Betrayal Read Online Free
principle in Church teaching.
“To those who ask that we forgive and forget, please understand,” Pollard wrote in an opinion piece for the
Globe.
“The survivors, each of us in his own way, have spent our lives trying to move on, always weighing those two options. For some of us, suicide, substance abuse, or violence ended the struggle early.
“To varying degrees, those of us who have survived have begun to heal. We reclaimed dreams, earned degrees, formed families, went to work, even sought solace in spiritual practice. But we cannot escape the effects of the betrayals that were committed against us in God's name. They are inexorably woven into the texture of who we have become.
“That betrayal may not be a chargeable offense in a court of law. But there is no statute of limitation on its impact. And there should be no forgetting.”
1
Father Geoghan
H e was a small, wiry man with a disarming smile that, from a distance, gave him the gentle bearing of a kindly uncle or a friendly neighborhood shopkeeper. It was hard to detect the darkness behind John Geoghan's bright eyes. At first glance, almost no one did.
Frank Leary certainly didn't see it. The fifth of six children being raised by a single mother on welfare, Leary was thirteen years old and had yet to learn his older brothers’ tricks for ditching Mass on Sunday mornings when he first encountered Geoghan in the late spring of 1974. The priest's smiling face was already a fixture at the back of St. Andrew's Church in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. After Mass, the parish priest would hug the mothers, shake hands with the fathers, and deliver soft pats to the backs of the children.
“He always had a big grin — it was as wide as his face,” Leary recalled. “My mother liked him. He was very popular. He was like a little imp.” Leary said hello to the priest, received his friendly tap across the shoulder blades, and didn't focus on Geoghan again until the summer.
The rectory groundskeeper was Leary's friend, and Leary helped out a couple times a week, raking freshly mowed grass or gathering hedge clippings in a wheelbarrow. It was taxing work under an August sun, and one afternoon Geoghan bounded down the short steps of the rectory, offering a tall, cool glass of lemonade. Leary thanked the priest but demurred. He didn't like lemonade. But the priest insisted, and sweetened the offer. He had a wonderful stamp collection that the boy might enjoy. Soon the priest and the boy were upstairs in Geoghan's room at the rectory.
Leary sat in a large leather chair in the middle of the room, and the priest handed him an oversized book that contained the stamp collection. The priest went to the back of the room, keeping up a constant, reassuring patter. The collection did not hold the boy's interest, but Geoghan pressed the matter. “He said, ”Here, I'll show you a few things.’ And he had me get up and he sat down and I sat on his lap,” said Leary. The priest placed his hand on Leary's knee and started turning pages that were a blur to the boy. Geoghan told him that his mother had suggested the visit. But still, Geoghan said, they should keep it a secret. All the while the priest's hand climbed farther up Leary's leg, until it reached under his cotton shorts and beneath his underwear.
“He was touching me, fondling me. I'm frozen. I didn't know what the hell was going on. He was talking constantly. He said, ‘Shut the book. Close your eyes. We'll say the Hail Mary.’ And that's what I did.” But before the prayer was finished, the boy darted from the room, hurried down the stairs, and found himself shaking behind the church.
Within a week or so, it happened again. Leary was sweeping concrete next to the church when Geoghan walked up, put his arm around the teenager, and told him how special he was. The priest then ushered Leary back into the rectory, where, Leary later said, he saw a scowling nun standing at the foot of the stairs.
Geoghan swept
“To those who ask that we forgive and forget, please understand,” Pollard wrote in an opinion piece for the
Globe.
“The survivors, each of us in his own way, have spent our lives trying to move on, always weighing those two options. For some of us, suicide, substance abuse, or violence ended the struggle early.
“To varying degrees, those of us who have survived have begun to heal. We reclaimed dreams, earned degrees, formed families, went to work, even sought solace in spiritual practice. But we cannot escape the effects of the betrayals that were committed against us in God's name. They are inexorably woven into the texture of who we have become.
“That betrayal may not be a chargeable offense in a court of law. But there is no statute of limitation on its impact. And there should be no forgetting.”
1
Father Geoghan
H e was a small, wiry man with a disarming smile that, from a distance, gave him the gentle bearing of a kindly uncle or a friendly neighborhood shopkeeper. It was hard to detect the darkness behind John Geoghan's bright eyes. At first glance, almost no one did.
Frank Leary certainly didn't see it. The fifth of six children being raised by a single mother on welfare, Leary was thirteen years old and had yet to learn his older brothers’ tricks for ditching Mass on Sunday mornings when he first encountered Geoghan in the late spring of 1974. The priest's smiling face was already a fixture at the back of St. Andrew's Church in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. After Mass, the parish priest would hug the mothers, shake hands with the fathers, and deliver soft pats to the backs of the children.
“He always had a big grin — it was as wide as his face,” Leary recalled. “My mother liked him. He was very popular. He was like a little imp.” Leary said hello to the priest, received his friendly tap across the shoulder blades, and didn't focus on Geoghan again until the summer.
The rectory groundskeeper was Leary's friend, and Leary helped out a couple times a week, raking freshly mowed grass or gathering hedge clippings in a wheelbarrow. It was taxing work under an August sun, and one afternoon Geoghan bounded down the short steps of the rectory, offering a tall, cool glass of lemonade. Leary thanked the priest but demurred. He didn't like lemonade. But the priest insisted, and sweetened the offer. He had a wonderful stamp collection that the boy might enjoy. Soon the priest and the boy were upstairs in Geoghan's room at the rectory.
Leary sat in a large leather chair in the middle of the room, and the priest handed him an oversized book that contained the stamp collection. The priest went to the back of the room, keeping up a constant, reassuring patter. The collection did not hold the boy's interest, but Geoghan pressed the matter. “He said, ”Here, I'll show you a few things.’ And he had me get up and he sat down and I sat on his lap,” said Leary. The priest placed his hand on Leary's knee and started turning pages that were a blur to the boy. Geoghan told him that his mother had suggested the visit. But still, Geoghan said, they should keep it a secret. All the while the priest's hand climbed farther up Leary's leg, until it reached under his cotton shorts and beneath his underwear.
“He was touching me, fondling me. I'm frozen. I didn't know what the hell was going on. He was talking constantly. He said, ‘Shut the book. Close your eyes. We'll say the Hail Mary.’ And that's what I did.” But before the prayer was finished, the boy darted from the room, hurried down the stairs, and found himself shaking behind the church.
Within a week or so, it happened again. Leary was sweeping concrete next to the church when Geoghan walked up, put his arm around the teenager, and told him how special he was. The priest then ushered Leary back into the rectory, where, Leary later said, he saw a scowling nun standing at the foot of the stairs.
Geoghan swept
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