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Theresa's Secret Legacy

By Ray McGinley

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Prologue

May, 1977

“Theresa, go upstairs and tell George it’s time for him and Chris to go to confession. But first, tell them to wash their face and hands.”
A moment later Theresa opened the bedroom door. “Guess what, Georgie-Porgie? Mom said you and Chris have to go to confession. And wash your face and hands and behind your ears, and brush your teeth.”
“I told you not to call me Georgie-Porgie, or I’ll pull your pigtails.”
“You think you can you remember all your mortal sins?”
“I don’t have any. I haven’t strangled you yet, but I am thinking about it.”
“Then tell that to the priest, Georgie-Porgie,” Theresa giggled as she ran away.
Five minutes later George and I strolled down the sidewalk to St. Michael’s. Theresa would be making her first confession next year, but she was already learning the fundamentals.
“What if we just say a prayer and skip confession?” I said. “Who would know?”
“Are you kidding, Chris? God would know. Then you would have another sin to confess next time.”
“Alright,” I said. George was an altar boy and he knew all about sins and stuff.
“Did you examine your conscience like you’re supposed to do?”
“Yeah, but some of the commandments are hard to understand,” I said.
“Which ones?” George asked.
“How about the one about adultery?”
“Don’t worry about that one. I think adultery means it’s only for adults. And don’t worry about coveting your neighbor’s wife either.”
“Mr. Riley doesn’t even have a wife that I could covet.”
“It means all your neighbors, Chris, not just next door. It probably even means neighbors on the next block, but I’m not sure about that. The main commandment for you is honoring your father and mother. I think that means me too, because I’m your older brother. There wasn’t enough room to write everything on the tablets, you know.”
“Okay, what other ones?”
“Thou shalt not steal or bear false witness. That means tell a lie.”
“Okay, I’m good then. What about you?” I asked.
“I only have one sin and I’m not sure which commandment I broke.”
“I thought you knew all of them. Can you tell it to me?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Last Sunday I was the altar boy at the ten o’clock Mass. So I’m kneeling there and I guess I stopped paying attention. Next thing I know Father McPeak is snapping his fingers together, you know, to get my attention. So I did the first thing that came to my mind. I rang the bells. But it wasn’t time for the bells, it was time for me to carry the book to the altar. When I got back to my kneeler, everybody in the church was looking at me. And then the choir started singing “Here I am Lord.” They were staring at me too, so God would know it was me.”
“Wow, what were you thinking about?” I asked.
“Well, you know the day before I made a double play by myself, and we won the game. I kept thinking about it, everybody cheering and everything.”
“Yeah, that was a cool game. What kind of sin is an altar boy not paying attention?”
“I don’t know what commandment, but it must be a sacrilege.”
“So what did Father McPeak do?”
“He didn’t do anything. He just said thanks afterward. He’s probably waiting until I go to confession and then I’ll get what I deserve.”
We entered the church in silence, the gravity weighing on us.
“You go first,” George said to me. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I got in line. There were three people in front of me. That was okay, I wasn’t looking forward to it, anyway. A few minutes went by and a young woman came out with what looked to me like a distressed face. I got more nervous. The line moved up one place.
Another couple of minutes and a teenage girl came out. She was chewing gum and looked happy. That has to be a sin, I thought, chewing gum in confession. But if she came out happy, maybe it won’t be bad for me either.
The old woman who was now first in line shuffled up to the curtain and disappeared. I was up next, and George pinched me on the butt.
“I know,” I said. “Don’t push me.”
I could hear the back and forth between the high pitch of the old woman and the deep voice of Father Larkin. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but Father Larkin seemed to do most of the talking. After a minute or two the curtain was pulled back and the old woman held it open for me. Come on, my pretty one, it’s time for you to face the music.
I checked to make sure George didn’t move closer to the confessional to try and hear my sins. Then I entered the darkness, knelt down, and awaited the sliding window. Father was attending to someone on the other side of the confessional. I tried to remember my sins but I could only think of two. Why can’t I remember the third?
Suddenly the window slid open and, to my horror, the light was on! Father Larkin might look at me and then he would remember me! He might tell my parents about my sins. Even worse, he might tell Sister Mary Margaret. It’s too late for me now, I’m a goner.
“Bless me, Father, it’s been two weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of twirling my rosary.”
“And who told you that’s a sin?”
“Sister Mary Margaret. She said when you twirl your rosary, you’re giving the devil a ride.”
“I see.”
“Is twirling your rosary a mortal sin or a venial sin, Father?”
“It’s definitely not a mortal sin. Why do you ask?”
“I was worried if I died before I got to confession, I might go to hell. But if it’s not a mortal sin, I guess I didn’t have to worry.”
“No. Now then, how many times did you twirl the rosary?”
“Let’s say six. No, wait, it might be seven. Maybe even eight.”
“Okay, and why do you do it?”
“The other kids think it’s funny.”
“I see. Have you other sins to confess?”
“I slid down the banister at school. We’re supposed to use the stairs when we go to lunch.”
“Did Sister tell you that’s a sin?”
“She said when we slide down the banister, we put our shoes on the metal rail and that takes the paint off. I checked and she’s right, it does. She said it’s destruction of property. I’m not sure which commandment that breaks, but it must be one of them.”
“And how many times did you slide down the banister?”
“Just twice. Sister caught me and rapped my knuckles.”
“So you’re sorry for this, then?”
“Oh yes, Father. I’m done with that one. My knuckles hurt for a week.”
“Any other sins to confess?”
“George and I pull Theresa’s pigtails a lot, but I couldn’t find any commandment making that a sin. I remember I had three sins, but I can’t remember the third one.”
“That’s okay. Just confess it next time. Have you been to confession with me before?”
“No, Father. George says you give tougher penance than Father McPeak, so we always go to him.”
“Who’s George?”
“He’s my older brother. He’s ten and he’s next in line.”
“Father McPeak is on vacation this week, so you’re stuck with me.”
“That’s exactly what George said.” Suddenly I remembered my third sin.
“And how many confessions have you made so far?”
“This is my second one, Father.”
“So, you’re in third grade then?”
“Yes, Father. Do you want my name?”
“No, son, why would I want your name?”
“So you can tell my parents what I did.”
“We’re not allowed to tell anyone what we hear in confession. God wouldn’t like that.”
“So you can’t even tell Sister Mary Margaret?”
“Nope, not even her.”
“Good. I just remembered my third sin, Father. I accuse myself of hiding George’s baseball glove so he would have to miss practice.”
“Tsk…tsk. Why did you do that?”
“Because he wiped his snot on my pillow. He’s always picking on me because I’m smaller.”
Father Larkin turned his face away. I thought he was laughing to himself, but probably he was crying quietly because of all my bad sins.
“I see. And that’s all your sins now?”
“Yes, Father.”
“For your penance you have to come to me for your next confession.”
“Don’t I have to say a rosary or anything, Father?”
“No, that’s all. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
And then the window slid shut. I opened the curtain and looked at George. I smiled and he looked disappointed. He said I would be crying when Father Larkin was done with me. I sat down in a pew and waited for George to make his confession.
When George came out he knelt down in the pew. After a few minutes he nodded toward the door.
“What did he give you for penance?” George asked when we were outside.
“Nothing. He just said come back to him for confession next time.”
“You probably didn’t tell him any sins, did you, Chris?”
“I told all of them. He seems real nice.”
“Not to me. He asked me if I was good to my brother and sister.”
“What did you say?”
“I said most of the time. Then he said I should think about how Jesus would want me to treat my brother and sister. That was my penance. I have to think about it every day for a month.”
“Wow, a whole month! You were right, he does give out tough penance. How will you remember to do it every day?”
“Maybe you’ll remind me.”
“Yeah, maybe. Hey, George, how did he know you have a brother and sister? Did he ask you?”
“No. I don’t know how he knew. Maybe God told him.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“What did he say about you messing up the bells at Mass?”
“He said it wasn’t a sin, just a mistake, and I should try to pay more attention.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes, then I said, “George, I hid your baseball glove under the bed because I was mad at you. I’m sorry I made you miss practice.”
“I found it. It’s okay, I shouldn’t have teased you, Chris. I’ll try to stop picking on you.”
“I guess we should probably stop pulling Theresa’s pigtails too.”
“Yeah.”
A few more minutes passed, then George said, “It feels good after you go to confession, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah it does, George.”
George put his arm around me, and from that moment on we were not just brothers. We were friends.



