Grief Street

interim.
    Next year, it’s got to be a younger man fetches my things.
    I don’t fancy having Charlie up here gasping and keeling over. A new man... Well, it’ll be interesting to see who they scrounge up.
    Charlie wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, after which he blew his nose. Then he took the folded fax paper from his shirt pocket and held it out to the silent priest.
    “See at the top there, in big bold letters it says ‘Urgent, Reply Requested,’ ” Charlie said. Another spasm of sneezes, as much from excitement now as from the pollen. My, oh my—this urgency from New York City was likely to keep Charlie and his cronies down at the village store thrilled for weeks. Naturally, Charlie had read the full text. Anyone could tell just by looking at the cat-that-ate-the-canary look on his face. Snooping was ever so much easier in the fax age. Charlie said, “It come over the fax wire right while I’m opening up. I figure it’s best I run up here straightaway, Father. So I jump right in the Jeep, don’t even think twice-Store’s just going to have to stay closed ’til I get back.”
    The giddy old bugger’s trying to make me talk. Always torturing me, he is — always!
    The hermit nodded thankfully, and smiled. He took off his glasses, steaming up each lens with a puff of hot air-then wiping them with a handkerchief. Then he took the fax from Charlie’s eager hand. He opened it—ever so slowly, just to increase Charlie’s anxiety—and finally read the transcript:

URGENT—REPLY REQUESTED.

Dearest Father Morrison:

Peace of Christ! Begging your indulgence, I wish to send a policeman your way as an official visitor. There have been terrible crimes here of late—horrible, unspeakably evil crimes. Upon arrival of Detective Neil Hockaday, you’ll learn the exact horror—and I trust you will understand at once why your good counsel is critical to justice. By the way, you’ll remember Neil Hockaday from years ago, when he was a boy in your religion class here at Holy Cross. He’s made quite a reputation for himself. It distresses me to say, however, that Neil’s grown a bit fallen away from the church, though I do sense that he’s now finally prepared to make a firm purpose of amendment. After all, you see, Neil’s discovered by this terrible evil it has fallen to him to battle that it behooves a good Catholic to live the church each moment of the day, particularly when the good Catholic happens to be a policeman. Kindly respond with immediacy.
—Yrs in Christ’s Love,
Fr. Declan Byrne

    The hermit looked up at Charlie, who had begun to shake. Not because he was cold.
    Small wonder old Charlie’s all of a twitter. The bugger’s probably read this fax letter twenty times over. And probably, too, he’s already rung up most of his pals before driving up to me. Jaysus, don’t Declan have the talent for sounding all mystic like. Just like an Irish parish priest. Never forgetting about business. Firm purpose of amendment — oh, please!
    “Have you a pen, Charlie?”
    “Father—!”
    The sound of Father Gerald Morrison’s voice stunned Charlie into more sneezes. No, not the sound alone this time; it was more the casual phrasing that overwhelmed. Charlie searched his pockets and produced a blue ink Bic.
    Filthy things, these ballpoint pens. Bad, bad invention!
    The hermit smiled as he took the pen.
    Yes, I do remember young Neil Hockaday. He called me “Creepy” behind my back, like all the others with their short pants and snotty faces. Lovely mother the boy had, though — Mairead, God rest her.
    The hermit turned over Father Declan’s fax and wrote on the clean back: By all means, send me your policeman right away — Rev. Fr. Gerald Morrison, SJ. He placed this return message into Charlie’s hand.
    “Immediately on this now,” said Father Morrison. Wide-eyed, Charlie turned and trotted off, and was chased by a cello voice that spoke more words than he had ever known the hermit to speak at one time. “A safe and careful journey to you, Charlie—but please, be your fleetest.”
    The hermit puffed on his pipe as he watched Charlie disappear down the forest path.
    My haste is not what Charlie’s thinking has got so many words from me—though I don’t begrudge him or his mates the tales to be made of horrid crime reports and how they’ve got me stirred. There’s really no sense in getting riled about gossip and evil. Both these things are forever in bountiful supply. But this