A Dead Man, A Priest and a Newspaper

Jack had just killed a man. And he realized that sometimes, these things just happen. His first instinct was to visit Marc because Marc always knew what to do.

Jack and Marc had been friends since they were kids. They grew up on the same cul-de-sac. Jack and Marc were mischievous boys, causing trouble at every instance, but very rarely got into any trouble. Jack still had a bump on his nose from where a bullet hit him when he was six. After it happened, Marc went into the house and brought him an icepack for his face and a clean shirt. He cleaned Jack's nose with a tissue, ground up a Tylenol with a water bottle and told him to swallow it. They buried Jack's bloodied shirt in his mother's flower garden to make sure his parents never found out, and they never spoke of it again.

Marc knew how to keep a secret and he knew how to solve a problem. Jack knew that Marc was the only person who could help him out. They were in their thirties now, long gone were the days of joyriding in cars and partying for days on end, at least for Marc. He had gone away for school when he was twenty-five and didn’t come home for nearly five years. Marc had come home, gotten a job, and devoted his life to helping others. Life had gotten in the way of their friendship. By the time Marc had come back, Jack had priorities of his own. He was working as a restaurant reviewer for the local newspaper, spending his evenings out and his days sobering up as he wrote his articles. It paid enough for him live conformably in a small shoebox of an apartment in the city, and eat excessively well on someone else’s dime. He spent his extra money on a small liquor habit and a magazine subscription, the only two leisurely pastimes he truly enjoyed. There was a lump in his throat as he considered that he might not have those two pastimes for much longer if he was caught, but he pushed those thoughts aside. Marc would know what to do.   

Jack made his way down the street, the cathedral towering over the pavement with its weather-stained brick and cloudy stained glass. He pulled his collar around his chin as he ascended the concrete stairs, the sound of the wooden door creaking slowly behind him. It looked like it was a slow day: three people sat staggered in the pews, their foreheads parallel with the hardwood floors. An older priest stood at the altar behind a podium with his glasses low on his nose, a pen in hand as he prepped his sermon. Jack stood next to the Holy water at the entrance, hands firmly planted in his pockets as he looked at the confession booth. Marc poked his head out, his hands pulling at the white collar tucked tight as a noose under his chin. Jack saw a smear of white powder on the front of his crisp, black oxford shirt, a tell-tale sign that he had been eating powder-covered donut holes. It was a bad habit that he hadn’t been able to shake since his boyhood. Jack smirked as he remembered Marc polishing off boxes of those donuts in the middle of the night after getting wasted. Even as a functioning adult he still couldn’t shake his sugar addiction.  Marc looked up and caught his eyes, gesturing to the confession booth. Jack took the signal and plopped down behind the grated panel.

"Marc, man, I think I'm in trouble."

"In case you've forgotten how this works, you should start 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned'."

"Can we cut the 'Holier than thou" bullshit for just two seconds? Please."

"I'm on the clock."

Jack groaned. "I did something bad, Marc. I don’t think I can get out of it this time. I think I need your help."

Marc propped his head up with his fist. "What is it, my child?"

Jack rubbed his temples as he struggled to put the events into order. "You remember Old Man Richards?"

"The guy that’s always stealing your magazines, right? The guy across the hall?"

"Yeah, him. Well, I caught him in the act this morning. He was crouched down in front of my door, reaching for my copy of The New Yorker."

"Mm-hm."

"And, well, I confronted him about it.”

            Jack watched as through the grated pane as Marc ran his hand down his face. He began to recount the whole story. Jack had been little hung-over from the night before. He’d been sent to review the city’s hottest new bar and he may have tried every signature cocktail. His audience needed to know that they were really the best, and the only way to know for sure was testing them out himself. One sampling menu, thirteen cocktails, and a few unsuccessful passes at various women later and he was shown the door by the burly security guard that manned the bar.

            “Get your hands off me! Don’t you know who I am? I can have this placed shut down in no time!”

            “Alright, Mr. Important. Get us shut down.”

He was heaved out of the bar, landing clumsily on his feet. He stumbled his way to the curb, snapping his fingers and whistling at taxis in an attempt to find his way home.

