So yes, I wasn't blown away with the suggestion that my brother hadn't committed suicide; but I was curious why a mission organization would be investigating and not, say, the police.
"Ge dressed," Fr. said impatiently, as my drunken brain tried to process what was going on. "We're leaving."
The drive to the rectory was not fun. Fr was getting up there in his years and liked to drive fast. Plus, I could swear he was glaring at me.
"What happened to you, Alex?" he asked. "You were a good kid. A great altar server. I could have sworn you would have been a priest. You would have been a great priest."
"Stop it with the Catholic guilt! I still believe in the Church, I guess, it's just not that important to me." My standard, rehearsed answer.
"Not as important as being drunk at your brother's funeral and then leaving right after the burial to meet up with a harlot?"
Oops. I had been a little tipsy at the funeral service. Sue me.
I closed my eyes and hoped he would stop talking and that the car would stop spinning. We arrived at the rectory and went into the parlor.
A thin man in a bishop's cassock was waiting, fidgeting with his episcopal ring. His red hair was almost white, the skull cap covering up a small bald spot. He was tall and thin, and looked pensive.
"Alex, this is Bishop Anderson, auxilary bishop of Boston," Fr. introduced us.
"Hello sir." I shook his hand, and he nodded a greeting.
"You look just like your brother," Alex, the bishop said as we sat down.
"Do you need anything, excellency?" Fr. asked.
"I could use some water," I answered. Fr. glared at me, then looked at the bishop. The bishop nodded and Fr. went into the kitchen.
"Alex, I am so sorry about your brother," the bishop started.
"Sir, I've had enough of people telling me how sorry they are about my loss. Truth is, I don't care. If you and Fr. have something to say about how my brother died, then say it; but cut the crap and the formalities."
The bishop inhaled at the rebuke, but nodded again and asked, "When was the last time you spoke with your brother?"
I remembered the day my family and I had escorted him to the airport. Fr. had come too; he was Ben's sponsor to join the society. I was still in college and tried to act all cool, but I was angry and upset that he was leaving. He noticed, but didn't say anything.
"I'll write Alex," he said. "Maybe you could go to Church and say a prayer for me?"
I coughed and said sure. We had a manly hug, and the he left.
"At the airport, saying good-bye, about five years ago. Only letters and notes since then."
The bishop nodded again. His nodding was starting to irritate me.
"Your brother was not a missionary. The Society of St. Martin of Tours is not a missionary society. At least, not in the sense you've been lead to believe."
He paused, and I just sat there. I had a bad feeling about this.
"Ge dressed," Fr. said impatiently, as my drunken brain tried to process what was going on. "We're leaving."
The drive to the rectory was not fun. Fr was getting up there in his years and liked to drive fast. Plus, I could swear he was glaring at me.
"What happened to you, Alex?" he asked. "You were a good kid. A great altar server. I could have sworn you would have been a priest. You would have been a great priest."
"Stop it with the Catholic guilt! I still believe in the Church, I guess, it's just not that important to me." My standard, rehearsed answer.
"Not as important as being drunk at your brother's funeral and then leaving right after the burial to meet up with a harlot?"
Oops. I had been a little tipsy at the funeral service. Sue me.
I closed my eyes and hoped he would stop talking and that the car would stop spinning. We arrived at the rectory and went into the parlor.
A thin man in a bishop's cassock was waiting, fidgeting with his episcopal ring. His red hair was almost white, the skull cap covering up a small bald spot. He was tall and thin, and looked pensive.
"Alex, this is Bishop Anderson, auxilary bishop of Boston," Fr. introduced us.
"Hello sir." I shook his hand, and he nodded a greeting.
"You look just like your brother," Alex, the bishop said as we sat down.
"Do you need anything, excellency?" Fr. asked.
"I could use some water," I answered. Fr. glared at me, then looked at the bishop. The bishop nodded and Fr. went into the kitchen.
"Alex, I am so sorry about your brother," the bishop started.
"Sir, I've had enough of people telling me how sorry they are about my loss. Truth is, I don't care. If you and Fr. have something to say about how my brother died, then say it; but cut the crap and the formalities."
The bishop inhaled at the rebuke, but nodded again and asked, "When was the last time you spoke with your brother?"
I remembered the day my family and I had escorted him to the airport. Fr. had come too; he was Ben's sponsor to join the society. I was still in college and tried to act all cool, but I was angry and upset that he was leaving. He noticed, but didn't say anything.
"I'll write Alex," he said. "Maybe you could go to Church and say a prayer for me?"
I coughed and said sure. We had a manly hug, and the he left.
"At the airport, saying good-bye, about five years ago. Only letters and notes since then."
The bishop nodded again. His nodding was starting to irritate me.
"Your brother was not a missionary. The Society of St. Martin of Tours is not a missionary society. At least, not in the sense you've been lead to believe."
He paused, and I just sat there. I had a bad feeling about this.
