Free Boy Crucified by Jerome Wilde

had gotten into the habit of doing everything by myself, my own way, at my own speed, without someone else tagging along.
    If it had been anyone but Daniel Qo and his sly, knowing smile, I would have been excessively annoyed. Captain Harlock knew what he was doing when he made Daniel my partner.
    I rang the bell on the back door, and we were greeted by an old monk: Brother Bernard.
    “Father Ascension!” he exclaimed, using my old religious name and ignoring the fact that I was no longer “Father” anyone, though I had never been officially excused from the priesthood, which required a dispensation from Rome. I had applied, but grew tired of waiting for an answer. John Paul II was a real hard-ass when it came to dispensing priests from their vows. He was too busy canonizing saints. He had canonized more of them than all the popes before him put together. His saint output was astonishing. He was much too busy to tend to that mounting pile of dispensation requests.
    Brother Bernard opened the door and motioned for both of us to go inside. He gave me a hug, then took a long look at my face, while I took a long look at his. He was still just as ancient and careless about his personal appearance as ever, yet that light was still bright in his eyes. He had been the porter for St. Joseph’s for decades and might very well be the porter until the day he died.
    “Who’s your friend?” he asked, turning to look at Daniel.
    “My partner, Daniel Qo,” I said. “Daniel, this is Brother Bernard.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Daniel said, hesitantly holding out his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether the man would shake it or not. Bernard did, offering a huge grin.
    “Why did you call him Father Ascension?” Daniel asked.
    “That was his name,” Bernard said. “I forgot your real name,” he added, looking at me.
    “Thomas Noel,” I said.
    “Ah, Thomas, that’s right. Thomas, like St. Thomas. ‘Doubting Thomas,’ we used to call him, when he first came.”
    “I can see why,” Daniel offered with a smile.
    “I need to see Fr. Cyrus,” I said.
    A shadow went over Bernard’s face.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “Fr. Cyrus is sick,” he said. The way he said the word “sick” suggested that it wasn’t just a cold or a flu.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “I’ll let him tell you,” Bernard said. “He’s on the third floor, same room as always.”
    Daniel remained behind as I went up the stairs. I paused briefly on the second floor, the whole of which was a chapel. It was here that the brothers said prayers and held Mass. I had spent a lot of time here, on my knees in front of the tabernacle containing the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, pouring my heart out to him, increasingly angered by his continued silence. That’s the problem with God, the constant silence. If God wanted to have a relationship with us, why didn’t He? What was preventing Him? Why were some blessed with visions and divine favors while the rest of us were left to stumble around in the darkness?
    I made a face at the tabernacle, surprised at how resentful I felt at that particular moment. The old hurts still had the ability to bite, and bite deep. I was reminded of how deeply disappointing my relationship with God had been, and still was, and probably always would be.
    On the third floor, I pushed open Cyrus’s door and found him propped up in bed, a smile on his face. He was very pale, looking haggard and old. He was almost eighty, so perhaps that was to be expected.
    “Fr. Ascension,” he said, his voice throaty.
    “Fr. Cyrus,” I replied. “Please call me Thomas.”
    I went to his bed and knelt down, taking his old, feeble hand in my own. “What’s wrong?”
    “Cancer,” he said. “I’m not a young man anymore.”
    I felt something in my heart tightening up. Fr. Cyrus was one of the few people from my past that I loved, honestly and truly loved, with all my heart and soul. In so many ways, he was the father I’d