“Wait for me,” Jimmy said to the taxi driver.

Jimmy eased himself from the taxi, careful to put his weight on his right leg. He swung his artificial left leg onto the sidewalk and limped up the walkway toward his parents’ front door. Despite all the therapy and gait training, at times of stress he could not walk without a limp.

His parents’ house looked the same: a square of yellow brick squatting behind a square of dandelion-infested grass. The picture window was still cracked. Duct tape still covered the crack.

Jimmy felt his heart palpitate. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Give me strength to tell them.”

Though he lived only a mile away from his parents, he’d rarely seen them since he’d graduated high school four years ago. A phone call on their birthdays, a boozy meal at Thanksgiving and Christmas. His real home after high school had been with Deacon Boyle next to the church.

Deacon Boyle, more than the surgeons and physical therapists and counselors five years ago, had saved him. Deacon Boyle had led him back through a thicket of depression and despair to the faith Jimmy had never felt with his parents. Deacon Boyle, Mrs. Boyle, and Luke, their son, were the family he loved. And today, Jimmy was following them to their new home in an impoverished parish 900 miles from Chicago.

The door opened before he could ring the bell.

“Jimmy!”

His mother pulled him inside, hugging him, smelling the same, wine and mouthwash.

“My main man!” His father held out a beer can.

“No thanks,” Jimmy said.

His father shrugged and poured the beer down his own throat. “Last one,” he said. He staggered to the red leather recliner—Jimmy had bought it for him last Christmas with some of his insurance settlement money—and sat down.

“Take a load off,” his dad said.

Jimmy followed his mom to the sofa. He saw scorch mark—cigarette burns—on the recliner’s arm rests. Seeing the damage on the expensive leather made him glad he’d followed Deacon Boyle’s advice: he’d kept the settlement money away from his parents. When they asked him for money, he asked them what they needed it for, and whatever lie they told him—a TV, a new refrigerator, a recliner—he accepted as truth, and bought them the actual item instead of giving them cash.

He knew they sometimes sold the item—the flat screen TV he’d bought them was nowhere to be seen—but now with the scorch marks, it was unlikely they’d try to sell the recliner.

“You’re looking good,” his mom said.

“You sure are, my main man!” his dad said.

And for the next few minutes, his parents chatted about this and that and smiled and laughed, and Jimmy smiled and laughed, and Jimmy thought it almost seemed like they were a normal, loving family. But he knew all too well that their small talk and smiles were a short-lived disguise behind which a shipwrecked family floundered.

“Say,” his dad said. “What’s with the cab waiting out there?”

“Aren’t you going to stay and visit for a bit?” his mom asked.

“I’m heading to the airport,” Jimmy replied.

“The airport?” his mom echoed. She picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned on an ancient RCA TV. She started flicking from channel to channel. She stopped at a poker tournament. “Oh, let’s watch this!” she said.

His dad was frowning. “Leaving town, huh. Lucky you. Say, maybe you can drop us off at the grocery on your way to the airport. We’re low on fruit and stuff.”

“Car’s in the shop,” his mom said.

Jimmy nodded, pretending to believe that his folks still had drivers licenses like normal people.

“Sure,” Jimmy said. His voice trembled. He had to tell them. He’d promised Deacon Boyle.

“But I’ve got a plane to catch. I won’t be able to wait for you. How will you get back home?”

“Oh, we’ll manage, honey,” his mom. “We may look like geezers to you, but we can still walk. Though my knees have been aching a bit. Arthritis, I guess. They trouble me on stairs. It’s no fun getting old, Jimmy.”

Jimmy pulled out his wallet. “Here.” He handed his mother $60. “Take a cab home from the grocery.”

For the first time, his dad was smiling. “Guess we better shake a leg,” his dad said. “The boy’s got a plane to catch.”

In the cab, Jimmy sat in front next to the driver. His parents sat in the back. His mother leaned into his father and chattered about her arthritis. His father looked out the window.

Jimmy was not surprised they weren’t asking him where he was going. Or why. Or would they ever see him again.

Jimmy turned around to face his parents. Just tell them, he thought. Get it over with.

“Mom, Dad,” he began, but then the cab was bumping over train tracks and his mother was making the sign of the cross.

“I always do that by these tracks,” she said.

Color drained from his father’s face. His father’s hands shrunk into fists. “Shut your mouth,” his father muttered, and Jimmy, not sure if his father meant Jimmy or his mom, turned away. In the side mirror, he watched traffic bump over the tracks. He watched until he could no longer see the tracks, except in his memory.

It was the rail crossing where, five years earlier, the accident had happened. His father had been driving Jimmy to Jimmy’s baseball tournament. Jimmy was on a summer travel team, keeping his skills sharp before his senior year in high school, when he hoped the high school coach would include him in the starting lineup. Being a starter on his high school team would bring him one step closer to achieving his dream of playing pro ball. They were late. Jimmy was frantic. He was leadoff batter on his travel team, his batting stats high because he could run so fast. They were late because it had taken Jimmy too long, pedaling on his bike, to find his parents at a tavern.

Traffic had been heavy. Jimmy’s dad had followed a truck over the tracks. But the truck stopped, blocked by traffic, and their car could not clear the tracks.

