Forgive Us Our Trespasses
In retrospect, it wasn’t all that surprising to Father Frederick to learn that someone had stolen the collections from both Sunday Masses on that cold, early-December morning. As far as he knew, the ushers’ collections procedures had remained unchanged at least since he’d inherited them when he came to St. Richard’s six years earlier. After collections were taken, the ushers brought the baskets directly into the sacristy through the door adjacent to the altar while the Mass continued. When Mrs. Hennesey, the elderly housekeeper he’d also inherited, heard the first strains of the service’s Communion hymn, she walked across the small parking lot to the sacristy and carried the satchel of accumulated moneys back to the rectory safe for deposit the next day.
On that Sunday when he followed the altar boys in prayer-like procession into the sacristy after Mass, Father Frederick found Mrs. Hennesey standing very still in front of its counter. She was dressed, as always, in a thin cardigan and the culinary uniform she insisted on wearing, her hands clasped together at her waist. Her mouth was set in a taut line, and her angry, dancing eyes fixed on his.
The altar boys continued through to the vestry while Father Frederick stopped short of her. They regarded one another while a succession of vehicle engines started in the parking lot until he said, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s gone.”
“What is?”
“The collections satchel. It’s been taken, stolen.”
Father Frederick felt himself stiffen. He glanced behind her where he saw the familiar assortment of chalices, altar linens, and holy oils on the counter, but no collections satchel. A flush spread up behind his ears.
“And look,” she said pointing to the side door. “I found it wide open when I came across.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes.”
Father Frederick kept his gaze on the open door as if he might find something there, then pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I suppose we should call the police.”
Mrs. Hennesey lifted her cell phone from a cardigan pocket. “I already have,” she said. “They’re on their way.”
It took more than an hour to conclude things with the officers before he and Mrs. Hennesey finally returned to the rectory and the lunch she’d prepared for him waiting on the dining room table under a dish towel. Even though he’d asked her repeatedly not to, she pulled out his chair for him, and when he sat, snatched away the towel before going through the swinging door into the kitchen to make his tea. Carefully arranged on his plate sat a tuna fish sandwich and a mound of German potato salad.
The last item was one Mrs. Hennesey often made for him under the belief that because of his name he had Germanic roots, when actually most of his ancestry was Scandinavian. He’d learned quickly after taking over for the retiring pastor that it would be useless to try to correct or change her assumptions, routines, and expectations.
The grandfather wall clock in the foyer made a single long chime. One o’clock and already the afternoon’s wan light seemed on the decline. The window beside him rattled slightly, and bare tree branches nodded on the cold breeze outside. As he began to eat, he could hear Mrs. Hennesey speaking to someone on her cell phone, already reporting in high animation details about the theft.
“Almost nine hundred dollars most Sundays,” he heard her say. “Can you imagine? And the gall to walk right in through the outside door to the sacristy!”
Father Frederick closed his eyes and pinched his nose again. If he had ever known a bigger busybody than Mrs. Hennesey, he couldn’t recall when. He’d often puzzled over how he might relieve himself of her assistance, but she’d been volunteering in the position for over thirty years, so he could hardly fire or replace her. His frustration was mitigated somewhat by the fact that she only came daily from 11-2 in order to clean and prepare his lunch and a supper she left for him to have later. She was a fastidious housekeeper, but only a passable cook.
After Mrs. Hennesey departed for the day, Father Frederick bundled up and went for his afternoon walk through his neighborhood of modest brick homes, most of which had been built in the 60s during the Rust Belt’s better days.
Since then, the town’s main factory had closed down, although most buildings like the church and rectory, remained smoke-stained from its chimneys. Father Frederick turned the collar of his Mackinaw coat up against the chill. Not many vehicles passed on the scarred blacktop, and he encountered even fewer along the cracked sidewalk, tilted here and there by tree roots.
He considered the missing collections as he walked, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. Any number of people could be responsible for the theft. Almost all the parishioners knew where those collections were stored, and certainly any current or former altar boy did. A simple passerby could have witnessed Mrs. Hennesey’s weekly journey between sacristy and rectory while clasping her bulky money satchel. For that matter, Mrs. Hennesey herself or someone in her orbit could have been involved, although that seemed to him highly unlikely. What appeared certain to Father Frederick, however, was that a need had existed for whoever had taken it.
