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þÿHortalanus Fallax

Andrew J. Hogan

<center>I</center>

    The cab pulled into the driveway of Frederick’s childhood home. The night light in his mother Rosa’s bedroom window glowed dimly through the blinds; she’d already in bed at seven-thirty. The living room window flickered from the television. His father Dominick would be watching a game show. The blinds in Rosa’s bedroom moved, part of a head was outlined. The light inside the cab came on when the rear door opened, making Frederick visible to his mother.
    Frederick got out, trying to open his umbrella against the rain. The umbrella got stuck in the car door, then in the overhanging dead branches of the blue spruce that he and his father had planted on the occasion of Frederick’s confirmation, the day Frederick told his mother he wanted to become a priest. The tree had flourished for a decade, but then the lower branches started to lose their needles. Stigmina had infected the tree, the arborist had told him on one of his visits home; there was no treatment for it. Gradually the lower limbs died. Early in his priesthood Frederick had pruned them away during his summer vacation visits, but there had been no summer vacations the last several years, leaving the dead middle branches to puncture Frederick’s umbrella.
    Frederick walked up to the front door under his leaky umbrella. Dominick opened the front door, but he didn’t turn on the light. “Go around to the kitchen door so you won’t muddy your mother’s carpet,” he said through the screen door. Frederick stopped for a moment, then turned and went around to the back of the house. His mother Rosa would be too tired to greet her son until the morning.

    Next morning, Frederick found his father Dominick sitting at the kitchen table while his mother Rosa was at the stove, cooking his favorite breakfast, pineapple pancakes and Italian sausage. She was humming. When was the last time Frederick heard her hum? And she was out of bed before 9 AM. Dressed before noon!
    Frederick sat at the kitchen table across from Dominick.
    “It’s so nice to have you home again, Father Freddy.” Rosa said.
    “Mother, it’s not necessary to address your own son as Father,” Frederick said.
    “Why are you scowling at me like that?” Rosa said. Tears welled in her eyes. “I always call you Father Freddy. Your ordination was a dream come true. Now you are ruining it.”
    Frederick jumped up out of his chair and hugged his mother. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m just tired from the long trip. I had trouble sleeping.” He kissed her forehead.
    “Oh, all right, you silly,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Now sit down and let me finish your breakfast, FATHER FREDDY.”
    Frederick sat down with a smiling face that evaporated as soon as Rosa turned her back.
    “Now, Father Father,” Rosa said, turning to Dominick. She looked over at Frederick and gave him a wink. “What will you be having for breakfast?”
    “What I have every morning when I get back from six-thirty mass—oatmeal, which I ate an hour ago,” Dominick said. He drank from his coffee cup and then opened the morning paper, screening him from Rosa’s and Frederick’s view. A moment later Dominick took the paper to the back porch, out of Rosa’s sight, and slideout one of the inside pages and placed it under a handful of older papers in the recycling bin. Frederick guessed the page contained an article about the lawsuit against the Diocese of Bridgeport filed by thirteen families of altar boys abused by four priests during the 1990s.
    “Where did you go with that paper?” Rosa said. “I didn’t get to read it yet.”
    “When was the last time you read the morning paper?” Dominick said.
    “Well, you know, lately I haven’t been up for all the bad news, you know, people are always hurting other people’s feelings,” Rosa said.
    “Well, I just threw away some salacious underwear ads. Were you interested in them?”
    “Of course not,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “Leave the paper on the table, and I’ll get to it later, maybe.” Rosa slid the pancakes and sausage onto Frederick’s plate. “You must be hungry if you went to six-thirty mass with your father, Father Freddy?”
    “I didn’t go today.”
    “Oh, well, that’s all right. After all, you are on vacation, and going to mass is kind of like a job for you,” Rosa said.
    “The pancakes are wonderful, Mother,” Frederick said. “Thank you.”
    “Well, you’re very welcome, Father Freddy,” Rosa said. She wiped her hands on her apron. “That was a lot of work for me so early in the morning. I’m going to take my tea and sit down in front of the TV for a little while.” Half way out the door, she turned to Dominick. “Do they still have that program on the TV I like to watch?”
    “No, that went off the air over a year ago. Try channel 47,” Dominick said.
    She sighed. “Oh, all right.”
    “What are you up to today?” Dominick said to Frederick.
    “I need to find a place to stay, then I’ll look for work.”
    “You’re planning on living here? In Ridgecrest?”
    “I don’t know where else to go?” Frederick said.
    “How about somewhere where nobody knows you? So you can get a fresh start.”
    Frederick stood up and scraped most of his pancakes and sausage into the garbage can. He rinsed off his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Maybe you’re right. I know a place in Bridgeport where I could probably stay for a while.”
    “I could loan you some money, in case you are short,” Dominick said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Do you need a car? I can take your mother’s car down to Greeley’s and get it in working order in a day or two.”
    “That would be helpful.” Frederick went into the living room and sat on the couch next to his mother’s recliner. She was already asleep. “Mister Ed” was playing on the TV.
    Mister Ed said, “Now Wilbur.” The laugh track roared, and Rosa opened her eyes. Frederick was sitting across from her on the couch. He wasn’t laughing or even smiling.
    “Frederick, how long will you be visiting?”
    “Not long, Mother. Just a few days.”
    “Who’s taking care of the Parish while you are gone? It’s the middle of Lent, and there were a lot of preparations for Holy Week and Easter.”
    “Father Robert is in charge of the Easter preparations now.”
    “But, won’t—”
    “Aren’t you happy to have me home for a visit?” Frederick said. “The last couple of years you’ve been complaining about my being too busy to visit.”
    Rosa sat up in her recliner. She put on a smile that didn’t hide her concerns. “Well, of course, I thank God for the chance to have you home again. I’m just—”
    “Maybe I’ll go out and work in the garden for a while, turn over the soil to get ready for spring planting,” Frederick said, standing up. “Would you like to come out and help?”
    “Oh, I don’t go out to the garden much anymore,” she said. “You go. I’ll rest and talk with you later.”
    “All right.” Frederick got up and went directly to the front door.
    “Why are you going out the front? Don’t you want a jacket or a cap? It’s cold out,” Rosa called to him, but he was already out the door. Frederick stopped at the old spruce tree, grabbing one of the dead limbs and trying to break it off. It bent and cracked, but it wouldn’t break off.
    Frederick was cursing at the tree, but not loudly enough for his mother to hear. She’d told him he was her good boy, a priest, the only pure thing that came from the disgusting necessities of marriage. Pregnancy was hell; it was her sacrifice to God.
    Frederick had never known his parents to sleep in the same bed, or even in the same bedroom. In spite of what he might have seen on television or in the movies, his father had told him, when he was old enough for the lecture on the birds and the bees, sex after childbirth was painful for some women. His father said he’d struggled with a calling to the priesthood because he didn’t think he could remain celibate. He’d laughed, after turning away from Frederick for a moment; he’d very nearly kept the vow, but for a few months, he said.
    Rosa’s months of sacrifice produced a pair of fraternal twins. Frederick and Caroline—Yin and Yang, if you followed Chinese philosophy—you needed the dark in order to see the light.
    Frederick and Caroline were certainly opposites. From his mother’s perspective, Frederick was good in every way; Caroline was bad. She skipped out of school, she drank, she smoked, and not just cigarettes. She ran around with a wild crowd. Rosa couldn’t deal with her, she left it to Dominick to try and control her. Once, Frederick had heard his father call Caroline a slut. His mother couldn’t manage the birds-and-the-bee talk with her own daughter. Caroline had many boyfriends, most with long, dirty hair and fingernails, even motorcycles. Rosa had been scandalized by the idea of a proper lady even riding on a motorcycle up against a man’s backside? His mother always asked Frederick to pray for Caroline, many, many rosaries. It never did any good. Caroline never changed. It was his mother’s cross to bear, but then she also had Frederick, Father Freddy, the pure one, who lightened the burden.