He didn’t remember anything after that. He woke up in his bed at ten in the morning, a glass next on his bedside table. He reached over, taking a long sip before he realized it was straight vodka. He dashed to the washroom, feeling his temples beating like hands on the stretched skin of a drum. Jack emptied the three pills in the Advil bottle into his mouth, lapping at the stream of water from the faucet. He took a deep breath and felt like his head was underwater, and figured out he was still drunk.

There was no way he would be able to produce anything that sounded remotely sane while inebriated. He decided sleeping it off would be the best plan of action, and that was precisely what he was going to do until he heard it: the softest scratching at the door, like a kitten was pawing it, and he knew: that bastard Richards from across the hall.

He was stealing his paper again. Jack had signed up for a yearly subscription to The New Yorker about eight months before and had only ever read six copies. He would open his door, get his mail, but his magazine would never be there. He called the folks at The New Yorker, enquiring about the missing papers, but every week they confirmed that it was delivered on Monday morning. Then, for six weeks, Richards had been in the hospital for some minor slip-and-fall, and Jack had been able to read every single copy while he was away. It was then that Jack’s suspicion had been upgraded to accusation – Old Man Richards had been stealing his paper.

But Richards was quick. He would swing open the door early in the morning, grab the paper and head back inside within five seconds. Jack was usually sleeping off a hangover and never knew when Richards would attack. Jack had confronted him, but every time Richards chose to deny it.

“I know you have my magazine, Mr. Richards.”

“I ain’t got y’damn paper, boy. Leave me be.”

And he would close the door, not another word was spoken.

But Jack decided today would be different. He was going to catch the old bastard red-handed. He could picture it already. He would open the door, snatch the magazine out of his old, wrinkly, age-spotted hand and close the door before he could watch him scuttle back to his apartment with his tin hip. Today was going to be glorious.

Jack made it to the door just in time to see Old Man Richards’ jogging-pant-clad ass in the air as he bent over, his hand on the magazine. Jack felt the rage cluster in his stomach, mixing with the alcohol and exhaustion from the night before.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, old man?”

“I ain’t doin’ a damn thing!”

“Sure doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re stealing my magazines.”

“I’ve told you before. I don’t steal your magazines, boy!”

“Then what you got in your hand, there?”

Old Man Richard looked down at his fist gripping a wadded copy of The New Yorker. “I’ve got my magazine. I’m going to read it with my breakfast.”

“Like Hell, you are!”

Jack lunged for the paper, forgetting that he was still very well lubricated from the night before. He stumbled over his feet while Old Man Richards made it to his doorway. He looked smug as he fanned himself with the pilfered magazine. “I’ll see you around, kid.”

Jack was not letting him off the hook. He took two steps towards Richards, closing the distance between them. Jack was about a foot taller than the old man and towered over him. He leaned into the old man as he spoke, forcing him to take slow steps into his apartment as Jack menacingly spoke through his teeth, “I don’t think so, you miserable old bastard. I paid good money for that subscription. I have one leisurely pastime and you’re the reason that I can’t enjoy it. The only time I’ve been able to read these magazines has been when you’ve been holed up on your death bed in the hospital, and Lord knows I prayed for your pathetic death every single day. Imagine my disappointment when you came back, half freaking robot with your metal hip, and resumed your theft of my magazine! Now, you’re going to give me back my New Yorker, stop stealing from me, and resume your miserable little life, and we’re not going to talk about this again, got it?”

Jack was inside the Old Man’s apartment and had him up against the wall, nearly nose to nose as he watched him squirm. Jack punched the plaster wall next to Richard’s head before whispering, “I didn’t hear an answer, Old Man.”

Just then, Old Man Richards grabbed his chest and keeled over, sputtering and coughing.

Jack stood frozen with panic as he watched Richards fall to his knees, clutching his velour tracksuit jacket as he curled up into the fetal position. He flailed for a few minutes more, coughing and wheezing until he went silent. No sound, no movement. Jack watched with pure horror as the man’s face contorted one final time, the tension sliding from his wrinkled face and his mouth slackening. The New Yorker laid next to him, falling from his lifeless hand.

