The Unspeakable Read Free Page A

circulated about Marbury dodging the draft, dodging the police as well, with wild stories ranging from theft to drugs. For his part, always coy, Marbury confirmed or denied nothing. And this only made people talk more. Our superiors gave more fuel to the rumors when I heard one of them tell another, “Christ took sinners into the fold. Who are we not to do the same?” And from that moment on I saw Marbury as our very own Mary Magdalene, who traded one life for the best one offered.
    When I told Marbury about my first impressions of him, especially just walking off the bus, he smiled.
    He said, “I was a loose torpedo back then. Still am.”
    I nodded. It was something that I couldn’t disagree with.
    â€œBut then you’re here, aren’t you? You know that already.”
    â€œTalk spreads. It isn’t every day that people feel the presence of God.”
    â€œOh, that—”
    He waved me off with his nonspeaking hand as if a response wasn’t even worthy. But then he reconsidered, saying, “That’s justthe voice, Peter. Or lack of one. People want to relate. Deep inside they want you to feel what they feel, you know that. Some go too far.”
    â€œAnd how far is that? Healing people?”
    â€œI never said I could heal.”
    â€œYou don’t have to. People say it of you,” I said.
    â€œDo you believe everything people say?”
    â€œWhen it’s about a priest, I listen.”
    â€œThen what’s the word on you, Peter?”
    I looked at Marbury, studied him with a burning glance. “Just that I’m a good priest, I hope. What you should be.”
    â€œOh, you’re questioning my goodness now.”
    â€œOnly your intentions, Marbury.”
    â€œMy best intentions,” he said, looking away, “I left in a snowstorm a thousand miles from here.”
    The snowstorm.
    Marbury’s trip to Pennsylvania, and the subsequent blizzard that followed, is generally agreed upon to be the dividing line between the old Marbury and this one. Before Philadelphia and the conference that lured him out there, Marbury was a priest like any other, exuding nothing so unusual or scandalous that would warrant the attention of this office. We were naturally aware of his talents, especially the uncanny knack he had for creating interest and furor over any project that he took on. This was particularly true of his shelter, which he started after an encounter with the homeless.
    The story went like this:
    One night, while walking home from a hospital visit, Marbury came across a man sleeping outside. The man was huddled inside a sleeping bag, freezing and hungry, but Marbury offered no help. He just walked on, like most people do, forgetting the incident altogether. That night the temperatures plunged well below zeroand everything solid froze, including the homeless man whose dead body graced the next morning’s headlines. Pictures too. Marbury, telling a reporter this story several years later, saw the event as a turning point in his life, an epiphany. He scraped together enough funds to start his own mission after that, independent from this office, I might add, and he found an old warehouse with a perfectly located storefront to accommodate his vision, which he aptly called St. Francis of Mercy.
    The mission grew and grew some more.
    What was originally intended for only a few dozen homeless multiplied like so many loaves to many, almost migrating hordes of people. Winter was the worst. On those ice-cold evenings, December and January especially, the thermometer would dictate the evening’s turnout. Freezing cold, people abandoned their boxes over heating grates, their riverside caves, the hidden stairwells and rail cars, and made a pilgrimage to the shelter, now consuming half the building, all for a warm meal and a comfortable bed. It wasn’t unusual to find whole families huddled together, sharing soup and conversation, maybe even a