"He was ice-cold."

The detective stared at her for a long moment. "Did he leave a note?"

"No, sir," my mother lied.

The detective's eyebrows went up. I prayed that he wouldn't look at me, or my trembling knees.

"No note? That's kinda odd. You sure? You looked all around?"

"There is no note, Detective."

He looked at the uniformed officer, who shrugged.

"All right, then," the detective sighed. "Be forewarned, the press will be all over you. Lucky for you it's Sat.u.r.day morning. Most of the reporters in this city got hangovers right about now."

My mother forced a sly chuckle. "Lucky isn't exactly the word I'd choose for a day like today, Detective."

Within hours the phone was ringing off the hook and reporters were knocking on our door. My mother and I holed up in the house, ignoring everybody. They didn't leave until dark. The phone rang until midnight.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Samuel?"

"Why did you lie to the detective about the note?"

"Because it's precious to me. The police have no business reading Father Bielinski's final words."

We went to the eleven o'clock Ma.s.s as always on Sunday morning, and this time a dozen newsmen were outside St. Aloysius, shouting questions at my mother as we arrived and left. They got pictures, but no words. My mother wouldn't even look at them.

The story had hit the Sunday papers with a splash, but the only one to worry about was George O'Malley's in the New York Star. New York Star. He had a friend in the coroner's office who told him about some "mysterious puncture wounds" on the dead priest's head. He had a friend in the coroner's office who told him about some "mysterious puncture wounds" on the dead priest's head.

What could have caused them? The coroner did not know, and would not speculate. I started to worry about the garbage bag I'd dumped at Grand Union. If anyone poked through it they'd find the crown of thorns, and put the puzzle together.

I don't remember much about the Ma.s.s that day, except that Father Bielinski was never mentioned during the sermon. His name only came up in the list of the dearly departed we were told to pray for. Everybody stared at us but they left us alone.

As we were leaving church I saw George O'Malley among the newsmen standing in front of the church. He waved to me, and I waved back. My mother smacked my hand. It was the first and only time she'd ever hit me.

When we got home I couldn't hold it any longer. I told my mother about the Puerto Rican workman who'd caught me dumping the garbage bag at Grand Union. I expected to be yelled at, but she didn't do that. Instead, we both got on our knees and prayed.

"What are we praying for, Mom?"

"That n.o.body finds that bag."

Together we said ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys so that the plastic bag containing the dead priest's s.h.i.t-stained loincloth and crown of thorns would make it all the way to the city dump in Staten Island, undisturbed, to eventually be buried under untold tons of garbage.

Amen.

Late that night we heard Charlie McMahon's car pull up in front of the house. I looked out my bedroom window and saw my father laughing with Charlie as he struggled to get his duffel bag out of the car. A dead deer was strapped to the hood of Charlie's car. I wondered who'd shot it, Charlie or my father. I'd seen enough death for one weekend. I prayed that when Charlie drove away, he'd take the deer with him. Sure enough, he did.

"Thank you, G.o.d."

I heard my father slam his way into the house. My mother was downstairs, waiting for him. She was going to tell him the same story the rest of the world believed about Father Joseph Bielinski. There was no reason for him not to believe it. I was beginning to believe it myself.

The kids at school didn't ask me about the suicide. Maybe the nuns had instructed them not to. Only Alonzo Fishetti had the guts to come up to me in the schoolyard.

"Guy musta been f.u.c.kin' crazy, huh, Sullivan?"

Alonzo, you have no idea.

My mother turned the proceeds of the Father Bielinski fund over to his church in Scranton, with instructions for them to do as they wished with the money. I graduated from St. Aloysius school that year and the following year went on to Holy Cross High School, an all-boys' school.

I never danced with Margaret Thompson, never asked her out.

When my mother died George O'Malley wrote an obituary about the staunch defender of the Bleeding Jesus of Scranton, and the way she stuck up for that suicidal priest, and the way she died in church, in line to receive Holy Communion. He sent me a letter saying if there was anything he could do for me, please let him know.

I let him know the day after I quit my pizza delivery job at Napoli's. I phoned George and told him I needed a job. He invited me to visit him at the New York Star New York Star office, where he offered me a job as a copyboy. office, where he offered me a job as a copyboy.

I quit school and took the job. Within six months I had my first bylined story. I was a promoted to reporter by the time I was twenty. I was George O'Malley's big find, something he could crow about. They said I was a natural newsman.

Of course I was. After all, I was the kid who'd exposed the hoax of the Bleeding Jesus of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

My mother wanted me to become a priest. Instead, I became a tabloid newspaperman. I guess there's really not all that much difference. It's all about getting people to believe in stories that demand an enormous leap of faith.

Funny thing was, I couldn't tell anyone my biggest story of all, until this crazy night with my son and my father at our old kitchen table.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

By the time I'm finished talking my father and my son look almost windblown, as if they've been taken for a ride across a desert on an open wagon. Jake can just stare at me.

"My G.o.d," he finally says, peculiar words indeed to be hearing from the son of an agnostic and a fallen Catholic. Something else is going on with my father, something I've never seen before.

He is weeping, and making no attempt to hide his tears, which make his eyes seem bigger and bluer than ever. I think he is crying because he's just learned that his wife wanted to be a nun, and that she thought he wasn't good enough to be my father, but I am wrong.