Jack’s eyes jumped around the room. The window was open, and they were on the first floor. It could have been a break-in. His eyes scanned the wall. His fist had made a reasonably sized dent in the plaster, and a smear of red stuck out like a popped vessel in an eyeball. He examined his fist and of course, he’d broken the skin.

Jack needed to calm down and think. He headed back to his apartment, closing the door to Old Man Richard’s apartment behind him and went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of vodka. He followed that with another shot and then chased it with a glass and a half of water. He sat down in his living room as he begged his mind to slow down.

Should he call an ambulance? That wouldn’t be necessary since Old Man Richards was already dead. Should he call the police? Probably not, because he would most certainly be blamed for the death even though, surely, it wasn’t his fault. He never meant to do anything to him, maybe just scare him into leaving him alone. The man was old, and the excitement gave him a heart attack. It could have been triggered by anything, it just happened to be triggered by his fist making contact with a wall.

The blood. That needed to be cleaned up right away. There was only a smudge, but he had watched enough CSI: to know that he could easily go to jail for that. And he would have to make sure that no one knew he was there in the first place. Jack headed for the kitchen, grabbed some bleach wipes, a hammer, a nail and the painting of some purple irises his mother bought him as a housewarming gift. He headed across the hall, making sure he closed the door with the sleeve of his sweater, careful not to leave any fingerprints. He walked in, checking to make sure that Old Man Richards was still dead, and went to work. He wiped the blood off with the bleach wipes, and hung the picture of the irises over the dent, and then wiped the area with more bleach wipes just to be safe. He took The New Yorker and searched around for any other issues, making sure that there was absolutely no connection between him and Richards. He needed to see Marc. Marc would know what to do.

            Jack ran home and stashed the evidence under his sofa cushions. He walked back to Richard’s place and dragged the man out of the apartment. He decided that he couldn’t leave the man. He lifted one arm around his neck and supported his torso, dragging his feet along the floor, making it seem as if the man had been too drunk to walk. They made their way to the elevator and down to the underground parkade and towards his 1997 Dodge Neon. He posed the man in the back seat, slumped low. He strapped him in with the seatbelt and placed a baseball cap and sunglasses on him, making sure he appeared as if he were still alive. Jack got in the driver’s seat, as the car grumbled to life.

            “And here I am. Marc, I don’t know what to do.”

            “Are you sorry?”

            “Of course, I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen! I guess – I guess I didn’t realize how old he was.”

“And he’s in your car right now?”

“Yeah, I thought having him with me would be better. There’s less of a chance of someone finding him dead on the floor.”

“Jack, if you cleaned up, don’t you think the police would think that it was just an old man who had a heart attack? What are you going to do now?”

Jack had not thought of this. He rattled off a string of profanity before Marc berated him. They sat silently for a bit, and Jack knew Marc was thinking of a way to get out of this.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’m supposed to tell you that you should ask for forgiveness and do whatever you need to do in order to rid yourself of the guilt, specifically, urge you to get to the police. But, I know that’s not an option. You’re here in my confession booth, and you told me you’re sorry. So, you’re forgiven. Two Hail Mary’s and an Our Father, and you’re good to go.”

“Thanks for the forgiveness, but I came for a solution. Marc, I need to do something. What should I do? You need to tell me what to do.”

Marc looked at him eye to eye through the grate.

“I think I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

Jack led Marc out of the church and down the street. He had pulled into an alley between two restaurants and put a sun guard on the windshield, ensuring that no one could see the Richards in the back seat.

Jack pulled the driver’s seat forward and made a sweeping gesture. Marc stuck his head in and took one look before turning to Jack and saying, “Yup, he’s as dead as a doornail.”

            Marc suggested that they grab a cup of coffee, take a moment to step back from the situation and grab some perspective. Jack half-heartedly agreed and followed Marc a few doors down the street.

            Jack’s cup trembled in his hands as he nursed his coffee. His nerves were finally catching up to him now that he was completely sober. Marc sat facing the window, his legs crossed, and his fingers rubbed the stubble forming at his jaw as he sipped from his cup. They brainstormed ideas.

