Immaculate Heart by Camille Deangelis Page B

hopes and wishes for ourselves.
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    DECLAN
    Look, Father. If you want to tell the men in Rome or whatever that I was a part of this, I don’t care. You can tell them what I saw, as long as I don’t have to tell them.
    The boy taps his boot on the floor and runs the sleeve of his thermal shirt under his nose. His eyes rove all over the room, anywhere but at the priest. When he speaks again, his tone is less resentful than matter of fact.
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    DECLAN (CONT’D)
    You’re right about one thing. I may have seen her, and maybe I’ll keep on seeing her when we go up the hill sometimes, but beyond that, I’ve no part to play in all this.
    The recording ended abruptly, as if Father Dowd had finally lost his patience and brought his finger down hard on the STOP button. I saw the boy rise from his seat, nodding to his inquisitor only to keep from shaming his poor pious mother entirely; and after he’d gone, the priest sat looking out the narrow window into the yard behind the rectory, so mired in his infuriated thoughts that his secretary had to ask three times if he wanted any tea.

 
    5
    NOVEMBER 9
    I walked into the church expecting that Tess and I would be the only people there under the age of eighty, apart from the priest, but I was wrong. There were maybe a dozen parishioners assembled in the first few pews, and most of them were in their forties or fifties. Tess went down on her knees, clasped her hands, and bent her head. I just sat there waiting for the service to start, staring up at the half-size crucifix suspended above the altar and feeling awkward.
    Once it began, though, the Mass passed with surprising briskness. Everyone spoke the prayers at a different pace, so that there was a sort of discordant murmuring going on throughout the church. A woman in the pew behind us had apparently memorized the entire Mass, even the priest’s parts, though she uttered them so mechanically that she couldn’t have put any thought into them at all. There was no music and only two readings, and Father Lynch delivered his homily as if there were someone at the back of the church holding up a stopwatch. I looked over and saw Tess mouthing the Our Father with her eyes closed and her palms open at her sides, as if she were expecting a rather sizable gift. She didn’t seem to care that I didn’t rise for Communion.
    It was over in twenty-five minutes. On our way out of the church, we approached a middle-aged woman already deep in conversation with Father Lynch. As we came near, she looked up at us with pale startled eyes, as if she’d only just realized she hadn’t been the only person at Mass.
    â€œThat’s Mrs. Keaveney,” Tess whispered after we’d nodded to Father Lynch and passed into the vestibule. I stopped short and looked over my shoulder. “Only don’t speak to her now. ’Twould be best if you called round to her house later on.”
    I walked with Tess to the youth center, and it was still only “half eight,” as the Irish say. “It’s a bit early to be starting your workday, isn’t it?” I asked. “We could go for coffee at that place up the street?”
    â€œI’ve plenty of tea and coffee in the office. You’re more than welcome to join me.”
    I followed her upstairs and took the same seat beside her desk as Tess filled the electric kettle. “Have you much on the agenda today?” She spoke wryly, so I guessed she was still puzzled over why I wasn’t just sightseeing like any other tourist.
    â€œNot too much,” I said. “Yesterday was busier. I drove up to Sligo to see Síle—”
    â€œDid you!” Tess smiled as she drew two tea bags out of the Barry’s box. “How is she?”
    â€œShe seems to be doing well to me. The doctor acted like she was seriously disturbed, but I’d say she doesn’t belong in there at all.”
    Tess gave me a pensive look as she