There he is.  So calm and cool.  Standing there in all his elegance and easy charm.  No hair out of place, as usual.   But it’s gray now, streaked with white.  At least something has changed.  His eyes are the same, though.  Blue ice filled with light.  That’s what attracted me back then—those cool blue eyes.  Looking into them, silly as I was, I saw the sun dancing across a mountain lake.  It was that light that fooled me.  That promise of warmth.

 

“Can I help you?” he says.

 

“You’re Tony Mancuso, right?”

 

“It’s Anthony.  But, yes, I’m he.” 

 

"My name is Karen Aldrich.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You don’t remember me, do you.”

 

“No, I guess I don’t.”

 

I watch him stiffen and then begin to study me more closely, on the alert for some kind of trap.  Perhaps the bells are going off inside that still-handsome head, warning him of potential danger, or maybe a trip down memory lane he doesn’t want to take.

 

“St. Martin’s?” I say.

 

He absorbs this bit of information.  Then he braces himself and slowly puffs out, perhaps surrendering to some need to exhale after keeping so much inside all these years.  But this momentary release has cost him.  His poise has slipped; his face slackened.  For just a moment, he looks vulnerable and sad.

 

“Come in,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

 

He’s done well for himself, I see.  A tenured professor at St. Patrick’s College, they tell me, and owner of this recently renovated Victorian home.  He leads me into a dark, book-lined room dominated by a massive desk and two stuffed chairs.  His office, I presume.

 

“Can I get you some coffee?  Tea?”

 

“Coffee, please.  Black.”

 

He closes the door, but I hear a muffled conversation nearby.  I assume he’s talking to his latest girlfriend, a grad student, they say, one of many he seduces and eventually discards.  She is asking questions in a frenzied voice.  Tony is calming her down.

 

Tony brings me coffee and settles himself in the chair behind his desk. 

 

“Now,” he says.  “How can I help you?

 

He avoids my eyes, intent on stirring cream into his coffee.

 

I’ve been waiting almost 20 years for this moment.   But I feel like a school girl.  His elegance still unsettles me, makes me falter, doubt myself.  I fumble for a place to start.

 

“You molested me when I was eleven. I was one of your servers at morning Mass.”

 

He keeps his eyes focused on the spoon and says nothing.  His expression has not changed.  The room echoes with the rhythmic clink of a silver spoon hitting bone china.

 

“It happened ten times.  Then you stopped.”

 

Still no response.

 

“I was just a child.  I trusted you.  I idolized you.  You were like a father to me.  You took advantage of that.”   I marshal my courage to go on.  “You told me not to tell anyone and I didn’t.  But it cost me.  It cost me my life.  I got into drugs.  I lost my husband, my baby.  I lived on the streets.  I prostituted myself.  I was in jail.”

 

I list my miseries, one by one, like some life-long litany of horrors.  It stops him from stirring the spoon, but his silence confounds me.  I lose my rhythm.  Then his ice-blue eyes soften and fill up with the warmth I remember.

 

“Karen Aldrich,” he says.  “Yes, now I remember.  You served the 7 a.m. mass on Thursdays.  Right?”

 

I nod my head, puppet-like.

 

He takes his time to conjure up more words.

 

“That was a confusing time.  Remember?  For all of us.  Your dad was drinking himself to death.  Your mother was in and out of hospitals.  You had no one.  You were such a sweet girl, so hungry for love.  For affection.  I could see that.  I wanted to give that to you.  That love you craved. Remember?  Everyone has a right to be loved.”

 

“You sexually abused me.”

 

He looks away, sighing, and says nothing for awhile; and then:  “Well, I guess that’s what they call it now.  But I’m a good man.  I meant you no harm.  I was going through a tough time myself—so many doubts and urges, so much confusion.  Boundaries were dissolving.  Rules were getting vague.  It was such a bewildering time.  Remember?”

 

Of course I remember.

 

I remember our mornings after Mass when I had an hour to kill before school started, and he was in no hurry to leave.  I remember the silence between us as we went through that sacred, centuries-old ritual: disrobing of vestments, disposing of wafers, cleansing of vessels.  I remember it ending with a tender hug and then with him pulling me closer, his breath jagged, his eyes blurry with need.

 

And, of course, I remember the growing excitement of his searching hands, the being found down there, the urgency, the surprising spike of pleasure that took me out of myself for a minute or two.  I remember knowing it was his turn now and staying still as he rubbed himself against me, harder and faster, and how his final grunt signalled our ‘together’ time was over.  I remember how quickly he left the room, avoiding my eyes.

 

But what I remember most is the shame I picked up in that sacred place and how I carried it with me for almost 20 years—like some malevolent “blankie” grown stiff with dirt and a stench that seeped into my soul.   And what I can never tell anyone is how much I craved the pleasure he gave me.  How, at eleven, I knew it was wrong, yet I wanted it so much.  That it was his stopping after 10 times that hurt more than anything else.

 

No, I don’t tell him any of this.   Nor do I try to explain a child’s twisted sense of abandonment that she carries through life, and how it corrupts her own love of self and confirms how unworthy she is to be loved at all.  Instead, I ask, “How many others were there?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.  Not as many as some.  Maybe nine or ten.”

 

“Do you remember who they were?”

 

“No, of course not.  They all served the early morning Masses.  They seemed lost, needy.  I wanted to help them.  We helped each other.  I was only at St. Martin’s for a year or so.  I left the priesthood soon after that.”

 

I search his face for signs of remorse or maybe some guilt.  But I find none.  His ice-blue eyes shine with that same beguiling light, but this time I see the deadness inside.  I find myself shivering. 

 

“I meant no harm,” he says.  “Those were troubling times. I did my best.”

 

He stands with me as I rise to leave.  He offers his hand.  “Blessings on you,” he says.

 

I need to get out of here.

 

Once outside, I breathe in the cool fall air and walk to my car.  I pull the tape recorder out of my purse, turn it off, and place it in the envelope Detective Osborne has provided.  I hope it gives him what he needs for his case.  I did what I could. 

 

Looking up, I see a curtain close in an upstairs window.   Go ahead, I say to myself.  Try to hide in that beautiful house of yours.  The secret is out.  Those walls are already crumbling around you.

 

I smile at myself in the rear-view mirror; and driving away, find some warmth from the setting sun.

 

 

 

 

After selling her soul to corporate America for 25+ years as an award-winning writer in PR, Communication and Marketing departments, Kathleen decided to "follow her bliss" and delve into the world of creative fiction.  Since then, Megaera Magazine, The Talking Stick, Sidewalk's End and Aesthetica have published her short stories.  Most recently, Kathleen lost her 20-year old cat and doesn't know how, or if, she can ever replace her.