Bells clanged. The gates lowered. A freight train roared around the curve.

“Out!” Jimmy’s dad yelled as he threw himself from the car.

Jimmy might have cleared the tracks too, but first he grabbed his bat from the back seat. He dived from the car, the train screaming, blasting him with diesel fumes and heat, the fans roaring, Safe!

And Jimmy was. Except for his left leg, sliced off by the train’s wheels just below his knee.

It was his lucky bat. His parents had surprised him with it the day after he made his varsity high school team during his sophomore year. It was a $300 aluminum Louisville Slugger.

“Your mom and me got lucky last night at Harrah’s,” his dad had explained. He handed Jimmy the bat. A fluffy red bow bloomed on the bat’s barrel. “She won a couple hundred playing Hold ‘Em. I won a hundred at dice. I told her, this money, we’re getting Jimmy a good bat with it. A good bat so he can hit his way right onto a pro ball team. Make us all rich.”

It became Jimmy’s lucky bat. He was too old to sleep with a stuffed animal, but he slept with that bat. He cleaned it after every game. He didn’t let anyone else on the team use it. His batting average soared to over .500.

It was his lucky bat.

*

The taxi stopped at the grocery’s entrance.

“Mom, Dad.”

His parents looked at him. Impatience puckered their faces. He knew they were feeling the pull of the tavern down the street. And the video poker machines in the tavern’s back room.

“I just need to tell you something.”

His dad’s fingers drummed his mother’s leg.

His mom twisted the wedding ring on her finger.

Jimmy clenched his fists. Should I tell them the truth? A lie would be easier. But did he want his final words to them to be a lie? He’d promised Deacon Boyle that he’d tell them the lie. The lie would make them happy. The truth would make them sad.

Or would it? Maybe they wouldn’t even care.

He exhaled, forced his shoulders to relax.

“Do you want to know where I’m going?”

“Oh, of course we do, honey,” his mom said. “We just didn’t want to pry.”

His dad snorted. His fingers kept drumming his mother’s leg.

“New Orleans,” Jimmy said. He felt blood rush to his face.

“Well, lucky you,” his dad muttered.

“That’s so nice,” his mom said. “When will you be back?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I’m moving there.”

“Oh Jimmy,” his mom said. “You’ll come back for visits, right?”

“Never say never,” his dad said. “That’s what I always say.”

Jimmy nodded. Something thick filled his throat. “I love you guys,” he whispered. “And I forgive you.”

His dad’s fingers froze. His cheeks bloomed pink. Mist dewed his mother’s eyes. For just a moment, they looked beautiful again.

And then his mother leaned forward and pecked his cheek. His father punched his shoulder. They left the cab and hurried to the grocery’s entrance. Only his mother turned and waved.

“Airport?” the driver asked.

Jimmy looked at his watch. “We’ve got time,” he said.

“We waiting on your folks?” The driver shook his head. “I’m telling you, traffic on I-90 will be slow. They got one lane open from North Avenue to the O’Hare cutoff.”

“No. We’re not waiting for them. But I have one more stop. I’ll direct you where to go.”

The driver merged the taxi into traffic. In the side mirror, Jimmy watched his parents exit the grocery empty-handed and hurry toward the tavern.

Jimmy directed the driver.

“Wait for me,” he said as the taxi pulled up to the church.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Confessions, Jimmy knew, were still being heard.

The church was quiet. Stained glass windows polished the sunlight. A few old people knelt in pews, mumbling their penance.

The light over the confessional door was green. Jimmy stepped inside and knelt.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

Jimmy waited. He could hear the priest breathing.

“I lied,” Jimmy said. “Just now. To my parents. For this sin, and all my sins, I am heartily sorry.”

Still, the priest remained silent.

“Look,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got a taxi waiting outside. I’ve got a plane to catch. I don’t want to carry a lie to my new home. I want to dump this lie, this sin, here, in Chicago. I’m never coming back. So give me my absolution and penance and let me be off.”

At last, the priest spoke. Jimmy recognized Father Gallagher’s Irish lilt.

“Was this a grievous lie, young man? Was this a lie that could cause anyone harm?”

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “I mean, you never really know the consequences until it’s too late, right? I can’t imagine my lie causing grievous harm, but then again, I don’t have a good track record when it comes to imagining consequences. I mean, I sure never thought that trying to save the best gift my parents ever gave me would cause anyone grievous harm. And when I say track record, I’m talking train tracks, Father.”

“Jimmy.”

Jimmy was not surprised the priest had figured out who he was. Because of Deacon Boyle, Jimmy had been a regular commentator and Eucharist minister for Father Gallagher’s Sunday masses.

“What was your lie?” the priest asked. “Tell me, and I’m sure we can make it right.”

“Making it right would make it wrong, Father.”

“I don’t understand,” the priest said. “Help me understand. Tell me your lie.”

Jimmy sighed. He lifted the bottom of his tee shirt and used it to wipe the spot on his cheek where his mother’s lips had pecked. He scrubbed the spot on his shoulder where his father’s fist had punched. Then he answered the priest.

– Marie Anderson