There were nights I couldn’t, but any time I wasn’t working I was watching him from a distance.
I watched him live his life. I watched as he went to school at the university. Then I watched him pack his things and move away. Did I follow him? Maybe. But I once again told myself it was to see if my livelihood was going to be exposed. He didn’t know my name, but he knew what I looked like and he knew where I had committed a murder. The same murder that was covered up by the Italians.
He moved to a seminary. He’d said he didn’t have sex, that he was into his faith, but I thought he was just a waiting-until-marriage kind of guy. Not that he was becoming a priest. That tidbit made me chuckle. I sucked off a future priest.
Living almost an hour away made it harder for me to watch him as often. But I still found the time. And always from afar. I never wanted him to see me.
As the years went by, I observed him change into a mature man. His floppy curls were cut closer to the scalp. He grew a beard—which was hot, in my opinion—but it didn’t last long.
After what felt like forever, he finally graduated from the seminary. I know this because I sat and viewed from the back. My heart actually went out to him when he graduated andnobody but that goofy old roommate of his was the only one to cheer for him.
He then went to a parish outside of Boston for another year. My guy was now a deacon. I think that’s around the time I finally admitted that I was obsessed with him.
It caught me off guard when that revelation hit me.
My obsession needed to be contained. I couldn’t do this commute forever.
When the ancient priest at the church in my neighborhood passed from a heart attack, my opportunity was laid out in front of me. I knew it was the bishop who would appoint the next priest. And our Bishop had a dirty secret. He had insane gambling debts. When I approached him with the deal of a lifetime, let’s just say he couldn’t refuse.
Now, my aingeal was going to be here—at a comfortable distance—to make my obsession with him manageable.
3
EWEN
6 YEARS AFTER THE ALLEY
The drive back to Boston has been peaceful. I’ve done this drive multiple times over the years, but this time, it’s to stay. To finally lead my own parish. My dream’s becoming a reality.
I was shocked when I was given the opportunity to be the priest of Our Lady of Sorrows in the heart of Boston. I used to visit when I was in college. Its old charm drew me in originally. The building is gothic, with a haunted style architecture and beautifully vivid stained glass.
I would spend hours there. It was one of my favorite places to study for my courses, while learning more about being a priest from Father Gallagher. He was old then, and I’m surprised he didn’t retire years ago. When I’d heard he passed, I was sad, but he’s with God now, and being blessed with the opportunity to take over for such a devout man fills me with pride.
Learning that the church isn’t thriving like before causes me to stress. It’s my job to keep the parish prevailing. While Father Gallagher was aging, he started to neglect his duties ofmaintaining the church. I’m going to have my hands full getting Our Lady of Sorrows back to the beautiful place I loved. I also have plans to get the soup kitchen open regularly—it’s only open a couple days a week and I wish to have it going daily—rehab the landscaping and set up activities to bring in more youth. None of that includes my normal job of being a priest such as leading Sunday Mass, bookkeeping, and being there for the community.
A community that’s all but forgotten about this place of worship. There are still some very devout followers who grew up in the church, but they’re getting older, and the younger generations don’t believe in religion.
I want to have a church filled with faith. The pews filled with followers.
Both are tasks I’m focused on.
Meow!
The squeak of a noise comes from my passenger seat where my cat Beocca—my beloved companion named after my favorite priest from the show The Last Kingdom—sits. He was this tiny little stray I found last year, then nursed back to health. He’s my buddy, and I couldn’t give him up after I saved him.
Turning my gaze from the road for just a second to scan his carrier, I say, “I know bud. We’re less than fifteen minutes away. I’ll let you out the moment we get inside.” I stick a finger through one of the holes for him to rub up against, giving him some comfort. He mellows out instantly.
We’re meeting with Reverend Mother Helen, the abbess of the local convent. Like I said, we’re a small church with only a rectory for the priest. Our nuns come every day to help with the duties. They’ll be vital to leading the soup kitchen and easing me into community. She’ll be giving me the official tour of what will be my new home.
As I pull into the tiny lot behind the church, I’m instantly greeted by Mother Helen. She’s an older woman who remindsme of Angela Lansbury from that old showMurder, She Wrote, and I briefly wonder if she’s just as stern.
“Father Grayson it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” She gives my hand a firm shake the second I’m out of the car. “We’ve all been so excited for your arrival.” She shakes my hand a bit too firmly, eyes looking for something. Like she’s wondering if I’m fit for this job. I know I am. Being a priest has been my goal since I was a teenager.
“It’s such a joy to be here and to meet you as well,” I say as I round my Jeep to grab Beocca’s carrier. I promised he’d be out as soon as we arrived, and I am a man of my word. “Let’s head inside and you can show me where everything is.”
The nun eyes the carrier, but I’m not going to explain my companion. He’s mine and there is no rule against me having a pet. He’s usually a scaredy cat—pun intended—when it comes to meeting new people. We’ve only lived in one place before this move, and I hope the rectory is suitable for him.
Mother Helen leads us in through a back door that leads to a slim staircase going up. “This is the personal entrance for the apartment so you won’t have to go through the main church doors,” she says as she stands to the side, allowing me entry.
