McKenzie drew a sharp breath, pausing, before continuing. “And did you participate in this sin in any willful way?”
“No, Father. I was assaulted and forced to submit, but I should have told my mother at the time. I was ashamed and afraid, but I now know that I was wrong not to tell. That’s my fault. I committed a mortal sin by not having the courage to report this molester, but now I plan on making things right, beginning with this confession.”
“What do you intend to do, my son?
“Well, Father, to begin with, I decided to allow the molester a chance to repent so that I wouldn’t have to kill him. He wasn’t worth the sacrifice of my own life, too. I have it all worked out; it’s called a rite of passage.”
“Is that all, my son?”
“There is one other thing, Father. I’d like you to listen to something you may find interesting.”
Donovan poked the blinking face of his smart-phone application marked, “Voice recorder: 0007,” and the stern, high- pitched voice of Des McKenzie began: “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.”
Donovan stopped the recorder and slid it back in his pocket before speaking.
“Thought you might want to hear what my molester sounded like before you give me absolution and a penance.” Donovan said this in an even tone of voice, loud enough for anyone in the chapel outside to hear.
McKenzie, flushed with anger and confusion, gave up all of his formal pretense at hearing the confession. “Look, Mr. Donovan, I think it’s time this little charade came to a close. There will be no absolution or penance. I have no idea what you think you’re up to, but if you think blackmail is going to work here…”
“No, no, Des, you have it all wrong. I know it’s not up to me to grant you absolution. That’s way above my pay grade. What I can do is grant you forgiveness … for stealing my childhood and making me ashamed and panic–stricken for twenty-five years. I forgive you, and more importantly, I forgive myself for whatever part I may have played as victim or whiner. I thank you for pointing that out, really.
“Our talk last night was inspirational,” Donovan continued. “I’m here this morning to bring you a gift, a rite of passage, one I think you’ll find immensely beneficial, if somewhat difficult at first. I will promise not to give this tape to my reporter friend from The Irish Times—who is sitting in the chapel at this moment waiting for what I told him would be breaking news. Instead, I will give you a chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the parish. ‘Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’ Isn’t that the word of God that we all accept?”
McKenzie, suddenly aware that he might have walked into a trap, lowered his voice to a whispering hiss. “How do you suggest I do this? Walk out there and tell these old biddies I had relations with you twenty-five years ago? You must be mad.”
“No, I’m honestly trying to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Donovan said. “ ‘Assume the best’ is my policy. But first, I want to hear your confession, as a kind of dress rehearsal. Then I want you to do it for real, in public, before a nice, intimate gathering here in Rathmore. Trust me; as I said, I have it all worked out.”
McKenzie, sweating profusely, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, was growing increasingly irate. “Listen, Donovan, if you think you can come in here and intimidate me like this, you have another thing coming. People here trust me, with good reason. Who’s going to believe some violent, kickboxing Yank?” Donovan smiled. “That may be true at the moment. But by the time we’re through here, the world will know who I really am and, more importantly, who you really are, Des.”
McKenzie wiped the sweat from his face, looked at Donovan with the fear of a cornered animal in his eyes, and decided on a change on a change of tactics.
“Look, Billy, it’s not going to do any good to bring this kind of disgrace to this village. You may think it’s just going to hurt me, but you’re going to hurt a lot of innocent people who deserve better. Think of all those boys and their parents. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Donovan laughed out loud. “Wow! Suddenly a concern for the boys and their parents. Des, you are really a piece of work.”
McKenzie leaned forward, his hands pressed together in a prayerful gesture. “Please, Billy, you don’t want to do this. I have my flaws, I admit it, but this caper is just going to get you arrested. Let us just both walk away from this, and I promise not to press any charges.”
“Too late!” Donovan declared, almost shouting, then lowered his voice. “I’ve set too many wheels in motion already. I don’t think you want to read the headlines in the Irish Times tomorrow with your picture under large print that says:
‘Father Desmond McKenzie, Accused Pedophile in Rathmore Denies Allegations.’ Surely you don’t want to join the whiners by claiming you were a victim?”
“For God’s sake, man, will you keep your voice down?” McKenzie pleaded. “I’ll be a laughing-stock in this village; they’d never understand. What do you want me to do? This is ridiculous.”
“As I just said, I want to hear your confession, so that I know you have a clear conscience. Then I want you to follow a few simple instructions that will put all this behind us; you’ll take full responsibility for your actions, and we can all move on. Neither whiners or victims. Just mortal men seeking grace and redemption.”
“This is outrageous! But,” McKenzie conceded, “I don’t see that I have a choice. This is blackmail, so don’t give me any of this claptrap about grace and redemption. You’ll burn in hell for this.”
Donovan leaned closer to McKenzie and said, “I can see this is difficult for you, Des, but you’ll feel better afterwards. We always do, once we’ve completed a rite of passage, hard as it might appear at the time. Here’s the thing I want you to understand: I’m determined to give us both a chance for a new beginning. I was going to kill you; I even bought a gun. And you know something? I know that God would have forgiven me, as a matter of justice. Because if anyone ever deserved to die, it’s you, Des. But seeing you yesterday inspired me to show mercy, to give you a chance, and not to have you die unrepentant, with all those crimes on your conscience.”
