“Good afternoon, Father McKenzie. I wanted to have a word on a matter of some importance. I hope this a convenient time.” The same limp, clammy hand he remembered reached out and went through the motion without expression. Donovan felt an overwhelming sense of revulsion as he met McKenzie’s droopy, amphibian eyes. He withdrew his hand from McKenzie quickly, as if he’d touched something putrid. He felt the nausea well up, fought it back, and forced a weak smile.
“It’s Professor Donovan, now, I understand,” McKenzie said, without smiling. “What a pleasure! What brings you to this neck of the woods? We’re not inclined to have many distinguished alumni stop by our humble hamlet.”
Donovan looked around the room, noted several photos of a young Des McKenzie smiling, posing with African natives, and one with him holding a shotgun, his foot on a slain wildebeest—Hemingway style—looking every inch the proud hunter. No other pictures of family or friends adorned the sparsely furnished room.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Donovan began, “This may take a bit of time, and I’ve already been standing a while.”
“Of course,” McKenzie said pleasantly. “Please make yourself comfortable, my good man. You have my undivided attention.”
Father McKenzie edged slowly around his large roll-top desk and sunk down in his worn leather chair. He placed both index fingers in a V under his jowls, fixed his pale eyes on Donovan, and waited. Donovan took up the hard wooden chair facing the desk and window, looked directly into McKenzie’s bloated face, and launched.
“I think you know why I’m here. I should have done this well before now, but better late than never, I suppose. I thought time would heal the damage you inflicted with your assault and rape of me in the vestry on that May morning in 1977.” As he said this, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on McKenzie’s face, who sat with a vacant expression, shifting his gaze to a spot on the roll-top desk.
“But it never has healed,” Donovan continued. “In fact, it seems to get worse each year. The damage seems to be permanent, and my life has been irrevocably damaged. So I have a few questions for you, as my rapist, which might help me get some perspective, maybe even closure. At the very least, they’ll satisfy my curiosity.”
From Donovan’s first word to that point, McKenzie had maintained a perfect poker face. The only tell was a slight reddening around his starched collar as the words “my rapist” floated across the secluded study.
“What would you like to know, Herr Professor?” McKenzie asked, with a smirk, which inspired a murderous impulse in Donovan that frightened him with its raw intensity. He paused, looking at McKenzie’s disdainful face, and waited till his pulse stopped racing before speaking.
“Oh, a lot,” Donovan said quietly. “For openers, why did you do it? And why me? Did you molest the other altar boys, too—Mylie, Noel, Sean, Bernie? Did you enjoy it, or was it to punish me for the knife incident? Did you ever confess it? Did you ever regret it? Did you think of yourself as a rapist, or do you now? Or as sadistic and violent? Or were you serious about that ‘rite of passage’ crap you ran out on me that morning? Oh, and yes—one more thing: are you still molesting innocent boys and getting away with it?”
Donovan finished the barrage in a raised, accusatory voice and, oddly, as he did so, McKenzie seemed to relax—just as he had that May morning back in 1977, as he drove Billy home after the rape.
“Well, now, that’s quite a list, Professor,” he said, exhaling noisily. “I could never remember half of it—all so daft! Why you? Hmmm! That’s the only one that matters, isn’t it? That’s the one you’re REALLY interested in, isn’t it?” This with red-faced vehemence, as he rose and walked around from behind the roll-top, pacing up and down, still without eye contact.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” McKenzie said, pacing faster back and forth in front of Donovan. “You were an arrogant little bollix who needed to learn a lesson. You were always a whiner, and I hate whiners; they are and always have been the bane of my existence. They never accept responsibility for their own shite; always the victim; it’s always someone else’s fault. Never theirs.” As he said this, he finally met Donovan’s gaze with a look of pure malice.
“My Da was a whiner,” he continued, turning abruptly to stand in front of the window, his back to Donovan. “He drank us out of house and home before leaving, but it was always Mammie’s fault. He told me so when I talked to him right after I was ordained. What a worthless coward! I hated the ground he walked on.”
As if suddenly remembering that Donovan was still in the room, McKenzie faced him and said. “When you refused to accept responsibility for the sin of coveting your neighbor’s goods, being a common thief, but still blaming it on…I can’t recall that other boy’s name?”
“Mylie Roach,” Donovan prompted.
“Yes, of course, Mylie; it’s been so long,” McKenzie said. “Anyway, when you insisted on blaming Mylie, it struck me as high time you learned your lesson, one you wouldn’t forget. The whiners may call it rape; we called it a ‘rite of passage.’ I’d seen these rites of passage work fine in Africa. As I told you at the time, the elders found it made men out of those boys. Thought I’d do you a favor as a fatherless boy, help you grow up in a hurry. I must admit, the water treatment was my own idea. Of course, you fought like a demon, something I’d never imagined having to cope with. The rest seemed natural enough. Quite pleasurable, really. Is this the kind of detail you were hoping for?”
McKenzie said this as though he were selling vacuum cleaners to an interested customer, looking up for approval with an expectant air.
Donovan, incredulous and disgusted, took a deep breath, glanced quickly out the window, not trusting himself to look directly at the despicable figure in front of him.
