Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

Seventy-two-year-old Father Ronin McIntire shuffles alongside Killian Coyle, the director of White Birch Hospice Care. Balding and quietly spoken, with tranquil blue eyes peering out from behind round, steel-rimmed glasses, Ronin listens attentively to Killian.

“After all these years, Ronin, you’re still putting in twice as many hours as the rest of the staff. You’ve been running on fumes ever since COVID. You used to look like a linebacker, but now you’re a string bean. You should take some time to rest and take care of yourself.”

“The patients need me.”

“You’ve undoubtedly heard the rumor that White Birch may not be here much longer because we’re running out of money. It’s true.”

“All the more reason to help as many souls as possible.”

                                               ***

Weakened by heart disease, eighty-four-year-old Brandon Bohm manages to croak, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… So much pain just to breathe…”

Ronin leans over his bed. “Is there something I can do? Perhaps a special prayer?”

“…Just listen…”

                                               ***

Brandon grinds his teeth, stepping on the car’s accelerator.

“Promise me you’ll take your medication, Beth.”

“But it makes me sleepy.”

A tall, attractive, gray-eyed brunette with undeniable style and poise, Beth is the envy of all the wives whenever Brandon can coax her into attending one of Arlington Financial’s lavish parties.

“You need to pay attention to your mental health,” Brandon scolds. “I don’t want you wandering around the neighborhood naked again.”

“The neighbors didn’t mind. Some of them took pictures.”

“This isn’t a joke, Beth.”

Beth cups her head in her hands, sobbing. “You’re still punishing me for Albert. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“You left our son alone to toy with the mailman.”

“…We were only talking,” Beth says between tears.

“You were flirting while our son walked out the back door, fell in the pool, and drowned.”

“…And I’ve been paying for it ever since…”

“You smoke three packs a day. You don’t eat,” Brandon snaps. “You walk around the house talking and laughing to yourself, and you see things that aren’t there. You’ve had so many afflictions the psychiatrist can’t keep up with them. You’re making yourself sick so people will pity you, and you’ll get more attention. And you know what? That makes me sick.”

Brandon pulls the car into Rexall’s parking lot. He bounds out of the car but stops short, sniffing the air.

“I smell anti-freeze. Must have a leak. Why don’t you get your prescription while I check.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll dance around naked in the aisles?”

“Just go.”

Brandon lifts the hood of the car, checking the engine.

A battered Chevy parks near the store’s front door. Leaving the car running, a jittery man with a big nose exchanges glances with Brandon before skulking inside.

A loud pop stops Brandon from playing Mr. Fix It.

The jittery man runs out of the door, dashing to his car. Smoking the wheels, he speeds off.

The store’s pharmacist races outside. Spotting Brandon, he yells, “Call 9-1-1! We’ve been robbed, and he shot a woman!”

                                               ***

Brandon struggles to speak, his voice a whisper. “…I’ve been living with the guilt for over forty years…”

“It’s difficult to care for a loved one with mental illness,” Ronin replies, patting Brandon’s hand.

“…Her doctor called after the funeral… He’d found a tumor in Beth’s x-rays. It had been pressing against her skull… He said the tumor and her guilt were why she acted so strangely…”

“It’s not your fault, my son.”

“…Yes, it is… I couldn’t take her behavior anymore. I hired that man to shoot Beth…”

                                               ***

Brandon Bohm’s confession hangs heavy over Ronin, who reminds himself that he’s duty-bound to keep it a secret.

Brandon’s secret dies with him two days later.

                                               ***

Lionel Liversay’s criminal past is well-known. He served twenty-five years for poisoning a co-worker. Now sixty-six, Lionel needs a heart transplant, but his reputation and his rare blood type have left him with little hope of getting one.

Ronin and Lionel eye each other guardedly as they sip their tea.

“This stuff takes nasty, but at least it’s warm,” Lionel complains.

Ronin makes the sign of the cross over Lionel.

“You should save your piety for someone who believes in that crap,” Lionel says.

“It’s never too late to give yourself to the Lord, my son.”

“Sure, if it’s Jack Lord, Jon Lord, or Majorie Lord.”