    By the next day Frederick had nearly finished working the soil for the whole vegetable garden when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Then the back door slammed shut. He heard voices coming from the kitchen.
    “Where’s the perv?” Caroline said.
    “He’s out in the garden. It’s too early to be turning over the soil, but I guess he needs something to do,” Dominick said. “And keep you voice down. Your mother will hear.”
    “She doesn’t know?” There was a pause. Through the window Frederick saw Caroline pouring a cup of coffee. “Of course she doesn’t know.”
    “It’s better that way,” Dominick said.
    “Better for whom? For you? So you won’t have to deal with her meltdown when she discovers her little saint is actually a sinner?”
    “It’s better for both of us,” Dominick said. “And you’re not going to say anything, not if you expect me to keep paying the rent on your apartment.”
    “I had a full tip jar at the bar last night.” Another pause, then the sound of running water. “Folgers again? What happened to the Starbuck’s I brought home for you?”
    “You drank it all. I like the weak stuff. Doesn’t keep me up at night, after your mother has one of her whimpering episodes.”
    “All right, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Caroline said. “Now what do you want me to do with Fred-ER-ick?”
    “Take him down to Bridgeport. He’s lined up an efficiency apartment at the Putnam Tower on East Street. Get him to sign the lease agreement.” Dominick handed her an envelope. “There’s a check for the first and last month’s rent and security deposit.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a couple of fifty dollar bills. “In case you need to grease the skids. Keep whatever is left.”
    Frederick closed the back door loudly. Coming into the kitchen he saw Caroline jamming the bills into her back pocket and putting an envelope in the inside pocket of her coat.
    “Hey, the—, Fred. How’s it going?” Frederick didn’t answer. “Need help getting your stuff in the car.”
    Frederick gave Caroline and Dominick a quizzical look.
    “He can’t move in until Friday,” Dominick said. “Just sign the papers, maybe buy some stuff for the apartment. Then bring him back home.”
    “Oh, Mommy will be so happy to have Father Freddy around for a couple of more days. I suppose Bridgeport is to be your new assignment?”
    “Let’s go,” Frederick said. He moved toward the back door.
    Dominick looked at Caroline. “Drive carefully, no more speeding tickets.”

