Three to one, p.5
Three To One, page 5
Grab a handful of that blond hair, yank her over backwards, drag her out to the street. Drag her until her head slammed into a sign post. Or a parking meter, even better. A nice fantasy, but Mary knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She was never athletic. That little piece of trash had probably been fist fighting since she was in middle school. Mary was never like that. She was always smart instead. Reserved. Cool under pressure. Reasonable. How she hated it. She would give almost anything, just once, to blow her top and let people know what she really thought.
At least she was capable of thought. More than anyone could say about that little floozy. The best she could do was take her clothes off, and let strange men grope her for tips. Oh, gads, the humiliation of it. The wretchedness. To be bested by that gutter trash? Not some high-dollar prostitute. No, a mere tramp, who would let men get close enough to smell her, put dirty hands on her G-string for a dollar. A one-dollar whore. And Mary was rungs below that, apparently. How could she have ever fallen for a slab of meat that was dumber than the pallets he unloaded? There was no way to express the humiliation of this.
His red charger rumbled up slowly, off of the main road onto the little side street. Only a few yards away, but he didn’t see Mary. His eyes were glued to the bimbo, her hands reaching to the sky, shaking her goods in the middle of the parking lot for everyone to see. He coasted to a stop, and she ran up to his driver window, leaned in. Through the windshield Mary saw her put a suction hold on half his face, moving her hips and pelvis outside his window.
Perfect buns. Slender legs. So top heavy Mary doubted she could pull herself up out of that window without help. Mary started the engine. The sleek machine purred like only a jaguar could. She punched it, cranked the wheel, rounding the corner of the parking lot, headed right for the disgusting little lust birds. More gas. Speedometer whirring through numbers too fast to read. She was in a tunnel. All she could see were those damn tight buns bent over. An invisible hand yanked the wheel at the last instant, a swerve, the bimbo nearly leapt through to the passenger seat. Hopefully she bit his lips off. Mary’s tires squalled when she took the corner onto the main road. She hated herself for being too weak to do it. Too predictable. Too damn reasonable. Even in this loathsome state, Mary didn’t want to kill anyone. She just wanted to die.
September 6
Nine o’clock Friday morning, second week of September, Joe “Mac” McIntyre was about to burst with pride. He knew Patricia felt the same, even though she had grumbled and moaned for weeks after she learned Joey had enlisted. No parent can attend a USMC bootcamp graduation without feeling a surge of joy, pride, and relief.
“Patty, our little boy is a man now.”
“I know,” she said. “I can hardly believe it." He looked so lean and strong when they saw him yesterday at family day. "How do they do that in such a short time? It was like he had become a different person.”
“He’s the same person. The new upgraded version.”
“But I’m gonna miss our little boy.”
Mac nodded. “It sure went fast, didn’t it?”
“Too fast. Do you think there is any chance Joey could make it through his time in the Marines without having to see combat?”
Mac knew what this was about. She didn’t want Joey to turn out like him.
“He’s gonna be fine, Patty.”
“You say that like you know it for sure.”
“I do. I believe it with every part of me. That’s what you do. You have confidence, you think positive thoughts, and you train like hell, so you’ll be ready when it comes.”
“What ‘it’ are you talking about?”
“Nothing, Babe. Just whatever comes. Everybody faces hard times sometimes. As a Marine, you have the best training money can buy, and a long proud tradition of winning. He’s gonna do great.”
“I don’t want to think about him having to go to combat.”
“Then don’t. It won’t help him for you to dwell on that. Just believe in our young man, and in the experienced Marines who are going to go with him wherever he goes. He’s gonna be fine.”
“Here they come!” she said.
“Yep. Sure enough.” A quarter mile away, a massive block of muscle and whoop ass was coming toward them, stepping with precision to the crisp cadence of a drill sergeant, his voice clear even at this distance.
“Yo’ left. Yo’ left. Yo’ left. Right. Left.”
When Mac saw the red, white, and blue, he snapped to attention. He might be a couple decades older, but his salute was still razor crisp. As he saw the columns go by, rank and file, perfect synchronization, his throat was tight, and his eyeballs were on the verge of sweating. They all stopped, and the parade ground became silent. The Marine Corps Marching Band belted out the first few notes of the Star-Spangled Banner. He could never hear those powerful strains without becoming emotional. At the end of the song, everyone on the parade ground was locked into form, motionless. In the stands, women were digging in purses for Kleenex, men were gritting their teeth.
Silence settled like a heavy blanket. A bird of prey let out a long screech somewhere nearby, and it seemed perfect for the moment. Out of nowhere, a red-tail hawk swooped down and flew the length of the spectator stands, at eye level. Mac could hear the wind off of her wings. It was like a sign to let him know God had ordained this moment. In all his military career, there was never a moment more proud than this one, present to witness his son graduate, a bonified U.S. Marine.