“Still defiant, still cynical, even at this stage,” Ronin comments. “Who hurt you, Lionel?”

“…Everyone…”

                                               ***

Logan Liversay musses his brother's hair, punching him on the arm. Now that he’s sixteen and hanging out with the cool kids in school, Logan has stepped up his lifetime harassment of his twelve-year-old brother.

“What’s that you’re doin’, squirt? You playin’ mad scientist again? You know, all the kids at school think you’re a weirdo, a dork. You’re actin’ like Doctor Frankenstein is messin’ up my action with the girls, and I’m getting funny looks from the guys on the basketball team ‘cause of you. You need to straighten up and fly right.”

Lionel ignores his brother, mixing the chemicals he’s created with his chemistry set.

“You hear me, squirt? Maybe you’ll hear this!” Logan says, punching Lionel on the arm.

“OW!”

Lionel’s arm jerks backward, the solution in the test tube splashing onto Logan’s arm.

Logan shrieks, “You psycho! You burned me!”

Lionel turns his head in time to see his brother’s fist hit him.

When Logan is finished beating his brother, all that remains of Lionel’s chemistry set are bits of broken glass.

Lionel and Logan sit quietly at the dinner table as their parents scream at each other from one end of the house to the other. Her eyes blackened, their mother leaves, never to be seen again.

The rest of Luther Liversay’s dinner consists of the three tumblers of Vodka he drinks while belittling his sons and cursing his departed spouse.

“You’re a useless little ant, you know that, Lionel?” Luther grumbles. “You think all that scientific mumbo jumbo and those little test tubes are gonna help you make a living?”

“Maybe I could cure cancer someday. Maybe I could help you if you ever get sick.”

“Me? I’m healthy as a horse. It’s you who looks sickly.”

Luther wobbles as he rises from his chair.

“…I got a cure for you…”

Grabbing Lionel by his long hair, Luther pulls his head back, pouring a glass of vodka down his throat.

Lionel gags.

“Don’t you dare puke! Don’t waste good booze!”

Luther’s anger fails to subside, even after Lionel mixes him another drink.

Logan gobbles down his dinner so he won’t have to be in the same room as his father and brother. Later that evening, he doubles over, complaining about stomach cramps. Over the next few days, he becomes violently ill.

As the paramedics carry Logan to the ambulance, Lionel whispers, “Bye, squirt.”

Logan falls into a coma on his way to the hospital. He dies two days later.

                                               ***

Within a week, Luther develops the same agonizing stomach pains as his late son and is taken to the hospital.

Lionel can’t hide his joy as he watches his father try to contain his pain.

“What are you grinning at, you useless ant?”

“Maybe I can help you.”

Luther can only summon enough strength to ball up his fists.

“You did this to me. You and your test tubes and your potions.”

“Yep. Like I said, I could help you… But I won’t.”

Luther lingers for another day as his intestines dissolve.

Luther’s autopsy reveals traces of hydrofluoric acid. Lionel tells the doctors that Luther, a metal worker, had probably been exposed to it while on the job.

                                               ***

Lionel boomerangs through the child services system, returning to an orphanage whenever his latest family becomes too sick to care for him or one of his science experiments blows up his room.

After working in numerous pharmacies, Lionel works as a lab assistant at Medix Chemical Company. When Lionel offers to make coffee for his coworkers, they merely view it as a kind gesture.

                                               ***

Lionel tells Father McIntire he might have gone on to become a Nobel Prize winner if he hadn’t kept a diary.

Lionel made Roger Ratelle a cup of Earl Grey tea on a Monday morning. He found the taste so sour that he only took a mouthful before throwing it away. Telling their supervisor he felt ill, Ratelle left work. He began to hallucinate, crashed his car, and was eventually taken to hospital. He died on Tuesday.

A second co-worker, Mitzi LeForge, was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday with numb legs, breathing difficulties, and chest pains. Her skin was so tender she couldn’t bear the weight of the bed sheets, and all her hair fell out. But LeForge survived, and when the police questioned her, she mentioned feeling sick after drinking a cup of coffee Lionel had given her.

