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Gary Leonard Oldman
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#Post#: 3163--------------------------------------------------
Heaven Help Us
DIR By: Maggie Flannery
Date: March 9, 2016, 2:59 am
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HTML https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1468/25637147205_e6ce4efd68.jpg
"Loving you is like trying to touch a star, I know I can never
reach you, but I can't help but try.”
Unknown.
Theme:
HTML https://open.spotify.com/track/27G07TIlxvXzhtwgIv7ar8
The day dawned cold and rainy, much like any other Autumn
morning in the tiny island town of Cropshire Down. The news
forecast had said they should be expecting snow sometime later
that evening mixed in with freezing rain, first ‘big storm’ of
the season they’d said. The town’s populous, all five hundred
and seventy five of them were more than prepared, they were old
hat at it, always had been. Walker’s General Store had received
a larger shipment than normal from the mainland and most of the
stock was spoken for just before ten that very morning, like
wise with the extra fuel from Quinlan’s Service station, for
generators were the main source of light on the island if the
lines went down. The sea air blew in from the coast staining
the already dull grey jetties an inky black as the skies poured
down. Most of the town’s population were tucked away nice and
warm indoors finally sitting down to a hot meal or curled up in
front of the fire reading the Herald or the like. All except
one. The figure of a woman bundled up against the wind and chill
trudged along West Helm Road towards the only church on the
island, St. Gerard’s of the Assumption.
Colleen Sheehan was a woman on a mission. She had set out to
talk to the town priest if it was the last thing she did. Her
long dark hair had fallen from it’s pins and fanned out behind
her in a thick black silky sheet as the cold northern wind blew
against her. Her work worn hands clutched her heavy grey green
overcoat closed as her rubber boots trod on, living up hill on
Fergus Point as a lighthouse keeper’s wife had strengthened her
legs as well as her resolve to keep going, as had the time spent
working beside her husband aboard the small fishing boat he
owned, The Rose of Tralee; the smell of engine grease, bait and
the sea never truly left him it seemed. Her Mickey. She loved
him but there was a part of her he would never truly have, not
that he cared. Michael Joseph Sheehan was a very practical man
and what he could not see or touch did not concern him. He loved
her in his own quiet way, he was more about actions than words
but sometimes she was left begging to hear him actually say it.
He was a good strong provider ;worked his fingers to the bone
for everything they had. He was safe, secure. Solid, like the
jetty rock that encased their tiny island town. Her lover on the
other hand was something else entirely. Light. Warmth, laughter.
Like her he was a bit of a dreamer, he always had been. They had
gone to school together back in the day, everyone in town
thought for sure they would have married but he was destined for
something else. After graduation he went on his way and left her
there amidst the sea and the rock and cold. Letters were
exchanged infrequently between them, the last she had received
was post marked from Rome. But he had returned not long after
her engagement to Mickey only just over a year ago, and with him
came all those memories they shared. They were both older,
wiser, a little more at peace with the world then they had been
at eighteen. She had made up her mind and she thought she had
been doing the right thing by marrying Mickey but the heart
wants what the heart wants, this she would soon learn. As would
her lover.
Finally she reached her destination, the worn stone steps of
St. Gerard’s and upon the old wooden double doors she pushed. In
a minute flat she was enveloped in the heady dark scents;
incense, teak wood, paraffin wax, and polish. The knot in her
stomach eased and the weight from her shoulders was soon
nonexistent. Dipping her fingers into the standing water font
she blessed herself. This church was like a second home to her.
She had been baptized here, married here. As had her parents and
grandparents and great grandparents. She had attended Mass here
every Sunday for the past twenty-eight years, said goodbye to
her loved ones here, celebrated feast days of the saints,
Easter, Lent, Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day. Every moment in her
life had in some small way had taken place in this sacred space.
Rifling through her purse she found the money she had saved for
the votives, one for her mother, her father, Mickey, and the
souls of herself and her lover. Bowing her head she said a quick
prayer, made the sign of the cross and dropped the money into
the plain wooden box beside the votive alter. The statue of the
Holy Mother had been polished recently and she gravitated toward
it before dropped to her knees in one of the velveteen kneelers
and leaned forward and started the Memorare.
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,
that never was it known
that any one who fled to thy protection implored thy help
or sought thy intercession,
was left unaided.
Inspired by this confidence,
We fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins my Mother;
to thee do we come, before thee we stand, sinful and sorrowful;
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
despise not our petitions,
but in thy mercy hear and answer them. Amen.
Tears welled up in her eyes as the words spilled from her mouth,
low, almost murmured.
Mother Mary forgive me and may God himself and your Holy Son
have mercy on my soul. I know I vowed to love and honor only one
man but something inside of me has failed him. I’ve failed
Mickey and lain with another man but please know that I am not
the sum of my sins. I’m human, made in God’s image with wants
and needs. I beg you for forgiveness.
She silently plead to the heavens before standing once more and
moving towards the confessional boxes and stepping inside. She
took a seat and silently slid the screen open she bowed and
blessed herself a third time since stepping foot into the
church. Familiar hazel eyes held her gaze. The lump in her
throat grew and she tried to swallow.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been three months
since my last confession. I’ in love with a man who isn’t my
husband. I’ve had relations with this man, I have loved him
since childhood but we can never be together. He’s destined for
far greater things than I could ever think of, he’s just, kind,
and true. An exemplary man of the cloth. Which is why I refuse
to ruin his life’s path.”
