“What sorts of things were said?”
But Father Marcellus shook his head.
“We all agreed not to share what was said in that room,” he said. “Just as I promise you now that I will not share anything that is said here. I will only share with others that such a meeting took place.”
“You promise?”
He nodded. It was just what I needed to hear—the knowledge that he would not say anything back. If I could trust only one person, it was him.
“Father... at this point, I can accept that my father betrayed the club. As much as it pains me to say that, I accept it as fact. But... it’s still so damn hard for me to forgive what happened elsewhere. I can’t forget that Butch just... just fucking murdered my father. I saw him...”
Father Marcellus looked at me with compassionate, caring eyes, but for now, he let me have all the space I needed to speak. He did not seek to console, but to understand.
“I saw him place a damn bullet between my father’s eyes. The last thing my father would ever see before he died was a gun from his... well, maybe not friend, maybe not even ally, but someone he once depended upon for help pointed at him. And then, bam. He’s gone. And to have the audacity to show up at the funeral...”
“That was my decision.”
I gasped. Father Marcellus? Really?
“They debated going to the funeral and, in fact, at one point decided it was not wise for them to do,” he said. “I counseled them that though you would hate them in the moment, though it would have the appearance of being mocking and condescending, at some point, it would be appreciated.”
“Appreciated?” I said with a mocking chuckle.
“Life is indeed short, but in many ways, it has many twists and turns that can make it seem quite long. Someday—and that day may only be on your death bed—you will appreciate what they did. They did not come out of malevolence, Austin. I can promise you that. They came to pay respects to a man who was wonderful to them for nearly three decades. One bad year does not erase the good that your father did and the relationships he developed.”
Maybe so.
But still...
“What would you do in my spot, Father?” I said. “You witness your own father murdered. Not just murdered, but by your allies. Yes, you learn your father was a bad man. But he wasn’t a bad man to you. What would you have me do?”
Father Marcellus nodded slowly.
“Do you know why I became a chaplain, Austin?”
I shook my head.
“I was in the high school many years ago when my mother was murdered by some criminals who were robbing her home. The very act drove me mad. I didn’t retaliate with murder, but that was only because I got pulled away before I could kill one of them. They got caught and sent behind bars before I could do any more. For years—literally years, decades, in fact—I stewed in anger and hatred. I crippled myself by having such disdain and disgust for them.”
He sighed.
“And then, over time, I realized that it wasn’t like I could telepathically send my vengeance toward them. I could not hurt them by hating them—and even if I could, it wouldn’t make things better. It would not bring my mother back. I had to find peace from within, not from outside. And so...”
He chuckled.
“Of course, I wasn’t ready to give up the secular lifestyle quite so much, as you well know,” he said, drawing a short laugh from both of us. “Doing something like becoming a Catholic priest was out of the question. But there was very much a spiritual journey of sorts that I had to undergo in order to get to this spot. And it was through that spiritual journey that I became the man I am today. Am I perfect? No. I don’t even mean on the things the purists would say are sins, like alcohol and relationships. I have shot at men before. I have used violence. But...”
He sighed.
“Maybe I’m just an old man who’s trying to justify why he did things a certain way. But here’s what I’m ultimately getting at. Eventually, Austin, you have to move forward. You have to give yourself permission to forgive those who murdered your father. You must, hard as it is, empathize with them.”
I understood it, even though most of it was unsettling.
“By no means am I saying be friends with them, just so we are clear,” he added quickly, as if picking up on my hesitation. “That may never happen again. A friendship, most especially a club friendship, is something much deeper. But you should at least reach the point where you see Lane, Butch, or any of the Black Reapers and do not feel such anger and disgust.”
The funny thing was, though, I was already beginning to feel that way. Having seen the Black Reapers’ clubhouse as devastated as it was made it that much more real for me. I still couldn’t envision myself breaking bread with any of the officers, but at least we could share the same conclusion on two ideas.
One, the Fallen Saints were an absolute menace that needed to be stopped.