            “Maybe we could leave him in the woods. He was old so it would have looked like he wandered away and got spooked.”

            Marc considered the thought. “But the nearest forest is seven miles away. How could he have gotten there? Didn’t you say he had hip surgery?”

            “Or we could just leave him in a dumpster in another town.”

            “That would definitely get the police involved. Which you should do, by the way.”

            “Being a priest made you go soft.”

            Marc looked out of the café window. “I know.”

            They sat in silence for a while, when Marc suddenly turned to Jack with wide eyes, “I’ve got it.”

            “What is it?”

            “Just follow me.”

            “Where do you think you’re going?”

            “With you.”

            “You can’t go with me. You’ve got to go to church. Save the Damned and whatnot.”

            Marc turned towards Jack, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t do this without me.”

            He wouldn’t say anything to Jack as they walked back to the car. Jack nearly passed out when he saw a police officer knocking at the windshield of his car, trying to get what looked like an alive-Old Man Richard’s attention. Marc took the lead, straightening his white collar as he talked to the officer.

            “Problem, officer?”

            “Oh, yes, Father. I’m trying to see if the guy in the back of this car is alright. The window’s not open and it’s pretty warm out today. I can see him, but he’s not answering when I call him.”

            Jack turned a sickly shade of white as Marc spoke, “Oh, yes, he’s fine. My friend here is going to drive him to a homeless shelter. I found him passed out in one of the pews with an empty bottle of tequila next to him.” Jack watched the words effortlessly tumble out of Marc’s mouth as if he really had found Richard’s drunk in a pew. Marc smiled his honest, comforting smile, and the officer’s doubt dissipated. He continued, “He’s fine, he’s just sleeping it off. We were just on our way to make sure he gets home alright.”

            The police officer scrutinized Jack’s paling face before turning to Marc’s cheerful smile. “Okay, Father. If he gives you any more worries, let me know, okay?”

            “Absolutely. Thank you, Officer. Peace be with you.”

            Jack exhaled loudly as the officer turned the block. Marc and Jack got into the car, straightening Richards in the back seat before taking off.

            “So, you’re a class-A liar, now.”

            Marc looked over at Jack from the driver’s seat. “What?”

            “It’s pathological the way you lied back there. There was not a tell anywhere on you.”

            “Jack, where is this coming from? You came to me, remember? Aren’t you trying to stay out of jail? What was I supposed to say? ‘Yeah, officer. My friend threatened this guy’s life, gave him a heart attack and now we’re trying to hide his body.’ How would you think that work out?”

            “But- that’s not the point.”

            “Then, what’s wrong? What’s the problem?”

            “It was too easy for you! It was like you’ve been doing it your whole life: it was natural and organic! You’re better than that. You don’t do that shit anymore. You grew up and you changed. Lying like that should not be something someone like you should be doing.”

            “You mean a man of God.”

            “Yeah. I told you to tell me what to do. I don’t want you involved in this.”

            “Well, it’s a little late for that.”

            Marc navigated the car silently for a few blocks, his eyes set on the road in front of him, while Jack stared out of the passenger window. It was only a couple of minutes that Marc pulled into a familiar, graffitied alleyway. A rusty chain-linked fence stood, sagging with age, separating them from the unused and decrepit entrance to the old movie house. A vintage one-digit combination lock hung from the gate.

When Marc was a teenager, he had a part-time job at the concession stand of the movie house, an ancient building that never showed anything made past 1978. When Jack was young and lithe, he would scale the fence, the raw edges would snag his already torn jeans and dig into his flesh. Once, Jack’s leg was so badly gouged, Marc decided it would be best to leave the gate unlocked so Jack wouldn’t risk getting tetanus. Jack would let himself in, locking the gate behind him.

“What the Hell are we doing here?”

“Just trust me on this.”

“Trust you? After that display of bullshit-spewing? Not likely.”

Marc sighed, “It’s within walking distance of Jack’s apartment, so it was definitely plausible for the Old Man to walk here.”

