"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 24

Wednesday, November 17th, 8:40 a.m.

            Fr. Dan Cavanaugh entered the St. Lawrence Rectory through the kitchen door. He had just finished celebrating morning Mass, and the two cups of coffee he drank before Mass didn’t seem to wake him up much. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and went over to the coffee maker on the counter by the sink. About a cup-and-a-half of old, cold coffee sat in the glass pot. That stuff should be able to peel paint by now, he thought, so if I heat it up in the microwave, it ought to wake me up just fine—along with peeling the lining of my stomach. The coffee probably wouldn’t taste very good, but Fr. Dan figured speed was more important than quality.

            He poured the cold coffee into a ceramic mug, then put it in the microwave for 60 seconds. While he watched the mug rotate inside the microwave, he reached over to a clock radio, turned it on and slid the little wheel until a station came in clearly. “Thank you, Jennifer,” a voice intoned from the radio. “Let’s hope they clear that accident near exit 48 as soon as possible. It’s now seventeen minutes before nine o’clock. The Channel 3 Pinpoint Weather forecast calls for partly cloudy skies today with a high only in the upper 30s. I think winter is just around the corner, folks. OK, after these words from our sponsors, we’ll have open lines until the top of the hour. I want to hear from you! Is this the work of a vigilante, or not?!”

            At the exact same time the microwave bell dinged, the front door of the Rectory rang. Fr. Dan paused for a moment in confusion, wondering why the microwave bell sounded so odd. Then he realize what happened, laughed to himself, and walked out of the kitchen toward the front door. He didn’t bother looking through the peep hole first, and swung the door open. On the top step stood Anna Rivera, looking gorgeous in a tight, form-fitting wool jacket.
            “Hi Father,” she said. “Can I come in.”

            “Sure, Anna,” Dan replied. He stepped aside to let her pass. As she walked into the building, he could see through the open door that a few of the senior citizen ladies who had just attended morning Mass were standing on the sidewalk nearby. The ladies were looking directly at Fr. Dan. He offered an embarrassed smile and nodded. The ladies did not, as far as Fr. Dan could tell, return his smile. If anything, they seemed to scowl. Or maybe he just imagined that. The priest softly muttered, “Oh brother,” and closed the door.

            After pushing the door closed, Fr. Dan turned and said, “Can I take your co—?” His mouth froze, while his eyes gazed at Anna, who arched her back briefly as she slipped her jacket from her shoulders. Under the jacket she wore a thin cotton sweater, which, when she arched her back, appeared to be two sizes too small.

            “Yes, thank you. Here’s my coat,” she said, slipping her arms from the jacket and holding it out. Fr. Dan tentatively grabbed the jacket, as if her were afraid to get too close—which in fact he was. He could feel his face blush, and he hoped she did not think he had been staring—which in fact he had been.

            Fr. Dan fumbled with the jacket, putting in on a hanger inside a small closet. “So, um, can I offer you some coffee?” he said.

            “Oh yes, thank you,” she answered. “But only if it’s already made. Don’t go to any trouble.”

            “Well, I have a little bit here,” he said as they walked toward the kitchen, “but it’s already been cooked twice, and it’s about ten years old, and uh, I’ll just make a fresh batch. It’s no trouble.”

            Even though the priest had made so many pots of coffee over the years he could do it in his sleep—which he often did, it seemed—the process of getting a clean filter, scooping in the coffee, and filling the pot with fresh water from the sink now seemed like a task he had never attempted before. Anna had the ability to fluster most men, and Fr. Dan was no exception.

            As the coffee maker finally began to gurgle, Fr. Dan motioned for Anna to sit in a chair at the kitchen table. She did, and he remained standing by the sink. “So, uh, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

            “I was wondering if you’ve heard anything from you brother, the cop, about what Jamal told us,” she said.

            “You know, that’s a good question,” Fr. Dan said. He didn’t admit that he had forgotten all about it, nor was he aware that he was the second Cavanaugh brother to let the matter completely slip his mind. “If my brother was able to find out anything, he must’ve done it by now. It’s been over a week. I’ll give him a call today, OK?”

