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“Bring it in, boys!” The captain of the Grim gestured at everyone to start packing it in. Dock in sight, the crew worked quickly to haul cargo, pack supplies and tie lines as they sailed slowly past the buoys through the inlet. The sun spread across the outline of Shilshole Bay and the gardens that ran along the coast on their way to the docks.
Marcus did as told, lifting and moving with the rest of the men aboard the Grim. His face was dry and chapped and the thick yellow leather gloves on his hands were the only thing keeping his hands warm as he worked in the gloaming cold evening. His cap came down over his ears but wasn’t the best at keeping the wind out as the temperature started to drop with the pink skies dropping lower across the horizon.
It was another hour before the work was done and it was full dark outside by the time he followed the rest of the Grim’s crew through to punch out for the day. He shared their tired but enthusiastic banter as they walked through the parking lot past the remaining vehicles, or in the case of Marcus and a few others, towards the bus stop.
“Coming with us tonight, Preacher Man?” A small group of the crew were regulars at a nearby pub, The Hawk. They’d invited Marcus a few times, and he’d indulged in his first couple of weeks with them on occasion, but it had been a little while since he’d joined them. And tonight wouldn’t be one such night either.
“No thanks lads, I have plans,” he said with a wave. He kept pace with them though, chatting about the day's haul and their evening plans before parting ways with them at the bus stop. Once the boys were out of sight, Marcus sat and rested his old, cold bones on the bench to wait.
His evenings were like this. Fishing during the day, six days a week if he could manage it, just to keep himself busy. Evenings in his truck, a rented room, closest church or the pub if he followed the boys down to the Hawk. Mostly, he kept to himself. The boys were friendly enough; he’d spoken of his time as a priest, but beyond that he hadn’t really shared much. And the lads weren’t ones to pry too much, which was fine by Marcus.
When the bus came, Marcus rode the bus the 2 miles down to St. Alphonsus. When he’d seen the church for the first time, the old brick building felt familiar in a way a lot of older parishes did. He’d been wandering, searching out for something, listening like he hadn’t in a long time and missing Tomas fiercely. He wouldn’t label it an accident, more a purposeful wandering with a surprising find at the end, but St. Alphonsus did call him in. He followed a small crowd of parishioners to Mass and rested his knees on the hardwood just like everyone else.
It was a surprise to find such an old parish with a young priest at its helm, and another leading their education ministries, both were men of the neighborhood who had returned specifically to serve where they’d grown up. Father Palermo was a cheerful priest and Marcus found himself enjoying the services when he attended. Those first few weeks he spent outside Seattle, waiting for whatever was supposed to come next to him, were shockingly peaceful after the months that had preceded them.
He tried not to ingratiate himself with the ministry, this wasn’t his home after all. He felt compelled to stay close however, waiting for something to happen, waiting to better understand his place in things without Tomas at his side. Being present was enough, being somewhere that felt like home even if it wasn’t his, was better than being on the road. His truck, the road, the Work -- all those options only felt like wounds he wasn’t sure how to manage. Somewhere small, finding hard work to keep his hands busy, and waiting to determine how best for him to serve again, that’s what he needed.
It wasn’t as though Tomas was so easily forgotten however. The man lived in Marcus’ dreams and nightmares, in his prayers and all his quiet moments. It took work to push him out of his mind, and St. Alphonsus helped.
It was three weeks before Marcus finally found himself in a confession booth, prompted by the weight of his attempts at healing alone. Father Palermo’s hours were oddly conflicting against the work Marcus took on the Grim, but after a particularly bad storm the ship made it to shore early enough in the day to allow him to make it before the hours of confession had ended. He was still restless without a full day’s work and found himself walking by St. Alphonsus during those odd confessional hours.
His time with Father Palermo was brief in that first confession. Marcus attempted to lay bare at the young priest’s ear all the things on his mind. Not the things of the church, not the things of Heaven or Hell, but all the feelings of himself as a man that he carried, and his devotion to a man Marcus knows deep down he won’t be able to shake anytime soon... if ever.
In that first confession he admitted to the people he’d wronged before he’d met Tomas. He confessed to his feelings for Tomas, for his guilt at having to separate from a work he had to leave behind him, his loss of connection to a Heavenly voice, his faith, and even the restlessness that carried him to the Hawk some nights of the week to drink away the memories. For everything he confessed, Father Palermo gave him what felt like too merciful a penance to perform, more than he deserved.
He hadn’t the heart to lay the sin of Andy at the poor father’s feet. That was something he knew he would have to carry for himself, to find his own penance for, if ever there was mercy for him. That was his responsibility as a priest, even if those days were behind him. He’d committed a sin he couldn’t explain to someone who hadn’t been present, who wasn’t aware of the greater Work, and who might have landed into a mess he could not handle and did not deserve. Marcus trusted, despite his uncertain connection, that God knew his heart; God would know the moments that preceded the shot, and would perhaps one day find him worthy of forgiveness. And if the life he’d taken could not be forgiven, he would have to learn on his own to accept and carry the weight of it somehow.
