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Voice 1: "Okay, Father."
Voice 2: "Thanks, Father."
Father O'Reilly comes back to me then, shaking his head. "Meet the Parkinsons," he says. "They're bloody useless." His comment shocks me. I've never heard a priest talk like this before. In fact, I've never spoken to one at all, but surely they're not all like this.
"Does that happen often?" I ask.
"Couple of times a week. At least."
"How do you live with that?"
He simply holds out his arms, motioning to his robe. "That's what I'm here for."
We talk for a while, the father and me.
I tell him about cab driving.
He tells me about priesting.
His church is the old one at the edge of town, and I now realize why he's chosen to live here. The church is too far away for him to really help anyone, so this is the best place for him. It's everywhere, on all sides and angles. This is where the father needs to be. Not in some church, gathering dust.
Sometimes I wonder about the way he speaks, which is confirmed when he explains the church to me. He admits that if his church was any kind of shop or restaurant, it would have closed down years ago.
"Business no good lately?" I ask.
"The truth?" The glass in his eyes breaks and punctures me. "Shithouse."
That's when I have to ask him. "Can you really talk like that? Being holy and all?"
"What? Because I'm a priest?" He finishes the dregs of his coffee. "Sure. God knows what's important."
It's a relief at this point that he doesn't go on about God knowing all of us and the rest of that particular sermon. He doesn't preach, ever. Even when we both have nothing more to say, he looks at me with finality and says, "But let's not get caught up in religion today, Ed. Let's talk about something else." He turns slightly formal now. "Let's talk about why you're here."
We stare across the table.
Just briefly.
At each other.
After a long drawn-out silence, I confess to the father. I tell him I still don't know why I'm here. I don't tell him about the messages I've already done or the ones still left to do. I only tell him that I have a purpose here and that it will come to me.
He listens very intently, with his elbows on the table, his hands together, and his fingers entwined beneath his chin.
A while passes until he knows I have very little else to say. He then speaks very calmly and clearly. He says, "Don't worry, Ed. What you need to do will certainly arrive in you. I've got a feeling it has in the past."
"It has," I agree.
"Just do me a favor and remember one thing," he says, and I can see he's trying not to be too typically religious. "Have faith, Ed, all right?"
I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.
He walks me out of his house and up the street. Along the way, we come across the cigarette, money, and jacket scabs, and the father rounds them all up and gets them together.
He says, "Now listen up, boys. I want you to meet Ed. Ed, this is Joe, Graeme, and Joshua." I shake all their hands. "Fellas, this is Ed Kennedy."
"Nice to meet you, Ed."
"Hi, Ed."