            “That would be fine,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

            As Fr. Dan paused, trying to think of something else to say, a voice from the radio pierced the quiet kitchen. “So, Pit Bull,” the brash voice said, obviously on a phone line, “I dunno if it’s a vigilante or not, but I think it’s awesome! You got a drunk, Dykes, dead! You got a druggie, Rivera, dead! You got a child molester, Strasser, dead! It’s all good news, if you ask me, man!”

            “OK, Vern from Newington. Thanks for the call,” the announcer said with a chuckle. “I tell you, folks, you people are fired up today. You’re making my head explode!”

            The sound of an explosion came out of the small speaker. The announcer could be heard laughing in the background. Fr. Dan looked at the clock radio with puzzlement. What in the world is that all about? he wondered. Then he looked back toward the table and saw that Anna was crying. Suddenly he got it. He turned back toward the radio. They’re talking about Jitterbug! They’re laughing at the fact that he was murdered! He lunged across the counter and shut the radio off.

            “I’m so sorry,” he said.

            “Oh Father, you don’t know what it’s like,” Anna sobbed. “People who never even met Luis, who don’t know him at all, are laughing and joking and celebrating that he’s, he’s dead! Oh Father.”

            She seemed to melt onto the kitchen table, with her head slumped forward onto her crossed arms, her back and shoulders heaving with each sob.

            Fr. Dan stepped toward her and leaned down. He tentatively put his right arm around her shoulders and whispered, “It’s OK, Anna, let it out. Don’t worry about those people. They’re ignorant. They never met Jitterbug. They’ll never know what a good and kind boy he was,” he continued. “They don’t understand; they never will. Please don’t let them bother you, Anna. They’re just…ignorant. We really need to pray for them, because ‘they know not what they do.’”

            Anna lifted her head off the table, and turned to look directly at Fr. Dan. Despite the tears and the runny mascara, she still looked beautiful. “Oh Dan,” she hoarsely, “You’re so kind. You’re always thinking about the needs of others. You’re so unselfish.”

            Guess I fooled you, the priest thought, as all of his self-centered desires of the past few weeks suddenly leapt to the front of his mind. He was still bent forward at the waist, with his arm cradled around her shoulders. Without warning she pushed the chair away from the table, stood up, and clutched Fr. Dan in a powerful bear hug. She embraced him so suddenly and forcefully, he actually gasped as she squeezed the air our of him. But once he caught his breath and returned her hug by gently wrapping his arms around her back, he thought that this feeling must be what Heaven is like.

            They stayed locked in their warm and tight embrace for almost two minutes. Fr. Dan’s mind started to wander again, as it had on the night Jitterbug died. The more he hugged Anna, the more he wanted her. And the more he wanted her the more a voice screamed in his head, This is wrong, pal, wrong, wrong, wrong!

            Fr. Dan now knew why the cartoonish figures of a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other was such a universal image. He truly felt a war raging within himself, with one voice urging him, “Go for it!” while another voice pleaded, “No, don’t do it!”

            Just then the front door bell rang. Both of them flinched at the sound. “I, uh, I have to get that,” Fr. Dan said, as he separated himself from Anna.

            “Yes, yes,” she said as she wiped her tear streaked face. “I should go now. Thank you again, Dan, uh…Father.”

            They both walked to the front door as the bell rang again. Fr. Dan opened the door and saw Mrs. Mullen standing on the top step. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” she asked.

            “No, no,” Fr. Dan said, “Mrs. Rivera was just leaving.” Anna slipped her jacket on, gave a quick wave, and exited the Rectory. Mrs. Mullen stared at Anna with distain as she hurried down the steps and walked away.

            She then turned to Fr. Dan and muttered, “Well!”

            Fr. Dan closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, then said as pleasantly as possible, “So, Mrs. M., what can I do for you?”

            “Well, Father,” the woman said as she strode into the building without being invited, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I have to speak to you about the music as Mass last Sunday. It was simply unacceptable!”

            Fr. Dan smiled and shook his head again. Mrs. M., he thought to himself, You’ll never believe this, but I am actually glad you came here. I think you prevented me from doing something I would regret for the rest of my life.

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