“Can we get on with this?” McKenzie said. “I have a mass to conduct in a few minutes.”
“It should be easy, Des,” Donovan said. “All we need is the truth of what happened on that May morning in ‘77, nothing more or less. No need for embellishments.”
Donovan set up the Canon 550 with the video cam focused on McKenzie’s sweating face and whispered: “I hope you don’t mind if I record this. It’s something posterity will find invaluable, don’t you agree?” McKenzie said nothing, just bowed his head and crossed himself.
“Des,” Donovan said emphatically, “I will now hear your confession. Kneel down and take it from the top.”
McKenzie knelt obediently, pressed his cross to his sweaty lips and began.
“Bless me, Lord, for I have sinned.”
Donovan crossed himself and began the ritual: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. How long since your last confession?”
“Ten years.”
“You must have a lot on your conscience.”
“I do. I’m guilty of sodomy, assault, and violation of my celibacy vows over many years and on multiple occasions.”
“Can you be more specific? How many years? How many occasions?”
“Thirty years. Dozens of occasions, too many to recall.”
“An estimate will do. Roughly how many?”
“At least 25, maybe more. I lost count. Most were the altar boys over the years, and a few other consensual partners in the seminary and with a lover in Africa.”
“Anything else?’
“No.”
“Do you repent your sins and vow to turn away from them in the future? Say it, Des!”
“Yes. I’m truly sorry for all the harm I’ve caused. I’ve been an evil person. I’m sorry…as God is my witness.”
“Now for your penance.”
“No!” McKenzie shouted, forgetting himself momentarily. Lowering his voice, he said, “You must be mad if you think I’m going to accept penance from some jumped up Yank!”
Donovan ignored McKenzie’s outburst, staying focused on the plan.
“For your penance, I want you to go out there and say Mass for the nuns, as usual. When it comes time to offer up the host, instead of the customary turning your back to the congregation, I want you to face them and confess your sins, as you’ve done to me. “Here’s what you’ll say. I’ve written it out so you don’t have to worry about leaving anything out.”
Donovan pushed a sheet of typed script toward the trembling hand of McKenzie, who took it and perused it briefly. “This is insane!” McKenzie said, looking incredulous.
Donovan forged ahead, “After the speech, I want you to follow Archbishop Flaherty’s example: prostrate yourself on the altar, ask God’s forgiveness, and pledge to resign and seek redemption in a life of service to be decided on by your superiors in the Archdiocese.”
McKenzie glanced at the speech, wiped the sweat from his brow again, and said, “There’s no way I’m going to subject myself to this kind of humiliation. I’d rather die.”
Donovan looked at the defiant, sweating face and felt the familiar rage well up. “Listen, Des. That could be arranged, and not in a manner you’d enjoy. Do you have any idea how close you are to pushing me beyond my limit? One more word of resistance, and kickboxing will see a massive resurgence right here in this chapel. I’m this close?” Donovan held his thumb and index finger a hair apart in the grate before McKenzie’s face.
For the first time, McKenzie’s eyes lost their amphibian indifference and registered animal-like fear.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” he blurted.
“You’ve made a wise decision, Father McKenzie,” Donovan said quietly. “Go in peace, and may the Lord be with you.”
McKenzie gathered up his prayer book and stepped briskly toward the vestry to change his vestments and start the Mass.
Donovan crossed himself, shut off the Canon recorder, and slid the confession grid back in place before stepping into the dimly lit chapel. The sexton had lit the candles on the altar, and a handful of people were scattered around the pews in small clusters. The sexton, a wizened little man in his seventies, knelt in the back, alone.
Donovan strode past the nuns, spotted Sean Dowling, his old college roommate, and noted the camera crew setting up by the side entrance.
Donovan and Dowling shook hands and chatted briefly, Donovan nodding affirmatively. Yes, the trek down from Dublin would be worth the journalist’s time, as he’d assured him in the phone call. Front page news tomorrow. Then Donovan went to the back of the chapel, dipped his hand in the granite holy water font, and crossed himself in a moment of reverence for the power of truth, however long denied. He sat, waiting for the mass to begin, feeling tense, not trusting McKenzie to follow through. For a moment, he felt he might pass out from pure exhaustion.
Thirty minutes dragged by, and the congregation—though accustomed to waiting—had begun to glance around, getting restless. An older man in the back hobbled out; the nuns all sat up in their pews, reading their novenas.
At 7:45, the word came: there would be no Mass this morning. Not by Father McKenzie. Not today, not ever. A young, uniformed garda, who looked like a gangly teenager, delivered the news: “I’m sorry to be the bearer of this sad news,” he began in a trembling voice, “but a terrible accident has happened out on the Dublin Road, involving Father McKenzie. Sergeant Byrne just called it into the station. Apparently, Father McKenzie’s Austin Healy was pullin’ out o’ the JP filling station—the one past the Clane roundabout; he must’ve never seen the Volvo Lorry comin’.”
(to be continued next Friday)