    Frederick kicked the mud off of his boots before entering the back door. Dominick was sitting, waiting for him at the kitchen table. “I finished turning over the soil in the vegetable garden, and the flower gardens by the front porch and the side yard are all cleaned out.”
    “Thanks,” Dominick said. “Maybe I’ll get around to planting a garden this year.” Frederick sat down across from him.
    “I could come back in April for a few days to help you out like I used to,” Frederick said.
    “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dominick said. “You’ll probably be too busy getting settled down in Bridgeport.” Dominick held out his hand. “Here are the keys to your mother’s Tempo. I replaced the tires and the battery. The car hadn’t been driven for a couple of years, so they were both shot. I had Greeley check all the hoses and belts. Even though the car only has eighteen-thousand miles on it, it’s nearly twenty years old, and that stuff gets brittle after a while. Greeley only found a couple of things that needed changing. The air conditioning doesn’t work. They used Freon back when the Tempo was built. It would need new tubing and gaskets for the refrigerant they are allowed to use today.”
    Frederick jangled the keys, listening to his father. “Hopefully, I won’t need to keep it all summer.”
    “Oh, and here are the court documents the sheriff dropped off yesterday afternoon. I signed for them, hope that was alright.”
    “Sure.” Frederick took the envelope and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Father, I just wanted to say—“
    “No need, glad to help out. I mean, the car was just sitting in the garage anyway.”
    “Right, but I meant about—“
    “Oh, we were glad to have you. You saw how your mother brightened up during your visit.” Dominick put a hand on Frederick’s shoulder, guiding him toward the back door. “Now you have a safe trip. Greeley said the brakes on the Tempo are almost like new. Your mother hardly drove fast enough to ever need them.”
    “I know you must be disappointed—“
    “Nonsense. Everything will be fine once you get set up in your new place.” Dominick increased the pressure on Frederick’s shoulder. “We don’t want to wake up your mother. The lamb stew dinner she made for you last night took a lot out of her,” Dominick whispered.
    “No, of course. We wouldn’t want her wake up.”
    Dominick patted Frederick on the back as he went through the door. The door closed softly behind him. A minute later Frederick drove the Tempo drive out of the driveway and onto Main Street.

<center>II</center>

    From his seat on the East Main Street bus, Frederick saw Gonzalo Ramirez waiting at the bus stop. A moment later Gonzalo was sitting next to him.
    “Como va, Freddy?” Gonzalo said.
    “Bien, y usted, Gonzalo?” Frederick said.
    “No, say ‘tu’, not ‘usted’ when talking to a friend,” Gonzalo said.
    “There’s no familiar and formal you’s in Latin. I keep translating from Latin.”
    “Yeah, you sound funny, too. Not like a gringo speaking Spanish. You sound like a foreigner, maybe like an Italian,” Gonzalo said.
    The bus stopped at East Main and Barnum. Frederick and Gonzalo got off and crossed the street to the Three-Ring Circus Pawn Shop, where Gonzalo was the manager and Frederick was the trainee. Inside, Frederick started the coffeemaker.
    “I have to miss work tomorrow morning. They want me over at the courthouse at 9 am. There’s a hearing at 9:30. I’ll get back as soon as I can, but it could be all morning.”
    “Okay. No sense coming here to open,” Gonzalo said. “You can stay on the East Main bus. If you get off at the James Street stop, you will only have to backtrack one block to the Superior Court building. I had to go over there two, three times a week for my stolen property trial. It takes longer, but no transfers, no waiting in the rain.”
    “Thanks. I keep hoping the diocese will settle the case,” Frederick said. “I need the hours here to make my rent.”
    “Yeah, damn lawyers and judges. Just waste everybody’s time,” Gonzalo said. “All the damn motions and nitpicking, didn’t do me no good. I still got six months.”
    “This is just about money, how much the diocese is going to pay in damages,” Frederick said. “They already took everything I have. I just want to keep a roof over my head.”
    “Just money! Money is the only thing that matters in this world. Well, and getting laid once, twice a month.” Gonzalo grinned. “But with money, that ain’t hard to arrange neither.”
    “Well, right now, I just need enough money to pay the rent and buy some hamburger helper to cook on my hotplate,” Frederick said.
    “Hey, ‘nother couple a months, you gonna finish your traineeship. You’ll get promoted to assistant manager. Pays no better, but you get commissions for selling junk above the reserve price. Move outta that crappy apartment, away from the Dominicans. You could move down a couple blocks where I am. Where the Puertoriqueños live, it’s nice,” Gonzalo said, still grinning.

