It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 92: Chapter I

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The Author was right in her assumptions. The news of Father Peter's murder, giddily described with daily and exceedingly gruesome details in the Mother City's most reputable newspapers, spread fast from the parish, until the whole of Boston was consumed by the crime. Not just Boston, but the outskirts too. The suburbs and exurbs, and even farther to the most provincial of areas in the Commonwealth. There was not a soul in the whole of Massachusetts that was not enthralled with the crime and the inevitable question that came along with it:

Why?

From Barnstable to Amherst, Salisbury to Nantucket, the conversations of happy families sat down to happy Christmas dinners were marred by the thought that someone, somewhere in the wide world, was evil enough to kill a poor and innocent priest. And those were just the families who read of the murder. Others still found their Christmas celebrations thoroughly derailed by the events in St. Gregory's Parish, but they were less preoccupied with the 'why' of the matter as they were the 'who', for 'why' did not solve the empty chairs at their dining room tables.

'Who did it?' asked the various relations of the Boston Chief of Police, when he passed through his house, not to observe the most joyous of Christian holidays, but rather to change his stained shirt.

'Who did it?!' then asked that Chief later that night of his overworked detectives.

'Who?' asked the wives of those same detectives, when they called the offices of the Homicide Division, annoyed by the absence of their husbands.

'Who?' asked the children when their fathers came home, or in the case of little Miss Michelle—she preferred 'Mickey'—Mooney of East Milton, who had waited up long past her bedtime to ask her mother the all important question. Being no older than five at the time, dear Mickey Mooney was too young to understand what all the hullaballoo was about, but was no less excited by the mystery of the conversations she had heard passing between the adult members of her family.

'I don't know yet, sweetheart,' said her mother, barely through the door, but glad enough to take the child up in her arms and squeeze her tight. 'But we'll get 'em. Don't you worry about that. Whoever it is, we'll get 'em!'

'I'm not worried, Mommy,' said little Mickey, gazing up at the round face of her mother, whom she knew was not really her mother by blood. Mommy, if she had to be accurate, was actually Second-Mommy, but darling Mickey could not remember First-Mommy, whom, she had been told, had gone to live with the Baby Jesus. Not that this upset Mickey, for she knew that to live with the Baby Jesus meant you must have been a really goodly sort of person, and that gave the girl pride to think that her First-Mommy was one such soul. 

Besides, she figured, if First-Mommy was still here, then Daddy, the one and only, would not have fallen in love with Second-Mommy, and Mickey would not have had the opportunity to meet and love, and be loved, by the most wonderful, smartest, coolest, bravest, beautifulist Mommy in the world. Second-Mommy, (referred to as only Mommy), was Mickey's hero. Not only did she give the 'bestest' kisses and hugs—she really did!—not only did she tell the most amazing stories—they really were!—of Mr. McCreedy and his pet lion, Bo-Bo, which was Mickey's most favorite story of all—but Mommy had the 'wickedest' job in the whole galaxy.

Universe!

Beyond the universe!

What was beyond the universe, Mickey could not figure, but whatever it was, it was beyond cooler than that.

All of her friends' mommies stayed home and baked and yelled, which, to Mickey, was a pedestrian way for mommies to be. 'But my mommy,' Mickey liked to boast to her contemporaries in Cunningham Park, 'goes out and arrests the bad guys! My mommy is a police-woman! And when I grow up, that's what I'm gonna be! A police-woman!'