In his rented room, late every night, Marcus performed any penance he was given twice over. Once on the order of Father Palermo, and again in accordance with his own assignment for all the things he could not admit. Each night, his prayers followed in an attempt to empty himself completely. The errors of his past stretched behind him and he could not rid himself of them but he could make himself a vessel again. He had seen God in Tomas and he yearned to be the man that God needed. The jealousy of Tomas’ gift had faded but once Marcus had his own direct line and he craved to hear it once more. What he wanted just as much perhaps was to be the man who could be worthy again of the Work he’d spent all those years performing as if they were rote and not a gift to be treasured and respected. He understood now how much he’d taken that gift for granted. If God chose not to return it to him, he would have to learn to accept it.
It would have been a lie (and he attempted not to tell falsehoods to himself or to God anymore) if he admitted that he didn’t also wish to be the man Thomas could be proud of. A man who could find himself at Tomas’ side again some day. He could not hold onto such hope but it came to him again and again, night after night. The rented room with its little bed, tiny tables, small desk and en suite, was not so different from the myriad dingy motel rooms that had been their safe havens. In the darkness of night, after his meals and prayers and supplication, there were memories to keep and habits that were difficult to break.
Marcus in the moments as he drifted to sleep or woke with his alarm couldn’t help but look to one side of the room, expecting a second bed and a curly head of dark hair to appear before him. He imagined long, dark lashes over deep brown eyes and the dimple in Tomas’ cheek as he prayed each night. Marcus could see him in his mind, but Tomas never appeared beside him. And after beginning his job on the Grim, his old bones were always tired enough at the end of the day, that the time spent missing Tomas came less and less before he drifted to sleep.
The job kept his body busy, his mind focused and with little time for much else. He found the work meditative. The days weren’t the same from one to the next, but his body learned the motions, learned to weather the wind and the cold, and found a rhythm in each day aboard the ship. He fancied that perhaps in another time, another place, this could’ve been something he’d done for a living. He could’ve gone somewhere in Lincolnshire and found a fishing boat to work on. Maybe in that alternative reality he would’ve met a handsome fisherman and had a lovely, humble little life.
For a stretch of weeks while the catch was good, Marcus worked late into the evening, returning home far after dark. The small St. Alphonsus was not the sort of place to serve late confessions or even keep multiple priests on staff. He kept up with his penance even if he couldn’t return to confessions for weeks. He eventually found himself living a rather routine ascetic life, not all by necessity, but he found peace in its simplicity.
“You’ve missed a few weeks, Marcus,” Father Palermo said when he finally returned.
Marcus could hear the fatherly disappointment in the young man’s voice and for the first time in a long time felt a pang of regret in his faith. He knew there were excuses he could make, but kept them to himself.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Marcus responded. “I found myself lost in routine, in the abstinence from all beside my work -- time got away from me.”
“Abstinence from all things?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I eat, I sleep, I work. I say my prayers, I perform the penance you gave me last time I was here.” Marcus realized he did not feel the same weight on his chest of his old confessions.
“Then what have you come to confess?”
“Regret, perhaps. It’s been weeks since my last confession. I have been practicing a more simple, patient life of hard work. But, I still feel there are other places I could be, other people I could be helping. I feel as though I still await a calling or a connection, again.”
“Regret is not a sin but an emotion. It’s not a sin to feel strongly what comes naturally after the losses you’ve described. I can pray with you, if that will help set your mind at ease tonight?”
Marcus chuckled softly. “I would like that, Father. Please.”
“Certainly. And while it pleases me to hear a new type of peace in your voice as you talk of this simpler life, perhaps we reserve the confessional for confessions. I have office hours if you’d like to discuss this calling of yours face to face one of these days.”
He would not take Father Palermo up on the offer of office hours. Any lingering in any church heightened his chances of recognition. He didn’t suppose that Father Palermo was part of any kind of cabal, the man was simply too innocent and his flock was so small, it wouldn’t have served anyone. But there was always the chance for a bishop, or someone from another parish with more connections, to arrive from somewhere that might recognize Marcus. He wasn’t sure what would happen then, but he didn’t wish anything he’d experienced on the young priest. He was doing well by his flock and he deserved the chance to continue.
There was also his new work. Fishing wasn’t a calling, it was a waiting. It was a waystation on the path to finding himself again. He felt quite certain now that is what the job had done for him. It had made him slow down, to find some patience, to learn to wait and to listen.
On a cold evening after the Grim had finished unloading the day’s catch, Marcus found himself looking out over the water with appreciation. The evening was cold with a spray of clouds across the sky and the sun peeked through at the edges with pinks and purples as it set. It was beautiful. Marcus felt grateful and calm even after a tiring day, and did what came now so naturally. He thanked God for the moment, for the opportunity to stand on that spot and experience the tranquility and beauty still left in the world.
And after, when a voice rang like bells in his head for the first time in years, his breath caught and his heart raced but he did not feel shock. He was alight with wonder and joy and a boyish eagerness to commit everything of the moment to memory. Concern followed as he heard the command that his time for waiting was over. There was a peaceful softness in His message, despite its urgency, and clear direction came as a single name sprang to mind.
“Tomas.”