The priest thought for a moment as he listened to her
confession.
“Ten Hail Mary’s, Twelve Our Father’s and pray your Act of
Contrition my child.”
He watched as her head bowed a moment and he heard her through
all the way through her Act of Contrition. Gently sliding the
lower window open he extended his hands to hers noticing that
they were work worn and cold, the knuckles chapped and slightly
bleeding as she clutched her simple wooden rosary. These hands
were like those of half of the women in town, hard working and
forth right. Always putting others before themselves. He thought
of his own dear Mother when he saw them. Bowing his head he
spoke the Absolution.
“God, the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection
of his Son, has
reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among
us for
the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may
God
grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you from your sins in
the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.”
Colleen echoed an amen before giving his hands a gentle squeeze
and pushed something, - a mass card or saint’s feast day card -
into them before whispering something that brought back a flood
of memories.
“Feicfidh tú a bheith i gcónaí ar mo réalta thuaidh,Padraic.”
Without another word she left as quickly and as quietly as she
had arrived. Back out into the wind and the rain. Back home to
her husband the lighthouse keeper. He held in his hands the
thick piece of stock paper she had given to him during her
confession. Slowly he walked back to the tiny parish house at
the back of the church. He sat down to a simple meal of soup and
brown bread turning the paper this way and that trying to
discern what exactly was before him and then he realized, his
heart hammered in his chest as he let out laugh of joy only to
have the horrible realization that he would never get to share
in her happiness, not truly as he should have been able to at
least. A strangle hiccuping sob left his body as his eyes welled
up with bitter tears. Tears for all the ‘could have beens’ and
‘should have been’s.’ the cruel ‘what if’s’ of a life together
they couldn’t ever share. Finally composing himself enough to
put up the priestly front once more he dialed her number, one he
had learned by heart it seemed since he had come back home.
“Sheehan residence how can I help you?”
came a gruff query from the other end of the line. Michael. He
thought to himself before answering.
“Hello Mr. Sheehan it’s Father Hennessy. I just wanted to call
to congratulate you…”
A noticeable change in tone made his stomach turn.
“Thank you very much Father. Colleen and I are over the moon,
you know the doctors on the mainland told us that it would
probably never happen but it’s a miracle. Oh, wait a minute.
Would you be wanting to speak to Colleen? She had something she
wants to ask you.”
Mickey asked before he passed the phone off to his wife.
‘If she asked for the stars I’d pluck them from the sky.’
Hennessy thought to himself before he heard her voice. Her
manner of speaking signaled that Mickey had stepped out of the
room.
“Hello, Patrick. I’m sorry I didn’t get a change to tell you to
your face I wasn’t sure if there was anyone was in the next box
or not..”
Before he could answer he heard solid footsteps and her voice
changed again, congenial but not relaxed as he had remembered or
wanted her.
“I was wondering Father, would you do us the honor of baptizing
the child when the time comes?”
“I would be delighted, Mrs. Sheehan.”
“Oh, and one more thing Mickey’s the eldest in his family and
his father’s name just wouldn’t do…”
Patrick did his best not to let out a laugh at the memory of Old
man Sheehan’s name. Riordan. What made it worse was the child’s
middle name would surely be Francis, as all of the Sheehan men
had been given that tradition before they chose their
confirmation names. Saddle a kid with a name like that he’s sure
to get a beating in the schoolyard.
“We’ve been told that the baby’s a boy..”
Patrick’s heart stopped for a moment as he clung to her every
word.
“We would like very much to name him after you, if you’d agree
to it.”
He couldn’t breathe, all air had left his lungs and his world
spun for a moment.
“It…would be a most wonderful honor. Thank you Mrs. Sheehan and
may God keep you and the babe safe. Rest well..”
She was just about to hang up when he stopped her.
“Feicfidh mé grá i gcónaí leat, Colleen.”
“Agus mé tú.”
She said as he heard her smile before wishing him well and
hanging up.
Thoughts swirled around his head that night as he sat in front
of the fire place, a log crackling merrily in the hearth as the
store continued on outside. He cast his gaze at the crucifix
upon the wall.
“I know it was wrong, I know. We both know. But we’ve always
loved each other. But please, all I ask of you is to keep them
safe. I’ve dedicated myself to you since I was eighteen, it was
my mother’s greatest wish and I did it for her. Please, just
keep them safe.”
Two months later while out with a few of his Mainland friends
Michael Sheehan drank a wee bit too much Tullamoore Dew at the
Mainland tavern, the Whaler's Arm's and slipped into the harbor
never to be seen again. The local police came to the conclusion
that his body either sank to the very bottom of the docks or
drifted out on the current to the sea. He left behind a loving
wife, Colleen who by that time was five months along with their
son. With nothing keeping her on Cropshire Down the widow
Sheehan sold the boat that her husband once coveted and settled
somewhere outside of Boston. Not long after Father Hennessy left
the island saying that he had been summoned to Rome once more
and that his replacement would be in town soon. No one thought
to ask for a forwarding address and let it go. Somewhere in
Boston’s West End in a tidy little brick house along Charles
Street a good Catholic couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy are
welcoming a young son, Patrick Michael Hennessy at this exact
moment. They've decided to call him Mickey out of honor for the
dearly departed.
[center]~ Fin ~ [/center]
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