He was pondering that need when he came upon a member of the church’s Rosary Guild walking her dog, a large woman in a scarf and overcoat.
“Oh, Father,” she said. “I heard about the larceny. Horrible.”
“My.” Father Frederick balled his hands into fists in his pockets. “Word travels fast.”
“In this town, it does. Any idea who the thief may be?”
Father Frederick shook his head. “Not really, no. The police are involved.”
“So I understand. Let’s hope they make an arrest soon.” The dog yanked on its leash, and she followed after it, saying, “Take care, Father.”
“You, too.”
He had two more similar encounters before entering the busier part of town. Most of the shops along Main Street were closed, some permanently. He passed the train station and thought about first arriving there to assume his new post. He’d requested a transfer from his prison chaplain position in another state to be closer to his mother whose health was failing and who’d recently entered a senior care facility an hour away. The assignment came with the use of a parish car, and he’d appreciated being able to visit her each week, as well as to occasionally drive her over and back so she could attend both his Sunday services. She’d raised him alone and had been as devout as she was devoted to him. She’d passed away after his second year there, and he felt somehow adrift afterwards, a bit untethered.
He returned home on a narrow street crowded with duplexes and drab apartment buildings that paralleled the train tracks. His answering machine light was blinking on the table in the foyer when he came through the front door. He pushed it and heard the strained voice of the head of the church council.
“Hell of a thing, Father,” the male voice said. “Hell of a thing. Who steals church collections? What kind of person does a thing like that?” His voice exhaled an exasperated breath. “Anyway, the word is out, and people are upset. Mrs. Hennesey’s sister has already emailed the newspaper a Letter to the Editor expressing her outrage, and there are comments all over the parish’s Facebook page. But don’t you worry, we’ll get that money back somehow. Have a rummage sale, resurrect a few bingo nights.”
The corners of Father Federick’s mouth rose at the choice of that last verb. “Or maybe they’ll catch the bastards – pardon my French, Father – who did it. Anyway, don’t concern yourself over this.” A pause followed. “Not a bit.”
The message ended abruptly. Father Frederick watched the red light on the answering machine blink off and found himself thinking back again to an incident in his youth that had always haunted him. He’d been seven or eight at the time and had accidentally broken the window of a cranky, old neighbor while throwing rocks in a vacant lot bordering his property. The neighbor stormed outside and demanded twenty dollars retribution by the following day if Father Frederick didn’t want him to tell his mother. He had no money of his own, so Father Frederick snuck a twenty dollar bill from the envelope in their mudroom cabinet where his mother kept money to pay Luis, the Puerto Rican man who mowed their lawn and did their shoveling in the winter. Luis always let himself into the mudroom after he’d finished, knocked on their back door, and Father Frederick’s mother would meet him there to give him his payment. When she found the missing money, she accused Luis of taking it and after he denied it, fired him on the spot. Father Frederick heard the entire exchange from his bedroom and never did anything to correct it.
He looked down now at the back of his hands, already wrinkling at the knuckles although he’d only just turned sixty and recalled Luis’ weather-beaten, calloused hands. He stood listening to the wall clock next to him make its slow ticks. After a few minutes, the furnace in the basement kicked on. Finally, he sighed, took off his coat, hung it in the hall closet, and went into the kitchen where he could smell beef stew simmering in the crock pot. He forced himself to think about pleasant ways to fill the hours before bed: perhaps a hot toddy with the evening news on television, supper, some time working on his stamp collection, a new biography from the library he’d been looking forward to starting, a warm bath.
The next morning dawned clear, but a dusting of snow coated the parking lot when Father Frederick crossed it to the sacristy for early morning Mass. The usual small gathering of daily communicants awaited him scattered among the first few pews as he began the service. The overall congregation had only remained stable because two smaller churches in nearby towns had closed and their members had no choice but to travel to St. Richard’s.
After Mass and breakfast, he went to visit several parishioners who were homebound with long illnesses or had been admitted to the hospital. He stopped on his way back to do some grocery shopping, unpacked his purchases in the kitchen, then decided to take his walk early because the weather forecast called for the first real snowstorm of the season that afternoon. He followed the same route as always, except for a stop in the park to toss stale bread crusts to the few ducks who remained on the pond, before returning home a little after eleven. As he approached the rectory, he was surprised to see Mrs. Hennesey standing on the front step with the two policemen they’d dealt with the previous day. She was holding the church’s collections satchel, which appeared to be full.