“Oh, it’s definitely along the right lines. Very helpful. Please carry on.”
“What else were you curious about?”
“Who else? Were there others?”
“Oh, come now. Surely we’re not here for prurient gratification. That’s a personal matter, not likely to be a subject I discuss with strangers. Unlike you, Mr. Donovan, I’ve always accepted responsibility for my actions, and that’s why I’m not playing the victim 25 years on.”
Donovan— fighting an urge to whip out the gun and stuff it into McKenzie’s smirking, ugly mouth, and blow those nasty brains to high heaven—took another deep breath, then suddenly had a jolting spark of clarity that felt like the lights coming on in a dark room—a true epiphany.
He smiled with relief at the new insight and the change of direction McKenzie’s peroration had just inspired.
“Right, fair point,” Donovan replied. “I could see where that would be irritating to a man in your position. I was just wondering if you ever reflected on being a rapist or walked a mile in the shoes of the victim of your violence. But in a way, you’ve already answered that. There are no victims in your world. Right? Just…how would you classify all those people who have bad things happen to them through no fault of their own? Oh, I forgot… ‘whiners,’ right? You’ve already answered that. I’m a bit slow on the uptake, Des. Not like you; always one step ahead.”
With that, Donovan stood, pausing before the massive desk. “Could I ask you one more favor?”
McKenzie, looking chipper, smiled and said, “Be my guest, Professor. How can I help?”
“I’d like to meet you in the chapel for confession in the morning,” Donovan said. “I know you say 7 o’clock mass, so perhaps just before that. I have a plane to catch, but I really need to go to confession with you before I leave. I think it will help me to stop being a whiner, to get some closure and move on with my life.”
McKenzie nodded solemnly, satisfied he’d handled this annoying situation with efficiency and firmness. He extended a clammy hand and said, “Music to my ears, Professor. Anything I can do for a star pupil. I’ll see you at 6:30 in the confession box.”
Donovan shook the limp hand, exchanged perfunctory smiles with McKenzie, and Mrs. Griffith saw him out, chatting away.
“I hope you come back and visit us soon. People won’t believe me when I tell them I spoke with the famous Billy D. Did ya know they dedicated the recreation center in Kilkenny to Tommy Dixon? It’s now the Dixon Center for Fitness and Martial Arts. You should stop by; there are photos of you with your trophies in the front lobby.”
“That’s good to know, Mrs. Griffith. How’s Tommy doing these days? Is he still farming?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Donovan. He’s been at Craigmore Nursing Home in Kilkenny for the past five years or so. A bit feeble, like all the rest of us.” She laughed and said, “I’m sure he’d love to see you. He was always so proud of you. Craigmore’s on the main road, just past Mt. Juliet Resort.”
Donovan thanked her and left.
As he walked down the driveway toward the car, he felt an indescribable surge of energy and lightness he could never remember feeling, like a man who’d just walked away from a terrible train wreck, one that could have maimed him for life.
On his way back to Glendunne, Donovan drove into Naas—a bustling commercial center—and found a camera store in the center of town. He purchased a back-up battery for his digital Canon 510, checking with the salesman for how long it would hold the full charge.
He took a brief detour driving back to Brennan’s B&B. He crossed the Barrow Bridge, pulled over at the lay-by, and tossed the gun and box of ammo into its brown, murky depths. He smiled as he watched the river gurgle on, undisturbed by its new secret, as if the deposit had never happened.
Reflecting on the near miss, he laughed out loud at the simplicity and clarity of his revised plan, feeling delighted that McKenzie had been so true to form— cruel and superior. This was going to make things so much easier than if his molester had become a repentant and humbled servant of God.
Donovan got back in the Vauxhall. He gazed at the river’s calming flow and opened the car windows, savoring the delicate scent of the heather blowing in from the Blackstairs, blending with the lilac hedge he’d parked beside. He tuned in the radio, searching for Radio Eireann’s traditional ballad program. He was delighted to find Nora White singing, “The Rose of Allendale”—another of his all-time favorites, sung by a world class voice, he thought. He turned on the recorder in his smart-phone, and tested it to make sure in was working—reminding himself he was going to need this later if his plan was to succeed.
He played back “The Rose of Allendale” on the voice recorder, pleased that he’d captured such a fine rendition. It was good to be home, he reflected, in his own culture, singing the beloved chorus at the top of his lungs—a free man seeking justice, not a murderous stalker with a Saturday Night Special in his gabardine pocket. He smiled, started the car, and stepped on the accelerator, hugging the narrow curves with the Astra’s bumper, rallying at breakneck speed, all the way to Glendunne House.
As Donovan pulled into the driveway, Sheila Brennan, his host’s daughter, drove in behind him in a BMW, several bikes strapped to the roof-rack. She waved to him, brunette curls swirling around her high cheekbones. As she reached to unload the bikes, still in her green shorts, it struck Donovan that his first impression was right—this woman was absolutely gorgeous. She had the kind of rare Celtic beauty seen only on travel brochures and videos sponsored by the tourist board. And her gap-toothed smile was sexy.