    Frederick sat on the bench outside of Superior Court 3B. The diocesan attorney met with him shortly after 9 am.
    “Mr. Martinelli, we might need you to testify at the evidentiary hearing.”
    “What about?”
    “It’s about the letter that you sent Jason. We are arguing that it’s privileged. He was clearly seeking religious counseling. It happened before the alleged incident,” the attorney said.
    “What do you want me to say?”
    “If you’re asked, that nothing was going on between you and Jason at the time you wrote the letter. That’s what we understood from your deposition, which was the basis of your agreement with the diocese,” the attorney said. Frederick said nothing. The attorney continued, “Great, then I’ll let you know if you need to testify as soon as possible. Just wait here.”
    Ninety-five minutes later the attorney came out of the courtroom and said, “You can go home. We’ll call you when we need your testimony during the trial.” Frederick took the bus back to the Pawn Shop just in time to relieve Gonzalo for lunch.

    The Pawn Shop door opened and four Hispanic women in their twenties entered. Gonzalo said, “¿Que quieren, hijas?”
    The women ignored Gonzalo and went to the back of the shop where Frederick was tidying the jewelry case.
    “We need cruxes for kids’ communion,” one of the women said.
    Frederick hesitated a moment. “Ah, first communion. I have a nice selection of gold crosses on short chains, just the right size for children.”
    Frederick took the women to the next jewelry case and brought out four gold crosses on gold chains.
    “¿Cuanto?” the leader of the group said.
    “These three are 18-carat gold, $10 each. This one is 24-carat gold, $15,” Frederick said.
    The women huddled. “Forty dollar for all four?” the leader said.
    “Forty-two dollars,” Frederick said.
    Another brief huddle. “Okay,” the leader said, handing Frederick two tens, three fives and seven ones.
    Frederick put each cross and chain in a small velvet pouch and each pouch into a small, white box. He handed one box to each woman; the leader got the 24-carat chain. The women smiled at Frederick. “Gracias,” they said in unison. They turned around and left, cooing like a small flock of doves.
    “How much you sell those chains for?” Gonzalo said.
    “Forty-two dollars.”
    “Oh, man, you coulda got those Dominican putas to pay twenty bucks each, and extra for the pouch and the box,” Gonzalo said.
    “I know, but it was for their kids’ first communion,” Frederick said.
    “Ha, that’s what they told you, lying bitches. They don’t look fat enough to have kids,” Gonzalo said. “You gonna make a living here, you gotta learn to take advantage of a good business situation.”
    Frederick went back to rearranging the jewelry case to accommodate the four missing chains.

    Frederick finished sweeping the floor and cleaning off the counters. Gonzalo was at his desk doing the final tally of the day’s receipts.
    “Gonzalo, do you think the owner would let us put in a little flower garden in that patch of dirt by the front door?” Frederick said.
    “What? Are you nuts, man?” Gonzalo said. “Those Dominician putas will just come and steal’em, sell’em in the market for a couple of bucks. And they’ll be setting off the motion sensors, and the security company going to be call me all the time to come down and check the store. I tried to get Mr. Stein to cover that dirt with a plaque to Roberto Clemente. You know him? He was the greatest baseball player ever, born in Puerto Rico in the town right next to where my father was born. But Mr. Stein, he’s a Yankee fan and wouldn’t go for it.”

    Gonzalo’s second arrest for receiving stolen property left Frederick the acting manager of the Three-Ring Circus Pawn Shop. With the extra income, Frederick moved out of his efficiency at the Putnam Tower into a small two-room apartment above the Caribe Market on the corner of Park and Barnum, three blocks from the Pawn Shop. The landlord let him put in a window box on his second floor window, with a view of the west end of Washington Park and the Cathedral of St. Augustine that lies across from the southwest corner of the park.
    Although Frederick was born and raised in nearby Ridgecrest, his father insisted on treating St. Augustine’s as the family’s home parish. Frederick was baptized in the cathedral and received his first communion there. He attended the cathedral parochial school and served there as an altar boy. His confirmation ceremony was performed by the Old Prelate, then the auxiliary bishop; a decade later Frederick lay prostrate on the floor of St. Augustine’s while the Old Prelate ordained him. During the 13 months Jason’s misconduct allegation was being investigated, Frederick lived in the diocesan residence, acting as the Old Prelate’s administrative assistant.
    As the Pawn Shop’s acting manager, Frederick was free every other Saturday afternoon. That Saturday afternoon Frederick was volunteering with the Washington Park ground staff getting the flower gardens ready to spring planting. From the gardens, he was monitoring activities at the cathedral and its associated convent, school, clergy residence and the administrative annex, housing the offices of the diocese’s Vietnamese mission.
    Since Christmas, activity around the cathedral had increased. Frederick had seen new cohorts of Vietnamnese clergy in their tropical white robles floating back and forth between the cathedral and the dormitories on Noble Street. Even today, a Saturday, maintenance workers were repairing some of the cathedral’s crumbling statuary. Frederick saw spring flowers planted in front of the cathedral for the first time in several years.
    The weather was unseasonably sunny and warm for a late March day, and Frederick was taking a break, enjoying the warm breeze. It was quarter to two, and he was waiting to see who will be hearing confessions at 2 pm. An old, crouched cleric walked from the diocesan residence toward the cathedral’s side entrance where the confessionals are located. Frederick was unsure at first, but then he saw that it was the Old Prelate, who retired late last year, shortly before Christmas. The Old Prelate still lived in the diocesan residence, although no longer in the main chambers, and ministered to the nuns in the adjacent convent and filled in for the regular clergy during vacations, illnesses or other emergencies.
    Frederick had not entered the cathedral since he was laicized. He put on his jacket and crossed the park to the cathedral.