The police searched Lionel’s apartment and found twelve pages of notes describing how he’d poisoned Ratelle and LeForge. They also found four types of poison in his kitchen.

“But you only served time for Roger Ratelle’s murder,” Ronin notes.

Lionel sips his tea. “Yeah. Luckily, the police only found my notes on Ratelle and LeForge, not my diary. Still, I figure I did a year for everybody I poisoned.”

Lionel yawns. “Don’t you have a christening or catechism class? I’m tired. I need a nap.”

“I’ll leave you alone then. Make sure you finish your tea. It’ll be good for you.”

                                               ***

The next afternoon, Killian stops Ronin in the hallway. Killian, who keeps an unlit vape pen in his mouth to pacify his urge to smoke, earnestly bites down on its stem.

“Lionel Liversay passed last night. He had a convulsion. It wasn’t pretty or pleasant. Shame. I got word earlier today that they’d found a compatible subject for the heart transplant he needed. He would have recovered if he’d hung on for a few more hours.”

                                               ***

A few days later, Killian knocks on Ronin’s office door.

Killian’s vape pipe points at Ronin like a divining rod searching for water. “I know you’re busy, but can you talk to Homer today? He doesn’t have any family or friends. The doctors say he’s got dementia. Homer can’t remember his own life, so he makes things up. Yesterday, he told me he was there when President McKinley was shot.”

“He probably means Kennedy,” Ronin says.

“He said McKinley’s wife, Ida, had epilepsy, and one time, when she had a fit at dinner, McKinley threw a handkerchief over her face, hoping the guests wouldn’t notice. The way Homer tells a story makes it sound like he really was there.”

“I’d expect that from a man with no last name who signed himself in and paid in cash. He enjoys being a man of mystery.”

                                               ***

Homer is one of those lucky individuals who looks infinitely younger than he probably is. The nurses have a pool to guess his age, which they estimate is between fifty-five and eighty. He has the nimble body of a gymnast, an abundant shock of styled silver hair, and his face is wrinkle-free. His tender brown eyes develop a playful glint whenever he tells one of his outrageous stories.

“Are you in pain, Homer? Feeling foggy?”

“I felt far worse at Shiloh.”

“The Battle of Shiloh was in 1862, Homer.”

“That’s right. April sixth and seventh. Twenty-three thousand casualties… Some of the wounded soldiers gave off a greenish-blue glow. We called it ‘Angel’s Glow.’ The soldiers who had the glow recovered faster like they were blessed… Yeah, I saw a lot of suffering then. It was heartbreaking on the Titanic too…”

“Are you saying you were on the Titanic when it sank?”

“I was an electrician. I got out just before they shut the watertight doors to try and save the ship. I was lucky… Did you know there were seventeen newlywed couples on board? Seven new husbands and twelve new wives survived.”

“How do you know details about events that others don’t?” Ronin asks.

“I told you before, Father, I’m a time traveler.”

“And I’m Francis of Assisi. I bet you’re just a better internet surfer than the rest of us.”

Homer’s leprechaun charm dissolves. “It’s nearly time for me to go. I want to thank everyone for letting me rest here for a while… I hear White Birch is in financial trouble… I can help.”

“Unless you’ve got access to a goldmine, there’s not much you can do.”

“I’ve got four million dollars, and I’m willing to give it to you.”

Ronin tries to contain his laughter. “How and where did you get four million dollars?”

                                               ***

Homer’s story begins in Norwalk, Connecticut, in June 1975.

Homer greets Sanford DeNiro, the President of the Second National Bank, with a warm hello.

DeNiro looks up at the clock, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Right on time, as usual, Homer. You keep showing this kind of dedication and excellent work, and you’ll have my job!”

The bank’s other teller, short-haired, perky Crissy Coyne, smiles, muttering, “Suck up.”

“How’s Dan and the kids?” Homer asks.

“The same. We spend money faster than we make it. But I still love them.”

“Don’t worry. Dan’ll get a promotion. And your kids are destined for greatness.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Crissy replies. “Hey, did you hear the latest? Wells Fargo is bringing four million dollars here this afternoon. Can you imagine getting your hands on that much cash?”

