“They smolder. They drop to the bottom of our souls, where for years they give off only a modest heat, and then out of nowhere a life-wind suddenly whips up and the words burst into red-hot, spirit-scorching flame. An example: confession. In 1957, the year my father died, the sanctuary of St. Paul’s Catholic Church in Owago was ravaged by a fire that very nearly consumed the entire structure. A case of arson, it was decided—almost certainly at the hands of a child—and within days the field of su...spects had been more or less narrowed down to Herbie and me. (I was innocent. Play with the mathematics.) Herbie was an altar boy; I was not. He had a key to St. Paul’s; I did not. And most important, he had a motive—a religious bone to pick, so to speak—which I did not. How it transpired that I became a suspect, therefore, is beyond comprehension. Granted, St. Paul’s happened to be located across the street from my house; granted, too, I was seen playing combat games on church property the evening of the fire.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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