Blessed Sacrament Church Rectory
Boston, Massachusetts

Father Paul Conley rang the small bell on his desk a second time. Where was that woman? He craned his neck, trying to see beyond the doorway without leaving his chair. He had purposely positioned his desk in the rectory’s den so that he could see into the living room with a view of the kitchen—though only a slice—if he slid his chair clear to the right. But Anna Sanchez was nowhere in sight.

He contemplated ringing for her again. The woman was getting too old. He had tried to tell the church council that he needed someone younger with more energy. Someone who could not only handle the housecleaning and the cooking but also make sure there was a pot of fresh coffee available in the afternoons. Was that too much to ask?

He tipped his coffee mug, an exaggerated gesture, to double-check. Yes, it was empty. He twisted in the chair again but still refused to get up. He grabbed the bell and this time gave it an angry shake. Was it too much to ask for someone who could at least hear, for heaven’s sake?

“Mrs. Sanchez?” He decided to yell in case she had chosen to ignore the bell.

Ever since he had complained to the church council about the old woman she had gotten slower and more selective in what she heard. It was probably just his imagination, still he couldn’t help wondering whether one of those loudmouthed council members had blabbed to her. Most likely it was Mrs. MacPherson. The woman couldn’t keep anything to herself even if the good Lord asked her directly.

“Mrs. Sanchez, what about some coffee?”

He let out a heavy sigh and pushed up out of his comfortable leather office chair, shoving it back with as much noise as he could muster. He grabbed the coffee mug and brought it with him, stomping out of the den. In the living room he stopped long enough to glance around. Where was that woman? He marched into the kitchen, expecting to see her at the sink or coming up from the laundry room.

Instead, he was startled, clutching his free hand to his chest.

“What in the world?”

At the small kitchen table sat a young man he didn’t know, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Hello, Father Paul,” the stranger said with a smile, then took a long slurp of coffee. “There’s plenty more.” He waved at the Mr. Coffee on the counter. “Mrs. Sanchez must have just made some. It tastes very fresh.”

“Who are you? Did Mrs. Sanchez let you in?” Again, he started looking around the room for the woman, past the doorways and out in the backyard.

“I must admit, I’m disappointed you don’t recognize me, Father Paul. Although I guess it has been over fourteen years.”

“Wait a minute, are you the gardener?” He recognized the hatchet from the garden shed left by the back door alongside a black case. “Did she forget to pay you?” He pushed up his glasses, hoping a better look at the young man would reveal who he was. He had to be one of the workers. She wouldn’t let just anyone in.

“Nope, not a gardener. Although I did help myself to a few tools from the shed in back. Sure is quiet back there.” He sipped more coffee.

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere if you need to be paid.” The priest walked over to the doorway to the laundry room and yelled, “Mrs. Sanchez, are you down there?”

“I grew up in this neighborhood,” the young man said. “I was an altar boy. I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Father Paul.”

“Really?” Father Conley came back to study him once more, but still he couldn’t place him. Besides, the man certainly didn’t look or sound upset. “I’ve been here for twenty years,” he told him. “A lot of boys have served mass with me. Surely you can’t expect me to remember every single one of them?”

Now the stranger shoved his coffee cup aside and brought out a plastic bag, unrolling it on the table. Father Conley thought it looked like one of those large transparent bags that dry cleaners used when they returned your freshly cleaned garments. Ah, perhaps that was what he had come for. He must be the dry cleaner, picking up the vestments. But why come to the rectory and not the church? It didn’t make sense.

“I suppose it is difficult to remember everyone,” the young man said, pushing away from the table and standing up with the plastic bag now unfolded, and twisted tightly around both hands, his fingers balling up around its corners until they were fists. “But I would hope you’d remember the ones you fucked, Father Paul.”

Suddenly Father Conley found himself caught in a veil of plastic, stretched over his face, cutting off his breath. He fought, clawing at the hands that continued to wrap the plastic taut around his entire head, until he could feel the knot at the base of his neck. Desperate for air, he struggled, kicking and flaying his arms, trying to dig the plastic out of his face, but the layers were many and the fight was quickly being strangled out of him.

Still, he twisted and turned, thrashing about, banging into counters and knocking pots and pans to the floor, only they seemed to no longer make a sound. He slipped to his knees but still continued to pluck at the plastic, now much of it inhaled, sticking in his mouth and down his throat as he gasped like a fish out of water.

There was no more air, no more fight left in him. He fell to the floor and the last thing Father Paul Conley saw was Mrs. Sanchez’s dead eyes staring out at him from under the butcher-block table in the far corner.