    “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three years, five months and twelve days since my last confession,” Frederick said.
    “Why so long, my son?” the Old Prelate said.
    “I was too ashamed to enter the cathedral again. I did not think any of the clergy here would be able to forgive me for the shame I brought on them,” Frederick said.
    There is a pause. “Freddy, is that you?” the Old Prelate said.
    “Yes, Your Excellency.”
    “None of that, I am a lowly cleric now, the same as you were when you were banished, Freddy.”
    “Yes, Father,” Frederick said. “I would like to be forgiven for the harm I have done to the church.”
    “I forgive you, Freddy, and I hope you forgive me,” the Old Prelate said.
    “Forgive you for what?”
    “I was the one who led you into sin. But worse, I should have taught you how to recognize a special friend who has a true vocation. Only love between special friends who share a true vocation works to the benefit of the church,” the Old Prelate said.
    Frederick lowered his head. “I knew Jason was wrong for me; he was too unstable and spiritually frail. But I was weak. I shouldn’t have used him to satisfy my own needs. I should have waited for the right person, as you did, Father.”
    “Jason was unable to reciprocate your special friendship. But I understand. It is a lonely life in a small parish by yourself. You fell victim to the treachery of the Devil. I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” the Old Prelate said. “For your penance, say ten Our Father’s, and please keep me in your prayers.”
    “I will. Thank you, Father.”
    Frederick crossed himself and prepared to leave when the Old Prelate said, “I want to involve you in church activities again, Freddy.”
    “I don’t think the diocese will let me participate in religious services or Sunday school, not based on the terms of the lawsuit settlement,” Frederick said.
    “No, but you were always a good gardener. I could talk to the Diocesan Sexton about having you help with the convent or rectory gardens, somewhere away from children,” the Old Prelate said.
    “That would be wonderful,” Frederick said. He hesitated a moment. “You know, we have a lot of unredeemed religious jewelry and artifacts at the Shop. It’s hard to move with our clientele. I wonder if the cathedral’s gift shoppe might take our merchandise on consignment. With our low prices and the cathedral’s foot traffic, both parties might benefit.”
    “Very interesting,” the Old Prelate said. “I’ll talk with the Bursar on Monday. If this were to be successful, it is just the kind of idea that could persuade the Most Reverend to bring you back into the church.”
    “I don’t understand. I haven’t been excommunicated,” Frederick said.
    “Oh, no, I don’t mean that. I mean get you back into the church organization in some formal way. This could be your salvation.” The Old Prelate smiled at Frederick through the confessional screen that prevents him from reaching out to touch his cheek.
    Frederick smiled back. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