“So, he just decided to see a movie? And died?”

“No one ever goes in and during the week.”

“How do you know that?”

“I come here to think sometimes.”

“Think about what?”

“There is a vintage horror marathon happening. All we have to do is drop off Richard, and leave. It would look like the excitement from whatever movie was showing had done him in.”

Jack let Marc’s avoidance slide. “So, we just have to get him into the theatre?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And do you remember the combo, or are we going to have to drag him over the gate?”

Marc smiled impishly as he got out of the car and made his way to the lock. He turned the dial and watched as the old lock gave loose with a satisfying “clunk”. The gate swung open easily.

“Things really don’t change in this town, do they?”

Marc smiled and called out to Jack, “You feeling strong today?”

            Jack pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, casting his face in shadows. Marc took off his collar and wrapped himself in one of Jack’s old sweaters he had sitting in the back seat. The old man was dead weight as they dragged him out of the car. Jack’s trembling arms grabbed Richards around his torso and Marc grabbed his legs. Together, they made their way to the door.

The fire exit led directly in the farthest theatre from the lobby. It was also the smallest theatre in the movie house. Jack remembered he always sat in the back row so his eardrums wouldn’t burst while he waited for Marc to finish his shift. He would sit and wait in the darkened theatre and Marc would find him, bearing popcorn and candy he stole from the concession stand.

Marc put down Richard’s legs as he peered inside the darkened theatre. It was empty and dark, save for the old Hitchcock film playing on the screen. They dragged Richards to the front row settling him into a seat where the sound was the loudest, enough to give the old man a heart attack for sure. Marc posed him while Jack shook nervously near the door. He took off his loaned sunglasses and baseball cap and propped him up straight, and placed his hand on his chest - the same gesture he made when he died. Marc stepped back to admire his handiwork and Jack hurriedly gestured to the door, it was time to get the hell out of there. Marc agreed and took one last glance around the theatre to make sure they were alone. He was satisfied and followed Jack back out the Neon, making sure to lock the gate behind him.

Jack slid into the passenger’s seat, breathing deeply from the physical exertion of carrying an old man’s dead body and the overwhelming rush of adrenaline. Marc followed behind him, getting into the car and starting it up.

            “Jack, your nose is bleeding, man.”

            Jack looked in the rear-view mirror. Sure enough, a tiny stream of blood was making its way down Jack’s face.

            “Stress.”

            Marc pulled out a tissue from his pocket, wiping the blood off of his face and before rubbing his shoulder. “I’ll make the call from the church. I’ll tell them I heard someone tell me in confession that they heard someone dying in the cinema. It’ll be fine, okay?”

            Jack looked over at Marc, “You’re going to lie, again, from a church?”

            Marc rubbed at his temples, frustrated, “What is it that you want me to do, Jack? Say a prayer and fix it? You wanted my help and I gave it to you. It’s my job to help people.”

            “Not like that, Marc. You lied to a policeman, you broke into a building and you hid a body. You can’t do shit like that anymore.”

            “I did it to help you, Jack. You came to me for a solution. I forgave you and I helped solve your problem. It’s part of my job description.”

            “Like Hell, it is.”

            Marc drove back to the church. He pulled up against the curb and turned to Jack, “I didn’t go soft, y’know. I became a priest because I liked helping people. I’ve helped you out so much, it felt like second nature to me. I didn’t go soft because I’m still helping people be better. And I know you’re getting better. You told me today that you were sorry about Richards. I don’t think you’ve ever been sorry about anything in your whole life, Jack. I know you’re pissed about what I did today, but I did it because I wanted to help.”

            He placed his collar back into his shirt, got out the car and made his way towards the steps of the church.

Jack called out, “So, what’s your punishment?”

“I’m going to confession tonight. I’ll see what my fate is.”

Jack looked at Marc, “Thanks for today. I’m trying to be better. I’m going to be better.”

Marc nodded and smiled at him.  “I’ve got an important phone call to make about a gentleman in a theatre.”

Marc walked into the cathedral. Jack took off down the street.

And they never spoke of it again.