"Sammy," he says, "can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For not...being strong for you."

I'm shocked to hear him say this. "Dad. You're the strongest person I've ever known!"

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Usually, yeah. But those few times, I really f.u.c.ked up, Sammy. I should've been strong enough to keep you from going on that ridiculous trip to Scranton. And then I should have been strong enough to stay here, instead of goin' hunting with Charlie, leavin' you here with your mother and that crazy priest."

"It doesn't matter, Dad."

"Oh, it matters, all right."

"Not anymore. What happened, happened. I feel better just talking it all out. I feel...good."

I realize I'm telling the truth. I do feel good, maybe not James Brown good, but better than I've felt since the day I was born, and that's something.

"Funny, you look good," Jake says. "You look...I don't know. Younger."

"Thank you, son."

"I want to thank you, you, Dad." Dad."

"For what?"

"For disobeying your mother's wishes and not becoming a priest so you could go on to become my father, that's what for."

"You're welcome."

Jake hesitates before adding, "I'm glad I was born, and I'm glad you're my father."

It's an amazing thing to hear. Jake speaks the words as if he's reading them off a plaque. I turn to my own father and repeat those exact same words. We all gather in the middle of the kitchen for a triple hug, brief but sincere.

And now it seems that there's just one more thing I need to know from my father. I take a sip of beer for courage.

"Dad," I begin, "please tell me. Why in the world did you marry Mom?"

For the first time ever, my father has a sheepish look on his face. "Why do you think? She was pregnant."

I choke on the beer. Jake is suddenly behind me, patting my back, kneading my shoulders. "Easy, Dad. You'll be all right."

I watch my father open a fresh beer and take a long, leisurely swallow.

"I never knew," I finally manage to say. "Never even suspected anything like that."

Of course I didn't. My mother, engaging in premarital s.e.x? It was hard enough to imagine her taking part in postmarital s.e.x!

My father shakes his head. "You got it in your skull that she was a saint. She wasn't. The only saints are the statues. It's an impossible challenge for anyone with blood and bone. And let me tell you-before the church really really grabbed her, your mother could be a h.e.l.l of a lot of fun. What the h.e.l.l are you smilin' about, Jake?" grabbed her, your mother could be a h.e.l.l of a lot of fun. What the h.e.l.l are you smilin' about, Jake?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that my mother was pregnant when Dad married her."

"Yes, I knew that," my father says. "I can count to nine." He laughs out loud, hoists his beer bottle. "Here's to the Sullivan males! A potent bunch, if nothing else! You be careful out there, Jake, or you'll be pushin' a stroller before you're twenty!"

He and Jake clink beer bottles and drink.

Somehow I guess I've always had it in my head that n.o.body's life is as complicated as mine. Now, suddenly, I can see that I'm just a link in a chain of messes. It's not exactly a comforting thought, but it does make things a little less lonely.

I grasp Jake by the forearm. It's time for the question I always thought I would take to my grave, but it's clear that I must ask it now, right now.

"Jake. How badly have I hurt you?"

I'm looking right into those green eyes of his, like two seas. And right now the seas are calm.

"Dad," he says, "I always knew you were trying your best. That's what counts."

It's the greatest thing anyone's ever said to me. My father respects the moment by hoisting his bottle and gently saying, "Hear, hear."

My lips are quivering as I turn to my father. "You don't hate me, Dad?"

"What a question. Of course not. You're too busy hating yourself for anybody else to have a chance at it!"

He grins at me, winks at me, and is startled when I reach over and grasp his forearm. I'm the link between these two people, and while holding their arms I'm flooded by the same sweet, gooey feeling I used to get after confessing my sins to a priest. Back then, that feeling lasted for about five minutes. I'm hoping for something longer this time.

My father pulls out of my grasp. "Enough of that already, unless you plan to buy me a corsage."

Just then the front doorbell rings. The pizza has arrived.

"I got it, Dad," I say, and he doesn't object. He's still a little weepy-eyed, and doesn't want the delivery boy to see him this way.

Jake comes to the front door with me, where a dark-haired, skinny kid who could have been me thirty years ago stands there holding two boxes containing the pizzas-strong boxes, corrugated cardboard that doesn't bend or leak. Where were these boxes when I was delivering for Napoli's?

"What do we owe you?"

"Comes to twenty-five fifty."

I give the kid thirty bucks and tell him to keep the change. He mutters his thanks and walks off, and then I happen to see his bicycle at the curb, and my heart drops. I hand the boxes to Jake and tell him to take them inside.

"Where are you going, Dad?" He seems worried about me, afraid to leave me alone.

"I just want to talk to this kid for a minute."

Jake smiles with relief. "Pizza delivery boy shop talk, eh?"

"Something like that. Get started, don't wait for me."

Jake goes to the kitchen and I run after the delivery boy. He's just boarding the bike when I startle him by grabbing it by the handlebars.

"Hey! What the h.e.l.l you doin', man!"

"Could I just see this bike for a second?"

"My bike?" bike?"

A big basket has been welded to the handlebars and the frame has been painted black, but the cracked leather seat is the original, and there they are, the letters BOB etched into the back of it. This is Fran's ex-husband's bicycle, still in service.