With a Hammer for My Heart: A Novel

FATHER CONNOR

FATHER CONNOR: I set off to see Amos in jail with a heavy heart. And some holy oil. He can't receive the Host, of course, but I thought he might accept a healing. I've only got so much to offer: Good News again—God loves you, died for you, for sins you haven't considered yet. . . . Gait's tough flab stopped my musing. Whoever hired this one got him straight from TV. He grumbled and spat, since he couldn't swear, then picked his teeth with a match before getting out the keys. Amos was sitting at the head of his bed, back against the wall. He barely turned to see who Gait was admitting. "Peace be with you," I said, settling myself in the one chair. "That'll be the day," Amos answered. "So how'd you merit these accommodations?" I asked him. "I prefer visiting in First Bus." "Curtis Ballard's told you." "True, but I'd like to hear your account." "Long as you understand I'm innocent," he said, turning to face me. "I been in here three days and you're only the second person to ask." He couldn't sit still and tell his story, had to get up and pace what little floor there was. 76 FATHER CONNOR It's just another confession, I told myself. Keep your face and voice calm. But we weren't kneeling, and I had no ledge to hold on to. When he came to the part about the notebook, I got mad. "Have you, then, no modicum of self-control?" "On paper, for myself, why should I?" I let that pass. "For God's sake, Amos, tell me what it says." "I don't read it," he said. "How would I know?" "You wrote it!" "That's right. Then I let it go." I just sat there. "You don't write stuff?" he asked. "Homilies. Letters, when I have to." "Don't you ever sort of pour yourself out?" I shook my head. Then I thought of Saint Paul. "Like a libation?" I asked him. "What are you getting at?" "It's Scripture—" Amos stopped me. "How about you talk out of your own head and I'll talk out of mine?" "Fair enough," I said. "So tell me what you think you might have written." "Well, probably . . . it could have been something about her being a female and all." He stopped, his back to the cell door. "Go on." "How nothing's happened to her," he said. "In a carnal way, you mean?" He gave a belly laugh. "We're good ones to be talking about this—me a hermit and you a priest." "It won't be funny in court," I told him. "/s that what you mean?" "That and everything!" he said, flashing from a laugh to anger. "I'm not like you, Your Holiness. I can't sort out 77 WITH A HAMMER FOR MY HEART body and soul and big sins and little and light and dark. It's all together—" "Then what did you and this girl do} Just tell me that." "I swear I never touched her," he said, and sat back on the bed. "Not, you know, like that." "But from the notebook, someone might think—" "Yeah," he admitted. Give him a trapdoor, Lord, I thought. Otherwise, it's the noose for sure. What I said was, "This is one for Saint Jude. It's a thousand wonders they haven't charged you yet." Amos put his head in his hands. "Curtis Ballard said writing might not count as evidence." "That depends on how riled up people get," I said, fiddling with my collar. I do that in tight spots. "You trying to get loose?" he asked. "No. Actually, it holds me together." "Strange, ain't it?" he said. "All them rings." I looked at him, raised my eyebrows. He went on. "I used to have one on my finger. You got one around your neck. They're outside of planets, inside of women—" "Brother, you just don't know when to quit, do you?" "Truth ain't quit yet," he said. "That being the case, I think we'd better pray." I closed my eyes. "Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all secrets known, be with us in this hour of distress. Give us grace to put our trust in You. If...