The trio just stared at him blankly for several moments without speaking when he joined them there. Finally, the taller officer pointed to the satchel and said, “So, it seems you’ve had a bit of good luck.”
His partner gestured towards Mrs. Hennesey and said, “Tell him.”
“Well, I’m still stunned.” When she turned her eyes to Father Frederick, they held a combination of bewilderment, chagrin, and astonishment. “It happened not a quarter hour ago as I was walking up to the rectory from my bus stop. I startled a young man who’d just put this satchel inside the storm door there and started back down the steps. When he saw me, he looked aghast, troubled, terrified really, then ran off. I shouted after him, but he disappeared around the corner. Gone.”
Something akin to hope had crept inside Father Frederick. He said, “He returned the collections.”
She glanced down at the satchel. “It appears so.”
“Remarkable,” Father Frederick heard himself mutter.
“Of course, we can’t know if all the money is there,” the taller officer said. “He may have taken some. And the fact remains, it was stolen.” He faced Mrs. Hennesey. “Do you think you could describe this man to our sketch artist down at the station? We may still be able to apprehend him.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “I think I could, yes.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Father Frederick said quietly. He turned to the officers. “We don’t want to press charges.”
They both frowned; Mrs. Hennesey did the same, a little huff escaping her. The taller officer stroked his chin, then said, “Well, you’ll at least let us know if those collections seem less than usual.”
“No,” Father Frederick told him. “I won’t be doing that either.”
The three of them stood blinking at him until the shorter officer finally gave a gruff shrug and said, “You know how to reach us if you change your mind. And start locking that sacristy door.”
Father Frederick nodded, then extended his hand toward Mrs. Hennesey. “Here,” he said. “I can take that. Why don’t you go home, skip working today. You’ve had quite a shock.”
“I am a bit frazzled,” she mumbled.
“Go. I just bought groceries and have plenty of that leftover stew you made.” He regarded her bewildered expression and added, “It was delicious, by the way.”
She looked towards the street. “I don’t know about buses at this hour.”
“We’ll be happy to run you home,” the taller officer said.
“Well,” Mrs. Hennesey said. “All right.”
They exchanged polite nods, then Mrs. Hennesey accepted the shorter officer’s arm to lean on, and they made their way to the police cruiser a few feet away. Father Frederick waited until they’d disappeared up the street to go inside the rectory. He brought the satchel directly to the dining room table where he sat and emptied its contents. Normally, he counted the money and filled out deposit slips while Mrs. Hennesey was around to avoid any suspicion of impropriety on his part, but he didn’t want her scrutiny on this particular occasion. He separated the checks from the cash, calculating as he did, and it quickly became apparent that the collection was a normal one, perhaps even a little on the high side.
Father Frederick suddenly stopped his sorting when his eyes fell upon something unexpected among the money. On rare occasions, he’d found an odd but benign item in the collections: a wrapped piece of gum, a shopping list scribbled on a Post-it stuck to the back of a check, a balled tissue. But at that moment, he felt his eyebrows knit as he lifted a crocheted baby bootie out of the pile. It was pink and the size he imagined for a newborn. He couldn’t fathom that it could have found its way into the pile during the ushers’ collections; that realization and its only alternate explanation sent a chill through him.
Father Frederick sat back in his chair and rubbed his thumb over the clumsy stitching in the bootie, staring at it. He shook his head, swallowed, and turned his gaze to the window. It had begun to snow outside: big, fat, crazy flakes. Winter had arrived. He remembered Luis bent over his snow shovel in their driveway, his breath coming in short clouds of exertion. Luis’ eyes had been downturned at the outside edges, gentle and kind. And he always had tiny, hard candies in his pants pocket that he gave Father Frederick whenever he saw him. He spoke almost no English, so the gesture was silent, and without fail, accompanied by a small smile. Father Frederick began to cry.
William Cass has had over 350 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Mid-Level Management Literary Magazine. He won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. A nominee for both Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net anthologies, he has also received six Pushcart Prize nominations. His first short story collection, Something Like Hope & Other Stories, was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection, Uncommon & Other Stories, was recently released by the same press. He lives in San Diego, California.