<center>III</center>

    Frederick took a break from weeding to watch the golden-winged skimmer perched on the Phlox paniculata waiting for its next meal to pass. Sobbing spilled out one of the garden-facing windows of the Pio Nono Hospice. Another soul was on its way to its final judgment. Frederick wanted to believe that he would be ready for that judgment when the cancer that had spread from his colon into his liver did its inevitable work, but today his soul still wasn’t quite ready for the trip. He hoped to be able to continue for another few weeks, even months, God willing, tending to the hospice’s garden.
    Reaching for the Convolvulus arvensis that had begun to climb the stem of the Echinacea purpurea, Frederick noticed the young boy, maybe fourth or fifth grade, sitting in the meditation garden. He’d just put down his Gameboy and was wiping his eyes with a tissue. He’d been a regular visitor to the garden for the last week, coming from inside the hospice out to the garden with his school books and Gameboy. He arrived in the afternoon and stayed until after Frederick had left.
    “What’s wrong, son?” It was a stupid question to ask of a visitor to a hospice, but Frederick had wanted to say hello for the last few days.
    “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy said.
    “I’m not a stranger,” Frederick said. “I’m the gardener here. Do you like my flowers?” Frederick swept his hands across the expanse of blooming Phlox paniculata and Monarda. “The butterflies like them, don’t they?”
    “I guess,” the boy said. “My mom says there’s a lot of creeps in the world, and I have to be careful not to fall on their crutches?”
    “Or maybe into their clutches?” Frederick said, smiling.
    “Whatever,” the boy said. “I guess you’re okay. You’re as old as my grandpa, and I heard him tell my grandma that a man his age can flirt as much as he wants because even the little blue pills don’t work for him anymore. Grandma laughed and said he should have been taking the little blue pills since Jerry Ford—whoever he was?”
    “Well, he was the President a long time ago, before you were born.” Frederick thought of the garden he’d found at St. Catherine’s back in the fall of 1974, just after Ford had replaced Richard Nixon as President. Well, it was more of a weed patch than a garden. It took two years before the garden was an acceptable place for a wedding or baptismal reception.
    “But not before you were born?” the boy said.
    “No, I was just starting my first job back then?”
    “Doing what?”
    “Oh, what do you think?” Frederick said, holding up his trowel. “So how old are you? What eight, nine?” Frederick knew to guess low, so the child could correct him and relax.
    “I’m way older, ten and a half.”
    “Stand up, let me see,” Frederick said, twirling him around gently by the shoulder. “I can see that now, you’re bigger than I thought.”
    “Mom says I’m going to have a growth spurt soon, then I will be able to play basketball on the regular court with the ten foot hoop.”
    “Who are you visiting here,” Frederick said. “Is it your grandma or grandpa?”
    “Not it’s Uncle Tim. He’s real sick, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
    “Oh?”
    “It’s because he got sick from being a fag, my cousin Jeff said.”
    “That’s not a nice thing to say,” Frederick said. “I see why you don’t want to talk about it.”
    “And Jeff said he got that way because he was an altar boy.”
    “I don’t understand, how can you get sick from being an altar boy?”
    “I don’t know. Something happened to him in church that made him sick,” the boy said.
    “Are you an altar boy?”
    “No, Mom won’t let me. She doesn’t want me to end up sick like Uncle Tim.”
    “Well, that’s too bad. I was an altar boy when I was your age, and I thought it was wonderful to help out with the mass, especially Easter and Christmas with all the beautiful vestments and the chanting.”
    “Yeah, I would like that too. Maybe when I’m older and can take care of myself better, Mom says.”
    “George,” someone called from the garden entrance.
    “I got to go.”
    “Maybe I’ll see you here tomorrow?”
    “Yeah,” the boy said, “if Uncle Tim’s still alive.”

    Next morning Frederick cut some flowers from the Gaillardia aristata and Rudbeckia fulgida and brought them to the front desk in the vases he’d salvaged out of the dumpster from the room of the elderly gentlemen who passed away the day before.
    “Marge, I wondered if some of the patients might like to have some flowers from the garden in their room. A boy named George said his Uncle Tim likes flowers.”
    “Well, Fred, thank you. That’s a good idea. Mostly we get greenhouse flowers from the florists. Flowers from our own garden will be a nice change.”
    “I can drop them off if you like,” Frederick said.
    “Oh, no, I can...” The phone rang, and then the second line. “Okay, go ahead. Timothy Rossi is in 3A.”
    The name was familiar, one of the plaintiffs from St. Catherine’s, dismissed due to the statute of limitations. The room was empty except for the patient, who was on his side turned away from the door, wheezing slightly, possibly asleep. Frederick came around the bedside and placed the flower vase on the bed stand heavily enough to make a noise. One of Timothy’s eyes opened.
    “I brought you some flowers from the garden. Your nephew said you might like them.” Timothy made a low gurgling sound, the left side of his mouth twitched slightly, and then his eyes closed. Frederick had been in the company of the dying many times. He took a minute to study Timothy’s face. It was gaunt and blotched and probably looked twenty years older than it should, but it was vaguely familiar. Frederick made the sign of the cross over Timothy, which made him feet better, even though it didn’t mean anything. Frederick dropped off the other vase in Mrs. Fernandez’s room. Her daughter, granddaughter and great-granddaughter were grateful for the gesture.

    George was fingering through his math book when Frederick snuck up on him. He dropped his pencil, Frederick picked it up.
    “What have you got there?” Frederick said.
    “My math homework. I can’t figure out how to calculate the area of a trapezoid.”
    “Oh, I was terrible in math myself. It was always my worst subject,” Frederick said. “Let’s see, a trapezoid is like a box with one side smaller than the other, right?”
    “Right,” George said. “Like that flower bed there.” George pointed at the bed with the red flowers.
    “The Asclepias tuberosa bed,” Frederick said. “Well look, it has a rectangle inside of it, so that’s just length by width, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Then what’s left over are two triangles, one of each side. If you flipped one triangle over and put it together with the other one, it would make another rectangle. Then just add together the areas of the two rectangles, and your have the area of the trapezoid, I’m pretty sure, but like I said, I was never good in math.”
    “Thanks,” George said.
    “How’s your Uncle doing today?” the gardener said.
    “The same. Mom’s worried they’re going to kick him out of the hospice because he’s taking too long to die.”
    “I’m sure they’ll find a good place for him.”
    “Moms’ afraid she’ll have to take him home. Grandma and Grandpa are old and sick. Besides they’re mad at Uncle Tim for being a fag.”
    “I don’t know if you should use that term?”
    “Mom told me not too, that it would hurt Uncle Tim if he heard it, but Uncle Tim hurt us by being a fag and now he’ll never be able to make it up to us.”
    “Don’t you think God would want us to forgive Uncle Tim for his sins and stand by him in his hour of need?”
    “I suppose,” George said. “I got to finish my math homework. Thanks for the help.”
    Frederick moved off to weed around the cactus in the corner, leaving George to his homework, who shortly put it aside for the Gameboy.

