Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [96]
The Rev. Robert Porter:
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that it is the decision of this Diocese that you are no longer a priest in good standing and are no longer a rector of St. Peter’s. Having been hand-delivered to you, your receipt of this letter insures your acceptance and compliance. In accordance with the canons of the Catholic Church and due to your admitted violations of the criminal code of the State of Florida and the admitted moral violations committed by you against your parishioners, and having abandoned the communion of the body elect, you are hereby released from the obligations of the ministerial office and are deprived of the right to exercise the authority of a Minister of God’s word and sacrament as conferred in Ordination. Please vacate the premises of St. Peter’s immediately, and inform the office of the Bishop of that date.
In God’s Service,
The Rt. Rev. Phillip Turgrid, Ph.D., J.D.
I looked again at the white coat, but it wasn’t a white coat at all. Hanging alongside the robe was a clerical shirt with a collar, three long pieces of fine white rope and several multicolored pieces of fabric that looked like those things priests wore over their robes.
I made Abbie some soup for dinner but I’d stolen so much in the last week that I’d started feeling guilty and I couldn’t bring myself to steal from a priest. Even a defrocked one. Abbie drank most of the broth and ate about half the noodles along with a few saltine crackers. When she’d finished, I propped her back on the couch, covered her in a blanket, then walked out onto the porch.
The only sound was that of the metal rings of the hammock rubbing against the metal anchors in the wall. Petey balanced on a dowel above me that had been driven into the support beam for the porch. He seemed happy enough, although if he decided it was time to go to the bathroom, I was in trouble. I stared out through the tree limbs, while the river moved along without us. I’d watched the news on and off all afternoon. I wasn’t sure about the guys who’d jumped us, but if they saw the reports of us, or heard the senator’s news conference, they might go to the authorities with a slightly altered story and hope to capitalize on it. I wasn’t quite sure where to go or what to do. If I went home, the senator would intervene. That would get ugly and I had a feeling that my time alone with Abbie would come to an end. If we showed our faces in public, we ran the risk of getting turned in, so I knew we’d need to be careful. Lastly, I knew that whoever had jumped us in the boathouse wouldn’t let up so easily. We’d been lucky. The next time, I doubted we’d be that lucky.
Bob’s plane landed an hour after dark. Ten minutes later, feet climbed the steps and entered the house. Wasn’t long after that, Bob walked out onto the porch, a bottle of tequila in one hand, a cigar in the other. “Since you’re now a guest in my house, why don’t the two of us have a little come to Jesus meeting.”
I lifted my head off the hammock. “Are you qualified to have those?”
He saw Abbie in his shirt and seemed to take notice of it. Then he nodded. “Used to be.”
I knew I owed him an explanation. “We’ve been at this a few years. Abbie’s and my struggle has, admittedly, narrowed our view of the world down to us. I rarely see much beyond our own needs. I’m not apologizing for that, but I know it’s insensitive. And for that, I am sorry.”
He shook his head. “Sounds to me like you’ve earned a little understanding.”
“How’d you become a priest?”
“After college, I found myself in Rome. Worked four years in the Vatican. Thought I’d found my calling. Was assigned to a small parish in Mississippi. Then Florida. Finally, Georgia.”