Patty had not been in favor of Joey following in his Daddy’s footsteps. Lord knows, it ain’t an easy life, but for those cut out for it, no other life could even come close. To be fair, it’s probably harder on the wives and kids than the Marines themselves. The Marines have a mission. A purpose. Camaraderie. Even the long deployments overseas had a sense of adventure, and the combat tours… well, honestly, they were hellish. But Mac had never felt more alive than when he was fighting to keep his Marines from being killed. Most men live their entire lives and never know what that feels like.
For better or worse, they were a Marine Corps family. Patty stood at his side throughout the long years, supporting him, believing in him, waiting at home for him, from the time he was a new recruit, until the day of his retirement as a Gunnery Sergeant. And now here she was again today. Mac didn’t look over at her, but he heard her sniffle, and knew that she was as proud of their son in this moment as he was. As proud, and also as filled with trepidation.
Nobody could ever know the hardships and danger Joey would face during his years of service. But Mac knew that whatever he faced, he would rise to the challenge, and be a man of the highest honor and integrity. Little Joey, now PFC McIntyre, USMC. It was hard to believe how fast the time had flown. Mac knew the politicians had the world charged up like a powder keg that could explode at any minute. These Marines look invincible, but Mac knew all too well they were only human. God bless America. The thought made his guts twist just a little. And God, protect my son, he thought. All marines are trained to feel bullet proof. But nobody ever knows when their number’s gonna come up. It usually comes when you least expect it.
At three in the afternoon on a Friday, the library was almost empty. A few serious students studying, people not much younger than Peregrine. He knew these were the students he would have the most in common with. He smiled to think it would be an interesting research project. Keep track of what students worked in the library on Friday afternoon, and how many hours they spent there. Then compare the data with class ranking at the end of their four year career, to search for correlation. It would be a decent master’s thesis project for an education major.
Peregrine headed for the Reference Section. He wanted to start there, to find some reliable resources for the study of Cosmology. His plan was to gather a list of the prevailing theories. Some of them he already knew, because everyone knew them, but he was sure he would also encounter some hypotheses he knew nothing about. The hypotheses were not really his main focus. More than anything, he wanted to drill down to the people who developed the prevailing theories and find out what had informed their hypotheses. The question in his mind was “What has been the relationship between religion and science through history?”
He already knew Einstein believed in intelligent design. He felt he was standing on solid ground with that knowledge alone, but he wanted to know if there had been others who were legitimate scientists, and also open to the concept of intelligent design. Professor Blumstein was so set in her ways, he knew he would not be able to defend his counter position, without solid empirical data.
September 7
By the time Sister Mary Frances had left with young Elza, it was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. John needed to get back to the parish and get situated for the sacrament of reconciliation. He was unlocking the door to his car when he heard a friend’s voice.
“Fr. John?” He turned.
“Yes, Virginia?”
“Thank you for being here and showing such great leadership. You did amazing work with Elza.”
“Thanks, but truthfully I didn’t have much to do with it. Sister Mary Frances is the one that made the difference. She really has a nice way with people.”
“She does. So I guess the Holy Spirit used you both to effect today. I have to admit I was pretty deflated this morning. I feel like our cause has been set back ten years.”
“I know, Virginia. It is sad. We’re going to miss him. But if today teaches us anything, it is proof positive that it isn’t any one person who will save these children. We need a lot of people doing what they can, and the Holy Spirit will fill in the gaps.”
Later that afternoon, Father John was surprised when the door of the reconciliation room opened with no knock to announce it. Gabby stepped in, her posture slightly stooped by age but her head as high as she could manage.
“Good afternoon, Father.”
“Good afternoon, Gabby.” Oh boy. He remembered how cranky she looked this morning when she stomped off from the group of volunteers at the Life choice League. She didn’t seem any better now. She is a child of God. The fact that she doesn’t like her pastor does not affect that in the least. She sat down in the chair and seemed to brace herself for a difficult task.
“It has been three weeks since my last confession.”
Father John smiled to break the tension.
“May the Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Gabby fidgeted and looked down. “I – I am a good person.”
John nodded.
“I’ve been in this parish for longer than you have been alive.”
“Okay…”
“I feel that a person has a certain responsibility to take action when one sees that decisions are being made which will harm the parish.”
Oh brother. Here we go. This is going to be a doozie. “Gabby, I know you feel a responsibility to the parish. That is admirable, up to a point. But tell me, why are you here, requesting this sacrament today?”
Gabby stared at her hands, folded in her lap.
“I… I may have said some things which were unkind.”
Maybe this was a chance for their relationship to turn a corner. She did tend to be caustic in her remarks, but he would gladly forgive and forget if she would try to be more reasonable.
“Okay. Did you have a disagreement with someone, and say something you now regret?”
“Well… No. I may have said some unkind things about someone who was not present in the conversation.”
“Oh. You may have, or you did?”
She looked up at him with a defiant glint.
“I did. God help me, I did. But you make me so mad, sometimes Father, I can’t help myself. You are so opinionated. You think you know the right way to do everything, and you are so critical of anyone who tries to show some initiative.”
