Theresa? Why did you let her go to hell? You let my mother climb to
the loft.You let me get into a state of doom. Little childrens shoes scat-
tered in concentration camps. I have the abscess again. Its in my chest
and Im hungry.
St. Francis is no help, he wont stop the tears bursting out of my two
eyes, the sniffling and choking and the God oh Gods that have me on
my knees with my head on the back of the pew before me and Im so
weak with the hunger and the crying I could fall on the floor and
would you please help me God or St. Francis because Im sixteen today
and I hit my mother and sent Theresa to hell and wanked all over Lim-
erick and the county beyond and I dread the millstone around my neck.
There is an arm around my shoulders, a brown robe, click of black
rosary beads, a Franciscan priest.
My child, my child, my child.
Im a child and I lean against him, little Frankie on his fathers lap,
tell me all about Cuchulain, Dad, my story that Malachy cant have or
Freddie Leibowitz on the swings.
My child, sit here with me.Tell me what troubles you. Only if you
want to. I am Father Gregory.
Im sixteen today, Father.
Oh, lovely, lovely, and why should that be a trouble to you?
I drank my first pint last night.
Yes?
I hit my mother.
God help us, my child. But He will forgive you. Is there anything
else?
I cant tell you, Father.
Would you like to go to confession?
I cant, Father. I did terrible things.
God forgives all who repent. He sent His only Beloved Son to die
for us.
I cant tell, Father. I cant.
But you could tell St. Francis, couldnt you?
He doesnt help me anymore.
But you love him, dont you?
I do. My name is Francis.
Then tell him.Well sit here and youll tell him the things that trou-
ble you. If I sit and listen it will only be a pair of ears for St. Francis and
Our Lord.Wont that help?
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