his locker, his coat over his arm. “Let’s just assume I’m not an asshole without a plan. When an airplane crashes, what’s the safest airline to fly the next day?”
“The one that had the crash.”
Marv gave him a big shit-eating grin. “There you go.”
Fitz followed him out of the locker room. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying. It’s like you’re speaking Brazilian.”
“Brazilians speak Portuguese.”
“Yeah?” Fitz said. “Well, fuck them.”
CHAPTER 6
Via Crucis
A FTER EVERYONE HAD FILED out of the seven o’clock mass, including Detective Torres, who shot Bob a look of flat contempt as he passed, and Father Regan had retired to the sacristy to change out of his vestments and wash the chalices (a job once left to the altar boys, but you couldn’t find altar boys to do the seven anymore), Bob remained in his pew. He didn’t pray exactly, but he did sit in the embrace of a silent hush rarely found outside of a church to reflect on an eventful week. Bob could remember whole years in which nothing had happened to him. Years when he’d look up expecting the calendar to read March and see November instead. But in the past seven days, he’d found the dog (as yet unnamed), met Nadia, been robbed at gunpoint, adopted the dog, and been visited by a gangster who tortured men in the back of a van.
He looked up at the vaulted ceiling. He looked out at the marble altar. He looked over at the stations of the cross, each placed evenly between the stained glass saints. The Way of Sorrows, each station a sculpture depicting Christ’s final journey in the temporal world, from condemnation through crucifixion to entombment. There were fourteen stations spaced throughout the church. Bob could have drawn them from memory if he’d been any good at drawing. Same could be said of the stained glass saints, starting with Saint Dominic, of course, patron saint of hopeful mothers, but not to be confused with the other Saint Dominic, patron saint of the falsely accused and founder of the Dominican Order. Most members of Saint Dominic’s parish didn’t know there were two Saint Dominics and, if they did, had no idea which of them their church was named after. But Bob did. His father, head usher for this church for many years and the most devout man Bob had ever met, had known, of course, and had passed down the knowledge to his son.
You didn’t tell me, Dad, that the world contained men who beat dogs and left them to die in frigid trash cans or men who drilled bolts through the feet of other men.
I didn’t have to tell you. Cruelty is older than the Bible. Savagery beat its chest in the first human summer and has kept beating it every day since. The worst in men is commonplace. The best is a far rarer thing.
Bob walked the stations. Via Crucis. He paused at the fourth, where Jesus met His mother as He carried the cross up the hill, the crown of thorns on His head, two centurions standing behind Him with their whips, ready to use them, to drive Him from His mother, to force Him up the hill, where they would nail Him to the very cross they forced Him to drag. Had those centurions repented later in life? Could there be repentance?
Or were some sins simply too big?
The Church said no. As long as there was meaningful penance, the Church said God would forgive. But the Church was an interpretive vessel, at times an imperfect one. So what if, in this case, the Church was wrong? What if some souls could never be reclaimed from the black pits of their sin?
If Heaven was to be considered a valued destination, then Hell must hold twice as many souls.
Bob hadn’t even realized he’d lowered his head until he raised it.
To the left of the fourth station of the cross was Saint Agatha, patron saint of nurses and bakers, among other things, and to the right was Saint Rocco, patron saint of bachelors, pilgrims, and . . .
Bob stepped back in the aisle to get a better look at a stained glass window he’d passed
“The one that had the crash.”
Marv gave him a big shit-eating grin. “There you go.”
Fitz followed him out of the locker room. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying. It’s like you’re speaking Brazilian.”
“Brazilians speak Portuguese.”
“Yeah?” Fitz said. “Well, fuck them.”
CHAPTER 6
Via Crucis
A FTER EVERYONE HAD FILED out of the seven o’clock mass, including Detective Torres, who shot Bob a look of flat contempt as he passed, and Father Regan had retired to the sacristy to change out of his vestments and wash the chalices (a job once left to the altar boys, but you couldn’t find altar boys to do the seven anymore), Bob remained in his pew. He didn’t pray exactly, but he did sit in the embrace of a silent hush rarely found outside of a church to reflect on an eventful week. Bob could remember whole years in which nothing had happened to him. Years when he’d look up expecting the calendar to read March and see November instead. But in the past seven days, he’d found the dog (as yet unnamed), met Nadia, been robbed at gunpoint, adopted the dog, and been visited by a gangster who tortured men in the back of a van.
He looked up at the vaulted ceiling. He looked out at the marble altar. He looked over at the stations of the cross, each placed evenly between the stained glass saints. The Way of Sorrows, each station a sculpture depicting Christ’s final journey in the temporal world, from condemnation through crucifixion to entombment. There were fourteen stations spaced throughout the church. Bob could have drawn them from memory if he’d been any good at drawing. Same could be said of the stained glass saints, starting with Saint Dominic, of course, patron saint of hopeful mothers, but not to be confused with the other Saint Dominic, patron saint of the falsely accused and founder of the Dominican Order. Most members of Saint Dominic’s parish didn’t know there were two Saint Dominics and, if they did, had no idea which of them their church was named after. But Bob did. His father, head usher for this church for many years and the most devout man Bob had ever met, had known, of course, and had passed down the knowledge to his son.
You didn’t tell me, Dad, that the world contained men who beat dogs and left them to die in frigid trash cans or men who drilled bolts through the feet of other men.
I didn’t have to tell you. Cruelty is older than the Bible. Savagery beat its chest in the first human summer and has kept beating it every day since. The worst in men is commonplace. The best is a far rarer thing.
Bob walked the stations. Via Crucis. He paused at the fourth, where Jesus met His mother as He carried the cross up the hill, the crown of thorns on His head, two centurions standing behind Him with their whips, ready to use them, to drive Him from His mother, to force Him up the hill, where they would nail Him to the very cross they forced Him to drag. Had those centurions repented later in life? Could there be repentance?
Or were some sins simply too big?
The Church said no. As long as there was meaningful penance, the Church said God would forgive. But the Church was an interpretive vessel, at times an imperfect one. So what if, in this case, the Church was wrong? What if some souls could never be reclaimed from the black pits of their sin?
If Heaven was to be considered a valued destination, then Hell must hold twice as many souls.
Bob hadn’t even realized he’d lowered his head until he raised it.
To the left of the fourth station of the cross was Saint Agatha, patron saint of nurses and bakers, among other things, and to the right was Saint Rocco, patron saint of bachelors, pilgrims, and . . .
Bob stepped back in the aisle to get a better look at a stained glass window he’d passed
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