John drew a breath, made a conscious effort to remain calm. She was on a roll.
“You come to this parish, barely an adult, fresh from seminary, and start changing things, without even asking why we do things the way we do. The way things have been done for decades, and you run rough shod over everything with your new and progressive ideas. I cannot tolerate it. I can’t stand for it. You are ruining this parish. Somebody has to say something.”
John looked at her, careful not to show any emotion.
“I see.”
Gabby stared at him a moment longer, then looked back down at her hands.
“Gabby, I was ordained fourteen years ago. I have been a priest for almost a decade and a half. It is not as if I am without experience to draw upon.”
“And all of that does not amount to even a quarter of the perspective I have. So, pardon me if I am not impressed by your credentials and vast experience.”
A moment of silence seemed the absolute minimum, to let the air clear. He chastised himself for letting her draw him into conflict. He was not here to represent himself, but Christ.
“I ask again, Gabby, why are you here?”
“For absolution.”
“Okay. Absolution for what?”
“You know.”
John took a cleansing breath. She is a child of God. And she is probably going through struggles I know nothing about.
“Normally, people come to confession because they have sinned, and regret it. They come here to repent, ask God for forgiveness, to resolve to do better, with his grace.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
John looked at her, allowing some quiet to build. She did not look up at him.
“Gabby,” he said gently, “A prerequisite for receiving absolution is remorse.”
“Hmmf.” She looked sideways; her lips pursed.
“Do you feel remorse for these things you’ve said? About… me?”
She looked back to him, less fire in her eyes, defiance maybe smoldering down into mere stubbornness.
“I don’t know how I feel.”
Father John nodded. She looked away again.
“Gabby, might I suggest that you give yourself some time to process this? Take as much time as you need to discern, to go through a good examination of conscience, and then when you are more sure of how you feel, come back for absolution if you feel it is needed.”
“You are refusing me absolution?” Her face was turning to anger now.
“Gabby, you haven’t even reached the conclusion that you’ve sinned, let alone experienced remorse. I don’t think you are ready to come to reconciliation yet. Give it some time.”
“Well, I never.”
“Gabby, this is not any sort of slight against you. As a priest, I cannot forgive sins which you don’t feel you’ve committed. To do so would be judgmental on my part. I will say this; I forgive you. Even if you don’t feel any remorse. If you’ve said hateful things about me to others, I forgive you. That is my duty as a Christian.”
“I never said I had been hateful.”
“Okay, but whatever it was, I forgive you for wrongs you may have committed against me, though it pains me to know I don’t have your support in my efforts to lead the parish.”
“Hmmf.” She said. “A good leader knows when to listen to those with more experience than he.”
“Okay, Gabby. I think we’ve accomplished about all we can here today. I would be happy to discuss any complaints you have, but this is not the appropriate setting for debating parish management. That should be done in the Church office. Feel free to call for an appointment, and we’ll talk. For now, let me give you a blessing, and you can be on your way. May God, the Lord of mercy and forgiveness, ease your mind, settle any anxiety in your heart, and grant you his peace.”
She nodded, her indication that she would accept that, and said “Amen.”
With that, she got up and walked out. John rubbed his temples with his fingers. That was clumsy. Maybe he really wasn’t a good fit for this parish. Maybe everyone would be better off if he resigned, walked away, let someone more effective take over.
Shawn was on the fourth floor of one of Boston’s public parking garages. At six o’clock Saturday evening, it was deserted. Still, he looked around carefully before pulling out the envelope.
“Listen, Kneecap. I don’t want to know the details. All I’m going to say is it has to happen soon, and it has to look like an accident.”
“Yeah, man. I gotcha. You sure you don’t want me to work on one of the planes?”
“Do you know anything about planes?”
“How hard can it be? A bolt here, a rivet there. I never understood how those things can stay up anyway.”
“No. Not one of the planes. Keep it simple.”
“But I’ve never got to do a plane before. I could maybe give a discount.”
“Just” Shawn took a breath to calm himself. “Kneecap, just stick to what you know, okay? There are no style points here. Just cash, to do a simple job in a simple way. And no mistakes.”
Kneecap gave him an ugly stare. The guy was unusually tall, and his skinny arms looked to be made of steel cables.
“If this thing goes off well," Shawn said, "the rest of the money will be delivered to you, and you won’t hear from me again. If it doesn’t, you’re going to hear from someone else. Understand?”
Kneecap took a step closer “Man, don’t threaten me.” He glared down at Shawn with an unmistakable menace. “I used to take lunch money from guys like you.”
“Just get it done.” Shawn stepped back, felt like he was still within the guy’s reach, stepped back again.
“Oh, it’ll get done, alright. And when it’s done, you’re gonna owe me an apology. And some style points.”
Father John sat down on his couch and put his feet up. He was about to reach for the television remote when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, John, this is Mary Frances.”