“Yes, I can,” Homer answers, whistling as he counts the money in his cash drawer.

“How do you do it, Homer? How are you able to stay so happy? We get paid next to nothing, yet you have beautiful clothes and a sports car and live in a gated community.”

“I told you. I’m a time traveler.”

Crissy rolls her eyes. “Just admit it, you’re either dealing drugs or gambling.”

“Okay, you got me. I’ve got a hot tip for you, Crissy. Keep this date in mind: February 11, 1990. Thirty-five to one odds. Bet on Buster Douglas against Mike Tyson.”

“That’s fifteen years from now. And who’s Mike Tyson?”

                                               ***

“The wife and I are spending the weekend in Banksville,” DeNiro says to Homer. “You don’t mind closing up, do you?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Smiling, Crissy mouths, “Suck up.”

                                               ***

Homer locks the front door of the bank, turning off the lights.

He goes to the vault. Stuffing six million dollars in three sacks, he walks out the back door, disappearing.

Homer spends the next fifty years enjoying a bachelor lifestyle, spending his free time sailing, traveling to exotic locales, whipping around in his sports car, and telling inquisitive acquaintances he made his fortune in junk bonds. He also occasionally robs other banks.

                                               ***

Ronin smiles broadly. “That’s a wonderful yarn, Homer.”

“It’s the truth… Go to my house…Check the Kennedy wall…”

                                               ***

Ronin arrives at Homer’s house as a tractor tears down the four-car garage.

He walks toward a well-kept house, slowed by a gruff voice yelling, “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

Ronin turns to face Stash Diesel, the stocky demolition team foreman.

Noticing Ronin’s collar, he says, “Sorry, Father. I was hopin’ you were J.P. Morgan.”

“The financier? He died a hundred years ago.”

“His name’s on the deed,” Diesel replies.

“I’m here to look into something for Homer, the man who lived here. Maybe you can help me.”

“His neighbor said the owner was hardly ever here, that he spent most of the time travelin’,” Diesel says. “He said the owner forgot to pay his property taxes. Nobody can find him. Some real estate agent now owns the property, and he wants to build a condo here, so this is where I come in.”

Diesel follows Ronin inside.

The living room is a treasure trove of gold vases, hand-carved tables, luxurious Italian sofas, and mahogany chairs.

“I was expecting IKEA furniture,” Diesel comments. “Somebody should take this stuff out before we demo the house. I bet it’s worth a fortune.”

Ronin picks up an unusual art deco lamp shaped like a planet. Turning it over, he looks at the label.

“…World’s Fair, 1939… You're right. Everything in here is a valuable antique.”

“Where’d you say the guy who lived here is?”

“I didn’t. He’s in hospice care. Dementia.”

“I’ll go halfsies with you on everything here, Father.”

Ronin sees the painting of John Kennedy on the far wall.

“Do you have a sledgehammer?”

                                               ***

Diesel wheezes heavily as he destroys another section of the wall.

“You sure about this, Father?”

“The nurses think Homer was telling another one of his tall tales, but he seemed serious when he spoke to me.”

Diesel grunts as the hammer punches another hole in the wall, revealing a small bookcase with three shelves.

A sack sits on each shelf.

Diesel grabs one of the sacks, opening it. Reaching inside, he pulls out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Diesel reads the lettering on the bag. “Second National Bank, Norwalk Connecticut.”

                                               ***

Killian sits back contentedly in his office chair, twirling the vape pipe around in his mouth. “I can’t thank you enough for finding such a generous donor, Ronin. I want to thank him. Are you sure he wants to remain anonymous?”

“It’s a condition of his donation.”

“Two million dollars will keep White Birch going for a long time.”

“I should make my rounds, starting with Homer.”

Killian throws the vape pen in the trash. “The nursing staff went to check on him this morning. He’s supposed to be forgetful, confused. But he managed to walk out of here. He’s vanished. The only thing he left behind was a gag gift.”

Killian pulls a sailor’s hat out of his desk drawer, showing it to Ronin.

The lettering on the cap reads: RMS Titanic.