1

November 2011

I woke up with an ominous feeling but the exact nature of the portent eluded me. I struggled to identify the uneasiness. Finally my inner voice reminded me of my latest achievement, attaining a new high on the bathroom scale. Okay then, maybe I needed exercise to quash the apprehension. Or was this only a diversion?
I picked a treadmill with a good view of the elevated television permanently tuned to CNN. A woman on the treadmill next to mine was jogging away, while mine was set on a fast walking speed. She didn’t look like she needed to be there, but I suppose she wanted to keep it that way. The treadmill on the other side of me was occupied by an overweight man, probably sixty-something, and barely moving. He grunted rhythmically every third step which struck me as a peculiar beat. The news was not news after all, just a rehash of yesterday’s reports, so I turned my attention to the adjacent television where the financial markets were being reported, dissected, and interpreted. There was a dispute as to whether emerging markets would be up or down in the next two quarters. The up advocate was adamant that his facts supported his position. The down advocate was equally convinced of the merits of his analysis. I made a mental note to see which expert turned out to be right, but the thought was likely destined for oblivion where it would meet all my other mental notes. After a half-hour on the treadmill my inner voice was sufficiently stifled, and I headed to work where a hot shower awaited me.
Despite a construction delay on the Seattle freeway, I almost got home at the normal time and made my usual cocktail, a Maker’s Mark old fashioned style. Rita was at soccer practice waiting for our two boys, probably sitting in the SUV while their long-winded coach imparted what he regarded as invaluable wisdom to his captive audience. But they would be home soon. I took two sips of my cocktail, grabbed the newspaper, and headed to the deck. On this clear day I could see the majestic Mount Rainier. I opened to the sports page, then heard the doorbell ring. I figured one of the boys ran up to the door before Rita could even get her bag out of the car.
Again…. ring, ring, ring. What’s going on? I looked out of the window and saw one of Seattle’s finest at my front door. My heart skipped a beat… what was this about? An accident? My mind raced… was it Rita? The boys? My parents? I fumbled with the front door lock, finally pulled the door open and asked, “Who? What happened?”
“Sir, I am Officer Frank Kelly, Seattle PD. Are you Christopher Brennan?”
I nodded yes. At first, I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Something about Theresa Brennan, my sister? But Theresa lives in Phoenix. Why are the Seattle Police here? I took some deep breaths and tried to focus. He was saying I needed to call the Phoenix PD for more information. He handed me a piece of paper with the name Sgt. Henry Knox, Phoenix PD, along with the sergeant’s phone number.
“Apparently,” he said, “Phoenix PD suspects that Theresa may have committed suicide.”
“Oh, no, please God, something’s wrong here. She would never do that.”
“I understand, Mr. Brennan. I’m just conveying the message I was given. They also asked me to tell you they found her will which names you as her Personal Representative.”

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