The TFP FIG Harvest #1

Ok, gave this a try. I don't think I managed the protagonist/false protagonist relationship correctly. I had all intentions of going that route but when the story started coming out, that particular relationship worked out a bit differently.

The Bishop of South Boston

Denny O'Neil and the Bishop don't get along anymore. Maybe they never did, but lately it's been harder for Denny to squeeze a fiver out of the old man than it is to get a cat to bark. The Bishop always coughs up the dough eventually, but not without putting Denny through the ringer first.

'So what did you spend your pay on this week, Denny?” The Bishop always asks and Denny wishes for once he could give the bastard the answer he deserves. You fat, old prick. You think it's easy doing what I do? My fucking noggin under the hood of some rich bastard's Packard all day? My fingers so sore I can't hardly hold my dick in my hand to piss?

Denny wants to tell the Bishop how it's not the Depression anymore. How the war is over. How it's 1954 and working men have earned the right to enjoy the fruits of their labor. But nobody tells the Bishop what they think he deserves to hear. Nobody dares.

Besides, the Bishop already knows where Denny's money goes. The Bishop knows everything going on in South Boston. Sometimes the Bishop will accept information in lieu of a loan payment. Sometimes he'll pay outright for it. Sometimes the Bishop just knows things he's got no business knowing.

#

Harry "the Bishop" O'Neil doesn't want the life he's got. Not the wife, not the son, not the business he finds himself still obligated to. But Harry knew, the moment he met Rue McIntyre, that such things were out of his hands. Back then, when he still had a chance to grab a life of his choosing, he was flotsam on its tides, bobbing along its waves and caught up in its trade winds.

Then again, he didn't want to continue being a priest anymore either. He thought it was his calling once and he might have let it drag him through life to suffer the same misery under different circumstances if Rue hadn't come along to pull him in another direction. A riptide, an undertow; she was a force he didn't have the muscle to resist. Such is youth and lust.

He did all right, was still doing alright. It's a tough thing though, loaning money to the poor. At first it started off as “lending a helping hand.” Doing God's good work. And he didn't charge interest back then. He had some money. $25,000 his Dad had left him. Almost didn't leave him when Harry disgraced the family by leaving the priesthood. But his Dad got over it. Francis O'Neil was a forgiving man.

25 grand was a lot of money back in those days. Before the depression. Before Harry would come to realize how poor the poor could get. By the time it ended, with the start of the war, Harry was left with less than 10 grand.

Some of the loans he made were never repaid so he started adding a little interest. The ones who did pay helped to offset those who didn't. And though he was still making people happy, he was also still losing his shirt. Rue helped him figure out the interest he could charge to break even at least, even if some loans were reneged on.

He was a better bet than than the bank, who wouldn't lend a beggar a tin cup. So people kept coming to Harry O'Neil when they were short on cash, even as the interest edged up. And maybe it was the fact he was once a priest, or maybe it was something else, but there came a day when everybody just called him the Bishop.

Harry considered himself a fortunate man. He knew everyone in South Boston. Knew lots of things about people he probably shouldn't, but that's the way it goes. The mark of a man isn't what he knows but what he does with what he knows. His Dad told him that, and Harry understands the responsibility that comes with carrying people's secrets around.

But the nature of his little side business changed. At least for a while. It was years ago, but he still remembers when Rue started pushing him out the door every day to go get “their money.” And when she started hiring local ruffians to go out collecting as soon as Harry would leave for work.

It went on for almost a year, until one day Harry realized he'd become the neighborhood pariah. People who owed him money would hide when they saw him coming.

He finally put a stop to it. Put a stop to Rue as well. Told her he'd chop her up and toss the pieces in the Charles if she ever stuck her nose in his business again. She never has. Things are alright between them now. Not great. Not even good. Just alright.

Then there's Denny. A thorn in Harry's side. Maybe not all Denny's fault. Rue spoiled him. That's the thing with women who only get one kid before the works go awry. They pin all their hopes and hangups on the poor, unsuspecting creature, then turn a blind eye to all the holes they've made.

Harry still thinks about it. Wonders if it matters. Men don't become parents until the kid comes out. They can stick any infant in a guy's arms and he'd never know the difference. He'll raise the kid, feed the kid, teach the kid to drive. Maybe he'll even love the kid. If he loves himself, the kid is probably going to get the benefit. Maybe that was the problem. Harry never loved himself. Nobody loved anybody in the O'Neil house. At least, nobody had in a long time.

Yet, might it have been different if he knew for certain that Denny was his and not the son of another man? Like the man Rue had the affair with? If Harry knew for sure, could he have then loved Denny? Would it have changed anything if he had?

