Mercy Street(29)

The thing with the priests was bad, very bad. Innocent children had been approached sexually. Anthony didn’t doubt this, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that the average person was better off not knowing. For his grandparents, being Catholic was something to be proud of. Now it was a dirty joke, an easy laugh for the late-night comics. For the average Catholic, knowing had been a net loss.

Mrs. Morrison admitted that the daughter in Methuen had always been a problem. First there’d been a divorce. The lupus was probably a coincidence.

“She takes sixteen pills a day,” she reported.

There was a murmur of sympathy or dismay.

He didn’t doubt it, exactly. And yet he’d spent a good part of his childhood in the company of priests and was not approached sexually.

“That’s why I won’t go to the doctor. They’re turning us all into drug addicts.” Mrs. McGann nodded firmly, as though the question were settled. “I saw it on the news.”

St. Dymphna was the patroness of incest survivors, children raped by fathers. Her subspecialties were neurological disorders, depression, and anxiety. The modern saint was expected to multitask.

At morning Mass he studied the old people, the embers of his Church, and pondered its disintegration. The Church was like an old car driven past its limit, to the stage when everything broke down at once: brakes, transmission, the decrepit engine running hot. The Church was basically flying to pieces.

It was possible that he simply wasn’t a type of person who was approached sexually. History, certainly, had borne this out.

He’d like to meet someone his own age, a young mother, Hispanic maybe. If he could have one made to order, he’d choose a beautiful Spanish-type girl with two kids, a boy and a girl.

A little-known fact was he’d like to have a family. Not his own kids, necessarily: he wouldn’t mind taking over ones that some other guy had started. In a way, he’d prefer it. For some guys it was all ego, passing along their genes and whatnot. Anthony figured his genes were something the world could go on without.

They were better off when they didn’t know.

IN THE AFTERNOON HE TOOK THE COMMUTER BOAT INTO BOSTON, a ritual he performed weekly. The boat was uncrowded, the commuters having already commuted. The only other passengers were an old couple pushing suitcases on wheels.

A thrill in his stomach as the boat pulled away from Grantham Pier. On a clear day, which this wasn’t, you could count the islands: Sheep Island, Nut Island, Georges Island. Anthony had never been to any of these islands, but even through the fog he sensed their presence. He knew exactly where he was.

To prevent dizziness, he kept his eyes on the horizon. At one time, not long ago, this journey would have been impossible. The motion of the boat would have tripped a switch in his head.

The boat stopped briefly at the airport ferry dock. The old couple pushed their suitcases ashore, and for a full ten minutes Anthony had the boat to himself. At Long Wharf he debarked like a visiting dignitary, delivered to the City of Boston by his own private fleet.

From the pier he set out walking. The clinic sat on a busy corner. That had surprised him at first, how it was all out in the open, like a regular doctor’s office. Around the front door a small crowd had gathered. A few of them were carrying signs. He spotted only one familiar face, the old guy in the Sox cap. The rest were fair-weather protestors, which Anthony had no use for. For a few weeks a year, during Lent, they cared about the unborn. The rest of the year, the unborn could go screw themselves.

He visited the clinic once a week, one of his regularly scheduled activities in the City of Boston. A schedule, he’d learned, was a critical component of right living, one of the necessary conditions for healing to occur.

The priest at the megaphone was one he’d seen before, a big-bellied man with a booming voice. At first Anthony had liked this priest—his broad smiling face, the authority conferred by his portliness—but over time his affection had dimmed. Each time they met, the fat priest introduced himself. It was one thing to make no impression, another to be reminded of it continually. Still, he preferred the fat priest to the Franciscans, in their sandals and brown dresses, smug in their humility. The Franciscans had never given him the time of day.

In the beginning he’d been unsure where to stand, and hovered at the outer edge of the crowd. Now he took his place up front. He wanted to be close enough to see their faces, the women who’d come to kill their babies. He wanted to look them in the eye.

He found these interactions strangely exhilarating. As a boy, on a family trip to Cape Cod, he’d sat for hours in a traffic jam caused by a jumper on the Sagamore Bridge. Anthony would remember it for the rest of his life, the terrible proximity of death. Anytime he crossed a bridge, he felt a morbid thrill. Watching the pregnant women make their way into the clinic, he had a similar feeling. He was witnessing the final moments of someone’s life.

His phone was charged and ready. He kept his eyes on the door.

FROM THE CLINIC HE WENT TO TIM FLYNN’S, FOUR STOPS AWAY on the T. As per Tim’s instructions, he sent a text message from the T station: This is Anthony. I’m on my way. He made a point of using his given name, hoping Tim would take the hint, which never happened. Tim had never called him anything but Winky, for a childhood facial tic that acted up when he was nervous. Anthony hated the nickname, but from Tim he accepted it, understanding that being insulted was a part of friendship. After he bought his weed they’d smoke and have a conversation. Tim Flynn was his best friend. Buying weed was the highlight of his week.