“Can I give you a hand with the bikes?” he ventured, riveted on the green eyes and the enticing, gap-toothed smile.
“Sure,” she said, “Maybe I can entice you to come on one of our tours. They’re great craic, you know. We make all the arrangements—all you have to do is pedal.”
“Well, that’s quite an offer,” Donovan said. “What are you doing for dinner tonight? I need a tour guide to sort out the complex cuisine of Kilkenny.”
“You mean the choice between varieties of fish n’ chips,” she said, laughing. “I’d love to have dinner with you, and I know just the place—right here. Mother is away for the night. You can help me cook; fresh salmon okay?”
“It’s my absolute favorite,” Donovan exulted. “I’ll nip into Cavanagh’s liquor store and get us some wine. What do you like?”
“Oh, any Chardonnay is fine. I’m not fussy. They have a good selection. You can’t go wrong.”
Before stopping at the liquor store, Donovan went back to his room, dialed a Dublin number, and waited. No one picked up. After he’d showered and changed for dinner, he called again, this time with more luck. “Hello, Sean,” he said, “you’ll never guess who this is! No clue? It’s Billy Donovan—down home on a bit of business.” They chatted briefly, ending with an assurance from Donovan. “No, Sean. You have my word on it. Tell your editor to hold a full page. You’re guaranteed to fill it. This’ll make international headlines. Can’t hurt your career one bit. Right so. See you there around 7. Rathmore chapel. Might be smart to drive down tonight; it’s farther than it appears on the map.”
At the liquor store, Donovan bought two bottles of Australian Chardonnay and a bottle of McCallan’s 18—his favorite single malt scotch.
Back in the Brennans’ well-appointed kitchen, Sheila and Sean cooked dinner and ate in an intimate little parlor with a cozy fireplace, off the main dining room.
By the time they’d finished the salmon, a bottle and a half of the Australian chardonnay, most of the McCallan’s, and said goodnight at the bottom of the stairs, they’d heard each other’s life stories. Almost.
Donovan had heard about Sheila’s career as a volunteer with Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), her failed marriage to a French pediatrician she’d met in medical school; and her love of poetry, dance, and all sports, especially hiking and biking.
For his part, Donovan did not reveal his ordeal back in Killgarson or his mission in Rathmore. He didn’t have to tell her about the kick- boxing; like everyone else within miles, it seemed, she already had him pegged as a local legend.
He thought it only fair, however, to tell her about of his three failed marriages, but not the details. She learned about his love of linguistics, of women in general, and his commitment to keeping his relationships platonic. She wondered why, and he said, “It just seems to work out better that way. They last longer. I got tired of losing good friends to moonlight and roses.” She smiled and let it go.
It was eight hours from their first glass of McCallan’s—3:00 a.m.—when they decided to call it a night. They embraced for a long time at the bottom of the stairs, she standing one step above him, so she was almost at his height. Finally, they stepped back, holding hands, gently letting go, reluctantly, without a word. Just long, soulful eye contact as she backed up the stairs. She threw him a kiss from the landing and flashed her wonderful smile before turning away.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor and closing his bedroom door, aware of her presence one floor down, Donovan was filled with that familiar rush of desire— aching, surging, visceral longing, in multiple shades of orange and red. There was no getting around that familiar feeling: he was falling in love. Again.
Perhaps it was the McCallan’s, he mused, as he climbed into the cold, single bed. Maybe in the sober, gray light of morning, it would all evaporate. Maybe she’d be all business, focused on her bike tour, tonight being just a romantic fantasy in his single-malted imagination. Whatever it was, it would have to wait till after the confession, now just hours away. He set the alarm on his smart phone for 5:30 a.m. and was instantly asleep.
Donovan woke—a minute later, it seemed—to the voice of his favorite Irish poet, Conrad Fitzduff, asking why do we bother getting up in the morning? He smiled at the alarm clock voice, poked the blinking smart phone off, and was on the road to Rathmore after a few cursory ablutions. No breakfast. Better to fast for the task at hand; he’d have a clearer head.
Arriving in the village, this time he parked some distance from the chapel, counting on a brisk walk to shake the hangover, get the blood flowing, and rehearse the plan one more time. He entered the chapel at exactly 6:30 a.m., aware that he’d be the only one present. The Sisters—ten aging nuns from the Our Lady of Lourdes Convent in Rathmore —would not be there until 7:00, the scheduled time for the morning mass.
Donovan stepped into the confessional, knelt on the cushioned pad and recalled the last time he’d been to confession. It had been in Killgarson, with Father McKenzie, the day he’d told him about the knife and being a fence. That’s how it all began. Now, this is where it would all end, when the crooked places were set straight.
McKenzie breezed in, a few minutes late, his green vestments on, robe shining in the morning light as he pulled back the screen to allow that small window of access to the penitent. Donovan immediately went into the ritual so well ingrained.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
McKenzie crossed himself, saying out loud, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. How long since your last confession?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Oh, my! You must have a lot to confess after all this time. But glad to see you’ve come back to the fold. What do you have to confess, my son?”
“I allowed my rapist to go free for 25 years without ever reporting him.”
(to be continued next Friday)