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“Back when my father was alive, we had them nearly crushed. It was your Grandmother Orso and Kelvin Ramsay who orchestrated a treaty, divided up the town, and let them continue on. It never should have been done.”
“If they weren’t dealing drugs in Cascade Falls, someone else would be. We don’t want that business. We don’t want to deal with the fucking cartels, and if it wasn’t the Ramsays, it would be some shitbag gang runn
ing the west side. It’s better this way.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer him. I’ve had enough of all of this, and I march over to Nora to haul her back home so she can start the wake at the house, and I can get a damn drink.
Twos steps to one side as I take Nora’s arm.
“Are we done here?” I ask. “Can we leave?”
“I want to go light a candle for him,” Nora says.
“You go right ahead. Just don’t take too long.”
“You are going to drive me,” she says, her tone much more demanding.
“Me? Why me?”
“Because this is all your fault, and maybe if you go to church with me, I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you.”
“Fine.” Sometimes it’s easier to give in than to keep fighting. “I’ll go, but after we leave, we toast your husband, get drunk, and you stop berating me about this.”
“Fine.” She glares daggers at me but finally moves away from the burial site.
I drive Nora to Saint Peter’s Cathedral and park in front of the tall brick building. The sun is beginning to drop below the trees, and the air is too cold in the shade to stop myself from shivering. Nora pulls her black shawl around her shoulders and marches through the front door without a word to me.
“Go on,” Pops says. “Get it over with,”
“Fine,” I mutter as I follow Nora inside.
I lean against one of the pews in the back, hoping she isn’t going to take too long. Nora lights her candle, crosses herself, and then kneels before the altar. I sigh and cross myself before sitting in the pew. I share no thoughts with God but try to at least give the appearance of respect.
I hear soft footsteps coming up behind me and glance over.
“You have something to confess to me, Nataniele?” Father Brian places his hand on my shoulder.
“Usually, Father.”
“Come along, then.”
“What? Now?”
“Now.” The priest walks off toward the sanctuary.
I take in a deep breath, annoyed that my Catholic upbringing won’t allow me to ignore his “request” and follow him to the confessional. I drop myself onto the bench and close the curtain as Father Brian opens the screen between us.
“Confess, my child,” he says without prelude.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…I dunno, a couple of months since my last confession.”
“Yes. Please continue.”
I huff out a breath, looking away from him and tapping my foot against the wall as I try to remember what all I’ve done since the last time Father Brian dragged me in here. Though I was brought up in a devout Catholic family, I try to avoid the church as much as possible. If nothing else, I recognize the hypocrisy of our lives versus the teachings of the church and don’t really like having it shoved in my face. I can’t do what I’m supposed to do if Father Brian is constantly telling me not to go forward with my plans, or he won’t be able to offer me absolution—as if there is any hope for my soul.
My list of sins seems too long, so I figure I’ll just go with the most recent transgressions.
