Frames Per Second by Bill Eidson

Big XXXs behind him on a marquee reading “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Holding the hand of a young prostitute who could have been asking his advice, or could have been soliciting him.
    Either was possible.
    The headline read: “Got a Confession, Father?’’
    Larry Hall’s article nailed it home. Famous priest caught skulking around the Combat Zone “in disguise.” The girl wasn’t identified, but she clearly appeared underage.
    Speculation crossed over into the “legitimate” media within the day. Father Caldwell held a press conference two days later, denying any involvement beyond his counseling. He refused to identify the girl, saying he had gone upstairs to talk with her and give her money to return home. He said she came to him originally in confession. The camera flashes flickered across his face time and again, revealing the shine of sweat, the fear in his eyes.
    He looked guilty.
    With the number of priests who had been prosecuted in recent years for child molestation, Father Ray was openly doubted on the news night after night. “Man on the street interviews” judged him as guilty. “Smoke and fire,” said one woman. “You know the way it works.”
    David Letterman worked Father Ray into his opening monologue.
    At home, Andi said to Ben. “But you don’t know.” She was sitting in the chair by their bed, giving Lainnie a bottle. Andi was still weak from the pneumonia. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than usual and her eyes blazed with indignation. “You can’t know.”
    Ben was angry and trying to keep himself under control. “So that’s it? You just going to distance yourself from me?”
    “Don’t tell me you did it for us! You didn’t talk to me before you took this job.”
    Ben had put up his hand. “Look, I don’t like any of this either. But given Father Ray’s position, this is news. If he didn’t do anything, he should identify her. And the girl should come forward if he’s unwilling to give her name.”
    “What if he is telling the truth?”
    “I don’t know,” Ben said, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t know.”
    And he still didn’t.
    Because Father Caldwell killed himself after the fourth day of intense media scrutiny. Hung himself in the basement of the rectory. He left no note, and the girl was never found.
    Public speculation swung evenly between this being the proof of his guilt to outrage over the impact of the media on a man of God. For the first time in his career, Ben found himself on the other side of the lens. And so was Andi.
    Tabloids—particularly those that didn’t carry her column—ran shrill headlines: “What’s Andi’s Attitude about Paparazzi Husband?’’ “Andi—Did Hubby Drive Priest to Suicide?’’
    One morning, Andi opened the morning edition of the Boston Herald to see a photo of herself and Father Ray standing together at their speaking engagement a year back. “Andi & Father Ray’s Story. Page 4.”
    The media storm was over within a few weeks.
    It took Ben not much longer than that to realize that the damage between him and Andi was permanent. She looked at him differently, as if his goal was to reveal the ugliness of the world. But by the very nature of who she was, dispensing advice about forgiveness and understanding to the public at large, she couldn’t admit that and still be married to him.
    Instead, she rehashed his time away from the family, worrying it.
    “We need you here,” Andi said. “Not on the other side of the world for a month at a time.”
    “You know I can’t. Not in my business.”
    “The kids need more of you,” she would say. “Do you see how tentative Jake is? Do you see how he’s trying to force himself to be like you even though he’s very different? And Lainnie is acting out—she swears like a trooper. It’s not just the travel, it’s your attention when you’re here.”
    He was stabbed with guilt knowing what he would be saying next. “I’m going to Nepal tomorrow.”
    Or Burma or Moscow