Empty and serene but for the mutterings of hope and despair from the shadowy sinners who toured the stations of the cross, kneeling to dwell on every moment of the suffering that was never really understood. He used to smile at that. “Everyone goes in a sinner and comes out a freshly minted saint,” he often confided to his closest friends when they were well-warmed with whiskey. When they put aside all caution and spoke openly and honestly to each other in insinuations and knowing nods and winks that the rest of the world would never understand.Bart Boyle had never really been a believer, but, try as he might, he could never forget the chill of the water from the baptismal font. Wakening him from wherever he was before. He couldn’t remember it, but, when he was alive, he spent a lot of time, subconsciously of course, looking for it.He had made his Holy Communion and his Confirmation, and for a while, considered the priesthood. There wasn’t much else to do back then. He could go to America or he could go to hell.
