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everything in the church, including the priest and his sermons. The sermons were Slattery’s favourite target for misdirected wit. The pictures never altered, but the sermons changed each week. And for the whole week after each of Slattery’s visits to the church he would parody everything he had heard. This made him a star attraction among the clients of the Harbour Bar.
In the past Caitlin would have laughed, or at least smiled, when she overheard parts of Slattery’s performances at her father’s monthly parties, even his frequent vulgarities, but now they made her squirm. She was developing a dislike of the man she used to love next to her own father. Caitlin and Nora had lived with the Slatterys when they were little girls. Caitlin would climb onto Seamus’s knees and snuggle against his massive paunch to listen to the ticking of his chunky, gold, pocket-watch or to count the silver buttons on his straining waistcoat. Caitlin learned to count on Slattery’s waistcoats. She learned to add and subtract by doing and undoing those bright, silver buttons. She never heard “one, two, three” even yet without thinking of Slattery’s blubbery midriff and bulging suits. Now when she thought of him she felt a mild revulsion she couldn’t ignore. Slattery had no right to mock the Church. The church and its paintings and its stained-glass window—yes, and its priest too—had become precious to Caitlin.
She turned away from the chancel window. The church was darkening. She could no longer distinguish the farthest rows of pews. They merged with the shadows and dissolved into amorphous darkness. Then out of the darkness, like the apparition of a ghost, Padraig emerged, tall, thin, dressed in his long, black vestment. He approached her with long strides down the cold floor of the nave.
“Caitlin,” he said, giving her a smile, “what brings you here at this time of day?”
“I just felt like it,” Caitlin replied.
“You mean you felt the need of it,” Padraig said.
“Perhaps,”
He was standing before her now, looking into her troubled eyes. “Something’s wrong, Caitlin. Something drove you here this evening.”
“Perhaps,” Caitlin said again, returning the priest’s earnest gaze.
“It’s cool in here now,” Padraig said. “I have a fire burning in my room. Come into the house and tell me what’s vexing you.”
She followed Padraig to the open door of the rectory. He picked up the lamp he had left on the hallstand and led the way up the lino-covered stairs to his room. He placed the lamp on the mantelpiece above the hearth,
Libros Libertad 