    Frederick had to miss work the next day to visit the clinic for a CT scan of his liver and colon. The news wasn’t good, the tumors were metastasizing faster than they had hoped. Still, it was good that the pain was manageable with over the counter analgesics and that he was ambulatory. Frederick could keep working in the garden as long as he liked, nothing he could do there would reasonably change the outcome or make it worse. After the exam, Frederick walked over to St. Cecilia’s and sat in the pews. He thought he might like to pray. Instinctively he reached into his pocket for the onyx and sterling silver rosary his parents had given him for his ordination, but then he remembered he’d pawned it after he’d been laicized. Frederick sat for a couple of hours, but the urge to pray never moved in him. He lit three candles for his father, mother and sister, and then walked home.
    The next morning he worked hard to catch up from his day away from the garden. Some of the plants were looking stressed from not being watered. It was amazing how the weeds had grown so fast in only a day. By the afternoon when George arrived, Frederick was caught up and in need of a break.
    “How’s your uncle doing today, George?”
    George didn’t immediately look up from his Gameboy; he finished his move and put the game on pause. “Oh, no change. The nurse told Mom they needed the bed by next Wednesday.” Frederick grabbed onto the back of the bench George was sitting on. “Hey, you don’t look too good. Your eyeballs are kind of yellow.”
    “I’m okay,” Frederick said. “I just had a lot to do today, I’m a little tired.” Feeling dizzy, Frederick sat on the bench next to George. He put his hand down to steady himself, it fell on George’s hand.
    “Hey, watch it,” George said, pulling his hand away.
    “Sorry, I didn’t see you hand there.” Frederick was sweating. He wiped his shirtsleeve across his forehead. “It’s hot today, isn’t it?”
    “No, it’s nice out. Are you sure you are okay?”
    “Oh, sure.” Frederick took a drink from his water bottle. “Did you have a quiz on the trapezoids?”
    “Yeah, and I got a B+, thanks to you.”
    “What’s you next math topic?”
    Before George could answer, Marge called out of the garden door of the hospice to Frederick, “Monsignor Allen is here administering the last rites to one of the patients. He’d like you to meet him in the chapel.”

    Frederick sat in second chair next to the little altar of the hospice chapel. Behind and above the altar was a stained glass window of our Lady of Fatima. Frederick moved closer; he remembered this window in St. Therese’s convent because of the image of the Blessed Virgin and the three shepherd children with their sheep in the background. They must have salvaged and restored the window after the convent fire in 1987, when he was the assistant pastor there. There was some crackling in the lower left corner that was probably considered too minor to repair.
    “Frederick,” the monsignor said.
    Frederick turned expecting a blessing; the monsignor must have heard of his illness.
    “What were you doing with that boy?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I saw you holding his hand.”
    “No, I wasn’t. I just sat down and accidentally touched his hand.”
    “How many times have you used that excuse?” The monsignor threw his hands up in frustration. “What about the time your pants accidentally fell to the floor in the boys’ bathroom and you accidentally weren’t wearing underwear.”
    “I was feeling a little lightheaded. I needed to sit down.”
    “You were instructed not to come within twenty feet of anyone under the age of puberty. You couldn’t find somewhere else to sit down?”
    “I’m no longer a priest, that instruction doesn’t apply anymore.”
    “Christ Almighty, how many times have I made excuses for you? How many times have I overlooked, no covered up, your sins? I practically had to sacrifice my left testicle to get you this job after you were laicized, and this is how you repay me.”
    “This is a mistake. I didn’t do anything?”
    “You never think you are doing something, until then you accidentally do it. You’re through here. You’re lucky I don’t report you to the police. I’m calling the hospice director as soon as I get back to the rectory.” The monsignor turned away from Frederick. “God, she’s going to bust my balls when she finds out what you’ve done.”
    “You’d better act fast,” Frederick said. “I have end-stage liver cancer. I’ll probably be dead before you can have me fired.” Then he collapsed.

