Secrets of Slaters Falls

Nothing like this had ever happened before in Slaters Falls. Everyone was talking about it, especially those with little or nothing constructive to say. "Well, if that doesn't beat all," said an old-timer who wandered over from feeding the pigeons in Memorial Park. "It's that rap and rock music the kids listen to these days. They've all got Satan in their eyes," said a childless woman in her fifties who was the wife of the town's most prominent lawyer. "There's only one cause for things like this. Violence in movies," another woman said. "Isn't it obvious?" Several onlookers nodded their agreement. Just then, Ruth Martelle came strolling along. She took her lunch break each day at precisely one PM. This necessitated the closing of the Slaters Falls Library since she was the sole librarian and employee. She had the distinct gift of being prim and proper while still being able to "tell it like it is" in any situation. Ruth was clearly a practitioner of the lost art of diplomacy. Of course, she already knew what was going on at the First Trust Bank. In a small town, bad news travels fast, but potentially tragic news travels at a speed second only to lightning. Ruth chastised the crowd. "Violence in the media has nothing to do with this. Everyone's accountable for choices he or she makes. As for the person responsible for this spectacle being a 'kid,' I suppose at our ages (she looked directly at the lawyer's wife) just about everyone seems like a kid." She explained with such authority that nobody dared question her. Who would argue with a woman who could quiet an entire room of fifth graders on a field trip with her mere glance? Not the type to stare at a car accident or any other kind of tragedy, Ruth continued her walk, leaving the growing crowd in the distance. She caught her reflection in one of the windows of Harrison's Department Store. She smoothed the wrinkles on the shoulders of her dress. She laughed to herself imagining what the people of Slaters Falls would say if they knew their prim and proper librarian had once, while she was a student at Wellesley College during a protest in the 1960's, removed her bra on Boston Common, marched topless through the streets, and burned the bra on the Massachusetts State House lawn at the foot of the statue of Captain Myles Standish. * * * Only one person in town knew that the whole ordeal at the First Trust Bank started earlier down the street at, of all places, St. Mark's parish church. Father Mulroy sat in the confessional at noon. He wondered what other priests thought about while waiting for penitents to arrive. He knew what he thought and he also knew those thoughts were of questionable propriety. Let's face it, he would say to himself, listening to confessions is pretty unexciting. Who comes in here every day? People like Alice Valentene, that's who, a woman who simply looked like every grandmother you've ever seen in a greeting card commercial. She's never said so much as an unkind word about anyone in the sixty-five years she's been on this earth. Men who confessed that, after they got their paychecks from the warehouse, they stayed out all night drinking with the boys. Father Mulroy would absolve them and give them a penance of saying the Hail Mary three times and buying flowers for their wronged wives. Such monotony. Who else? Pious housewives confessed to not having dinner on the table when their husbands came home from work. Can you imagine? In this day and age? Boring! Why can't anyone ever reveal anything exciting in here? If only the young people would come in and confess some of the juicy things they do and think about, now that would be entertaining, Father Mulroy decided. Yes, he had to get the Archbishop to transfer him to a parish in Boston where people actually did things worth confessing on a regular basis. Maybe he could get assigned as a chaplain at a Catholic college? That had potential. Father Mulroy, about 35, knew how handsome he was. He had dark eyes and dark wavy hair, with sharp sideburns. He looked more like a priest on a TV show than a real man of the cloth. He imagined how popular he would be on a college campus, especially among the ladies. He would seem so available to them, yet be just beyond their reach. What if one of them had to confess that she lusted after him? Now that would be a confession worth hearing. Then there would be the knowing look he could cast her way the next time he saw her on campus. The look that said, I know you want me and isn't it too bad you can't have me? Then he would put on a sympathetic expression, making the lovely young lady think she might have a chance after all, that his endless compassion for her and her unholy desire might allow him to break his vow just that once. Of course, he would never actually break his vow of celibacy. At least he didn't think so. But wouldn't it be fun to be tempted? After all, morals without temptation are just lofty ideas. They really can't be claimed as one's standards of behavior unless one has had to put them to the test and do the right thing. The priest checked his watch. He peeked out into the church. Nobody was there. He would wait a few more minutes and then maybe close up early. If he was lucky, he could get some time working out on the gym machine in the rectory and take a shower before settling down to watch old recordings of his favorite soap operas, Passions and Guiding Light. He heard the enormous front door of the church creak. Here we go, he thought to himself. Another laundry list of domestic un-bliss was about to unfold. Just once, he prayed, could something thrilling happen in here? The confessional door swung open rather noisily. This didn't sound like a pious Slaters Falls housewife after all. A man's gruff voice began, "Forgive me, Padre, because I'm about to sin. It's been, um, a hell of a long time since my last confession." Father Mulroy was a little taken aback, but recovered quickly. He opened his mouth to ask what the penitent had done and then stopped when he realized how the man had phrased his statement. Father Mulroy questioned, "Did you say you were about to sin?" "Yes." Neither man spoke for a moment. "What is it you're thinking of doing?" the priest asked. "I ain't thinkin' about it. I'm gonna do it." "Do what?" "I don't know if I can tell you." The man's voice sounded shaky. Father Mulroy surmised that he had been drinking. "Is this some kind of a joke?" he asked. The voice was low, regretful, and serious. "No joke, Padre. I'm gonna kill someone this afternoon." Father Mulroy was so stunned he didn't reply. He heard movement on the other side of the screen. Then he heard the small door swing open. He grabbed for his flashlight. The priest never told anyone this, but he was afraid of the dark and sitting in the blacked out conditions of the confessional box was a penance all its own for him. The most absurd thought raced through his mind. What if the gravelly-voiced maniac killed him right here in the church before he ever got the Archbishop to make him a college chaplain? The moments ticked by and Father Mulroy heard nothing. He held his breath. Then it happened. The door swung open and creaked. It wasn't the door to his side of the confessional, but the front door to the church. "Thank God," Father Mulroy muttered out loud. The relief washed over him like a tidal wave at the beach. He breathed deeply and reached for the doorknob. As his hand touched it, he realized something. When the door opened, it didn't necessarily mean that the pre-confessed killer left; it could have meant that someone else had come in. Now there could be two victims instead of one. His mind went crazy examining this from all angles. If there were two potential victims, at least one of them might be able to escape. He hated to admit it, especially in church, but he hoped to the heavens that he would be the escapee. He had to act fast. He threw open the door and was faced with a scream like he'd never heard before. Father Mulroy and Alice Valentene scared each other three quarters of the way to death. He'd knocked the poor woman over. He helped her to her feet and looked around frantically. "Where is he?" the priest demanded of Alice. "Who? Father Mulroy, are you all right?" "Alice, there was a man in here, in the confessional. Did you see him? I have to know where he is." He shook her. "As I approached the church outside, I saw a man leaving. He seemed to be in a hurry. He tripped on his way down the stairs, but got up and kept right on going." "Who was it?" "I don't know, Father. He had his back to me. Why?" "Because he-" Father Mulroy stopped. The seal of the confessional didn't allow him to repeat what he'd heard. "Never mind. I'm sorry, Alice." Father Mulroy offered a quick and silent prayer that the man was playing some sort of a sick joke on him. After they calmed down and took their respective places for the sacrament, Father Mulroy was never so happy to hear someone confess to having an uncharitable thought about a co-worker.