Of Love and Evil (The Songs of the Seraphim 2)

He took a deep rattling breath.

“Say your Act of Contrition,” he said.

Sudden panic. This was the only part of this I hadn’t gone over in detail in my mind. I couldn’t remember the whole prayer.

I put everything out of my thoughts except that I was talking to the Maker.

“ ‘O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I despise all my sins because they have separated me from Thee, and though I fear the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, I am sorry for my sins because of that separation, and because of the terrible harm I have done to the souls whose journeys I have interrupted, and I know that I can never undo those wrongs done them no matter what I do. Please, Dear God, affirm my repentance and give me the grace to live it day in and day out. Let me be your child. Let my remaining years be years of serving you.’ ”

Without ever opening his eyes, he raised his hand and gave me the absolution.

“Penance, Father?” I asked.

“Do what this spiritual director tells you,” he said.

He opened his eyes, took off the stole, folded it and put it back in his pocket. He was about to leave without ever once looking at me.

I took an envelope out of my pocket. It was stuffed with big bills, all of which had been wiped completely clean of prints. I gave it to him.

“For you or for the church or whatever you want, my donation,” I said.

“Not required, young man, you know that,” he said. He glanced at me once with large watery eyes and then away.

“I know that, Father. I want to give you this donation.”

He took the envelope and he left the room.

I walked outside, felt the spring air warm around me and caressing and soothing, and then I started to walk back towards my hotel. The light was sweet and gentle, and I felt an overwhelming love for the many random people I passed. Even the cacophony of the city comforted me, the roar and clatter of the traffic like the breath of a being, or the beat of a heart.

When I came to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, I went in and sat down in a pew and waited until the evening Mass.

This vast beautiful space was as comforting to me as it had ever been. I’d come here often both before and after I’d begun my life for The Right Man. I’d often stared at the distant high altar for hours, or walked up and down the side aisles of the church inspecting the magnificent art, and the various shrines. This for me was the quintessential Catholic church, with its soaring arches and its unapologetic grandeur. I was painfully glad that I was here now, painfully glad of all that had recently happened to me.

A good crowd gathered just as it was getting dusk outside. I went up closer to the altar. I wanted to hear the Mass and to see it. At the moment of the Consecration of the bread and wine, I bowed my head and I wept. I didn’t care who noticed this. Didn’t matter. When we stood to say the Lord’s Prayer, I took off my gloves and reached out to those on either side of me as we said the words.

When I went to Communion, I could not disguise the tears. But it didn’t matter. If anybody noticed, I did not notice that person. I was as alone as I’d ever been, comfortable in my anonymity and in this ritual. And yet I was connected with all here, I was part of this place and this moment, and this felt very simply glorious.

And you can perfectly well cry when you go to Communion in a Catholic church.

There was a moment afterwards when I knelt in the pew with my head bowed, thinking about how the world, the great real world about me, might view what I was doing here. The modern world so detests rituals.

What did rituals mean to me? Everything, because they were the patterns that reflected my deepest feelings and commitments.

I had been visited by angels. I had followed their loving advice. But that was one miracle. And this, the Miracle of the True Presence of Our Blessed Lord in the bread and the wine, was another. And this miracle is what mattered to me now.

I didn’t care what the great world thought. I didn’t care about points of theology or logic. Yes, God is everywhere, yes, God pervades everything in the universe, and God is also here. God is here now in this way, within me. This ritual has brought me to God and God to me. I let my understanding of this pass out of words and into a silent acceptance.

“God, please protect Liona and Toby from Lucky the Fox and all that he has done, please. Let me live to serve Malchiah; let me live for Liona and my son.”

I said many other prayers—I prayed for my family; I prayed for each and every soul whom I had ushered into eternity; I prayed for Lodovico; I prayed for The Right Man; I prayed for the nameless and the innumerable whose lives had been disrupted by the evils I had done. And then I gave way to the Prayer of Quiet, only listening for the voice of God.

Mass had been over for about half an hour. I left the pew, genuflecting as in the old days, and went down the aisle, feeling a marvelous sense of peace and pure happiness.

As I reached the back of the church, I saw that the side door on the left was open, but not the main doors, so I went that way towards the street.

There was a man standing just inside the door with his back to the light and something struck me about him, which caused me to glance at him directly.

It was the young man from the Mission Inn. He wore the same brown corduroy jacket, with a white shirt open at the neck under a sweater vest. He stared right at me. He looked emotional, as if he was about to speak. But he didn’t.

My heart thudded in my ears. What the Hell was he doing here? I walked past him and outside and started down the street away from my hotel. I was trembling. I tried to run through all the possibilities that might explain this strange sighting but in truth there weren’t very many. Either this was a coincidence or he was following me. And if he was following me then he might have seen me go to the garage in Los Angeles and the garage in New York! This was absolutely insupportable.

Never in all my years as Lucky the Fox had I ever been aware of anyone following me. Again, I cursed the day I’d told The Right Man my real name, but I couldn’t fit this strangely vulnerable-looking young man into any scenario involving The Right Man. So who was he?

The longer I walked up Fifth Avenue, the more certain I was that this guy was right behind me. I could feel him. We were approaching Central Park. The traffic moving downtown was thick and noisy, the harsh sound of the car horns striking at my nerves, the exhaust fumes making my eyes water. Yet I was thankful we were here, in New York, amid the early evening crowds, with people on all sides of us.

But what the Hell was I going to do about this guy? What could I do? And it occurred to me with utter finality that I absolutely couldn’t do what Lucky the Fox might have done. I couldn’t do him violence. No matter what he knew that was no longer an option. I was suddenly maddened by that fact. I felt trapped by it.