think about that.
As the Reverend Mother Helena had told me the day before, these folks had a thing about the New Mass, some going so far as to describe it as a “sacrilege.” Other adjectives: perfidious, loathsome, diabolical, insane, deceitful, an affront to God, an insult to Jesus Christ, a joke, a bastard rite, a bastard sacrament, a mortal sin.
Since there was a time when I used to say this “New Mass,” I found these comments quite disturbing. Were there really thousands upon thousands of Catholics in the United States on the cusp of the twenty-first century who thought the mass in English was a joke, an insult to Almighty God?
Many of the web pages I visited were drenched with old-time Catholic piety, numerous pictures of Mary and the saints, whole sites devoted to such things as the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary or devotion to the Precious Blood of Jesus or the prophetic predictions of the Mother of God.
They had homeschooling programs for their kids. There were online bookstores featuring old-style Catholic spirituality titles like The Glories of Mary and True Devotion to Mary, not to mention heaps of statues and medals and rosaries and liturgical supplies. They had magazines and other sorts of publications.
When Daniel came to the office at seven, I was neck-deep in an article about why the New Mass was actually sinful and why those attending it were committing mortal sin, which meant they would go to hell because it was such a serious offense. The cure for that was to confess the terrible sin to a traditional priest.
“Hey, boss,” he said, offering me a warm smile.
“Hey,” I said, looking up from my screen and wiping at my eyes.
“Man, you’re here early.”
“Yeah,” I said, not bothering to explain why.
“So what are we doing today?”
“Looking for traditional Catholic groups,” I said. “And from what I’ve seen so far, this ain’t going to be a picnic. There are hundreds of them, if not thousands.”
“But we could narrow down the options, couldn’t we?” he asked.
Yes, we could. “How are your Internet searching skills?”
“Probably better than yours,” he said, grinning.
“I hope so,” I said. I went to his desk, nodded
Again, there was no need to specify what it was.
“Get over it?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “Fucking get over it. You’re how goddamned old now? I mean, you’re not a fucking baby, so get over it.”
My gut tightened up.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “The past is the past. What are you going to do about it now? How long are you gonna whine about this? If you knew what my father did to me! Now, that was abuse.”
There we were again.
She had yet to take responsibility for anything she had done. It was part of her sickness: she did not understand the consequences of her actions.
Without comment, I turned around and headed up the stairs.
“Where you going?” she demanded, hurt in her voice.
“I’ve got to go to work.”
III
I GOT to the office early.
Despite the publicity for the “crucified kid,” no one had come forward to identify Earl Whitehead or suggest where he might now be found. A report sent to my inbox said tips had come in concerning sightings of Frankie, but none had panned out.
I took out the notes I had made the day before and looked through them, refreshing my mind on the business of traditional Catholicism and all its many groups and splinter groups. I cranked up the Internet and began searching for traditionalist groups in Missouri and was quickly surprised to see how many of them there were. In Kansas City alone, there were about a dozen addresses to check out. Statewide, there were numerous friaries, nunneries, schools, seminaries, monasteries, Mass centers, churches, and whatnot, with no immediate way of knowing whether Frankie Peters had been involved with any of them. If we had to look nationwide….
I did not want to think about that.
As the Reverend Mother Helena had told me the day before, these folks had a thing about the New Mass, some going so far as to describe it as a “sacrilege.” Other adjectives: perfidious, loathsome, diabolical, insane, deceitful, an affront to God, an insult to Jesus Christ, a joke, a bastard rite, a bastard sacrament, a mortal sin.
Since there was a time when I used to say this “New Mass,” I found these comments quite disturbing. Were there really thousands upon thousands of Catholics in the United States on the cusp of the twenty-first century who thought the mass in English was a joke, an insult to Almighty God?
Many of the web pages I visited were drenched with old-time Catholic piety, numerous pictures of Mary and the saints, whole sites devoted to such things as the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary or devotion to the Precious Blood of Jesus or the prophetic predictions of the Mother of God.
They had homeschooling programs for their kids. There were online bookstores featuring old-style Catholic spirituality titles like The Glories of Mary and True Devotion to Mary, not to mention heaps of statues and medals and rosaries and liturgical supplies. They had magazines and other sorts of publications.
When Daniel came to the office at seven, I was neck-deep in an article about why the New Mass was actually sinful and why those attending it were committing mortal sin, which meant they would go to hell because it was such a serious offense. The cure for that was to confess the terrible sin to a traditional priest.
“Hey, boss,” he said, offering me a warm smile.
“Hey,” I said, looking up from my screen and wiping at my eyes.
“Man, you’re here early.”
“Yeah,” I said, not bothering to explain why.
“So what are we doing today?”
“Looking for traditional Catholic groups,” I said. “And from what I’ve seen so far, this ain’t going to be a picnic. There are hundreds of them, if not thousands.”
“But we could narrow down the options, couldn’t we?” he asked.
Yes, we could. “How are your Internet searching skills?”
“Probably better than yours,” he said, grinning.
“I hope so,” I said. I went to his desk, nodded
Similar Books