    From the bed that just a week before had held Mrs. Isabella Fernandez, Frederick could hear George talking to Marge at the nursing station.
    “What happened to the gardener guy? I need him to help me with my homework,” George said. “Mom’s too busy sitting with Uncle Tim.”
    “I thought you knew, George,” Marge said. “Mr. Martinelli got sick last week. It was right after he was talking with you.”
    “I didn’t think he looked good. His eyes were yellow.”
    “Yes, he has liver cancer. That’s one of the symptoms,” Marge said. “He was in the chapel talking with Monsignor Allen, the judicial vicar for the diocese.” George gave Marge a confused look. “He’s like a judge.”
    “Is the gardener in trouble?” George said.
    “Oh, no. There’re just old friends. They were talking and Mr. Martinelli got sick, that’s all. They took him to the hospital for some tests, but then he came back here because there was nothing they could do for him. He’s right across the hall there.”
    “Can I visit him?” George said.
    “Sure, he would probably like that. I’ll tell you what, we’ll go out and pick some flowers from the garden for him as soon as I take my break.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Marge and George were armed with a handful of flowers to put in the empty vase Frederick had given Mrs. Fernandez last week.
    “Fred, you have a visitor,” Marge said.
    George put the flowers into the vase on the side table.
    “Oh, the Aquilegia canadensis and the Lobelia cardinalis are beautiful,” Frederick said.
    “I thought these were cardinal flowers, Fred?” Marge said.
    “I like to use the Latin names. I used to speak a lot of Latin back in the old days,” Frederick said.
    “Wow, you were alive during the Roman Empire?” George said.
    “No, I meant, back when I was a, ah, altar boy. You know the mass was all in Latin back then. And I studied Latin in school, so I got pretty good at it.”
    “I’d like to learn Latin. Maybe when I become an altar boy.”
    Marge’s break was over and she excused herself.
    “Well, they don’t say the mass in Latin anymore, and they don’t teach it in high school either. Maybe at the community college.”
    “Anything would be better than math,” George said.
    “Yes, anything is better than math,” Frederick said. “What are you studying now?”
    “I’ll go get my book and show you,” George said, but when he came back Frederick had closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. George took out his Gameboy and went back to the waiting area.

<center>*        *        *</center>

    Frederick heard someone talking to him. He was drifting in and out of consciousness every time he pressed the button of the morphine pump.
    “Mister gardener, are you awake?” George said.
    “Hello, George. How long have you been here?”
    “Not long. My Mom is meeting with the medical director. She said Uncle Tim is about ready to go.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, George. I will say a prayer for him.”
    “He woke up for just a minute yesterday while Mom was talking to the nurses,” George said. “Uncle Tim said he wanted me to tell you he remembers you from St. Catherine’s.”
    “He must have been one of the altar boys who helped me in the garden.”
    “Uncle Tim gave me this book.” George held it up for Frederick to look at.
    “I don’t have my glasses on, George. I can’t read the title.”
    “It’s called, <I>Collected Stories of Victims of Clerical Abuse.</I> The author is the Survivors Network of Those Abused by Priests—New England Chapter,” George said. “What does that mean, clerical abuse?”
    “It’s when a priest has a romantic liaison with an underage parishioner.”
    “Romantic liaison? That’s like sex, right?”
    “Right.”
    “And that’s what happened to Uncle Tim? That’s why he became a fag?”
    “I think you are probably correct.”
    “So it wasn’t his fault?”
    “No, it wasn’t.”
    “Shit, I’ve been blaming him this whole time. I got to go apologize before it’s too late.” George got up to leave. He handed Uncle Tim’s book to Frederick. “Uncle Tim said you could keep it. He marked a page for you to read.”
    Frederick put on his glasses and opened the book to page where Timothy had inserted a pewter bookmark that read ‘Confirmed in Christ’ on the front. On the back the engraving read: Timothy Michael Rossi, confirmed in St. Catherine’s Catholic Church on November 24, 1978, from Reverend Frederick Martinelli, Pastor.
    Frederick pressed the button on the morphine pump. He heard footsteps coming into his room. George was wearing an anguished face.
    “Uncle Tim is dead.” George started crying.
    “I’m sorry, George. Remember, he is with God now, and his suffering is over.”
    “I need to ask you a question,” George said. “About Uncle Tim, about what happened to him.”
    “Sure, George, but before you do, could you help me with one thing.” George nodded. “This machine that giving me my medicine, it’s locked up. Could you just pull the plug out of the socket and then put it back in. That will reset the machine.” George pulled the plug, waited a moment and plugged it back in. Frederick reached over and hit the start button. “Great, it’s working again. Thank you, George.”
    As his last clerical act Frederick administered the last rites for Mrs. Irma Cunningham thirteen years ago. She was using the same morphine pump for pain control after abdominal surgery. Someone accidentally dislodged the plug from the electrical socket and then plugged it back in without telling the nurse. The pump controller reset itself to the default morphine concentration of 0.1 mg/mL when, like Frederick’s, the medication cartridge was sending 5.0 mg/mL morphine into the pump. Frederick pressed the dose button for the morphine pump.
    Frederick feigned a smile. “Okay, George, what is it you want to know?” Frederick heard George begin to speak, but then his voice drifted away, as though George was inside the confessional at St. Catherine’s speaking to Frederick, who was standing at the altar at the other end of the church dressed in white vestments for the confirmation mass. George’s voice became a rasping, urgent buzz, like an insect rubbing its legs inside of Frederick’s ear.
    Frederick could see George’s lips moving, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying. He clutched his thumb over the dose button of the morphine pump. If he remained conscious for the next four minutes, the pump would deliver another massive dose of morphine. Outside the window the red and yellow flowers of the Hieracium aurantiacum swayed silently in the breeze. The golden-winged skimmer landed on the left-most flower and turned his big red eyes toward Frederick.

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