#

Denny's fucked. Not because of his wife Felicia, who's not giving in this time. Who's not letting him back in the house. No, that's not the worst thing. He's sick of her and her nagging anyway. She'll come begging once she sees her mistake. When she realizes he's not around to pay the bills or buy the kids new school shoes. And she's crazy if she thinks he's going to show up every payday and hand her money. She'll have to drag him to court if she expects to see a dime, providing they find a way to squeeze blood out of a stone. He can ride out this one. Stay in the back room at the shop for a while longer. It's not so bad. A hot plate and a cot is better than most of the coloreds in Roxbury got.

No, he's fucked because of Elena. Pregnant little spic. Danny didn't even think it was possible to knock up a 15 year old. She hasn't told her parents yet, which is a good thing. And Denny's been checking around. He's got the name of a doctor who'll get rid of the kid for $200.

He knows he could hump jail time for this one. Asking the Bishop for the money is the last thing he wants to do, but he's got no choice.

#

Harry's been going to Sunday services. He sits in the back with the snoring drunks and worn out street ladies, hoping nobody else sees him. Before the heart attack last year, he hadn't graced a pew since leaving the priesthood. Maybe it was guilt that kept him away, but Harry thinks the culprit's been pride.

He comes to let it go in the frankincense and ritual. In the sonorous words of a litany he doesn't believe anymore. He doesn't know if he believes in God. He certainly hasn't lived his life as if he has. He only hopes that, if God exists, he's been too busy to worry about Harry O'Neil.

#

“I need a loan.” Denny says, rocking on his heels. His knobby, grease-stained hands stuck halfway into his pockets. “And before you start in on me, its for a good reason.”

“Yeah, I'm sure it is.” the Bishop replied impatiently, glancing at the clock. Services would be starting in half an hour.

“Don't you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“A friend has this investment opportu.....” Denny started.

“Get out!” the Bishop interrupted. “How dare you come into my house and lie to me again!"

“Fuck you!” Denny shouted, and headed for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob and turned back to the Bishop. “I got a girl pregnant.”

“Sit down. Not there, that's your mother's chair. Get a stool from the kitchen.”

Denny dragged one in and sat across from the Bishop.

“So what do you want from me? You think I'm going to support her?” the Bishop asked.

“No, of course not!”

“Spit it out, then.”

“If she has the kid, I might go to prison.”

“Might do you some good.” the Bishop said.

“Might have done you some good too, Bishop. You think what you've been doing all these years is legal?”

The Bishop didn't know how to answer that. He never considered the legalities.

“Illegal, maybe, but there's no crime in helping people.” the Bishop replied.

“Helping people! Do you have any idea how many drug habits you support? Or how many of my friends take your fucking money and blow it on the horses and booze? Don't kid yourself Bishop. You're not doing anybody any favors.”

“That's my business, not yours.” The Bishop knew these things went on and when he guessed some poor wife was footing the bill for her husband's entertainment, he'd shut the faucet off. If he'd been lax about that sort of thing lately, it didn't matter. He'd be out of the business soon enough. “You still haven't told me what you need the money for.”

Denny didn't want to tell him the truth, but the old man could spot a lie walking down the street before it even had it's shoes on. And Denny could see the Bishop was getting impatient. Time was running out. He'd have to take his chances.“An abortion.”

“Who is she?” the Bishop asked. Denny wasn't prepared for the question. Asking an ex-priest for money for an abortion was like asking a butcher for fish. Denny expected a lecture on the insanity of such a request.

“You don't know her.”

“I didn't ask you that. What's her name? The Bishop insisted.

“Elena Melendez.”

“Does she want to have an abortion?”

“Not really, but she says she'll do it for me.”

“Where does she live?”

“You mean the neighborhood or the street?” Denny asked.

“Her address, if you know it.”

“She lives on Sheffield Street in East Boston. I don't know the number. Why does it matter?”

“It matters. How old is she?”

“She's eighteen.” he lied.

“Then why do think you might go to prison?”

“Okay, she's fifteen. Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“It's just $200. I swear I'll pay it back.” Denny pleaded. “I need it right away, if that's not a problem.”

“It is a problem, Denny.”

“Then how soon can I get it?”

“Never. I'll no more enable you to continue on your destructive path than I will an addict on his, if I can help it.”

“Now isn't that a fucking surprise. Some father you are. You'll give a bum off the street whatever he asks for but nothing for your own flesh and blood. Why don't you come out and admit it, Bishop. You never loved me.”

“The past is over. I'll love you now by letting you sleep in the bed you made. It's the best I can do.”

#

Harry O'Neill pulled onto Sheffield St. An aging, overweight, Irishman in enemy territory, looking for a young, pregnant, Puerto Rican girl named Elena Melendez. No longer adrift, he felt as if he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.