Speaking with the garda informally outside, Donovan learned that the tiny Austin Healy convertible had been crushed like a beer can, McKenzie’s body mangled beyond recognition. The lorry driver had escaped with some minor bruises and was not charged.

People stood around outside the chapel in small groups, expressing their grief and outrage at the ‘speeding’ lorry driver. Questions came in spurts with few answers, but no shortage of speculation.

McKenzie drew a sharp breath, pausing, before continuing. “And did you participate in this sin in any willful way?”

“No, Father. I was assaulted and forced to submit, but I should have told my mother at the time. I was ashamed and afraid, but I now know that I was wrong not to tell. That’s my fault. I committed a mortal sin by not having the courage to report this molester, but now I plan on making things right, beginning with this confession.”

“Good afternoon, Father McKenzie. I wanted to have a word on a matter of some importance. I hope this a convenient time.” The same limp, clammy hand he remembered reached out and went through the motion without expression. Donovan felt an overwhelming sense of revulsion as he met McKenzie’s droopy, amphibian eyes. He withdrew his hand from McKenzie quickly, as if he’d touched something putrid. He felt the nausea well up, fought it back, and forced a weak smile.

“It’s Professor Donovan, now, I understand,” McKenzie said, without smiling. “What a pleasure! What brings you to this neck of the woods? We’re not inclined to have many distinguished alumni stop by our humble hamlet.”

With this newfound resolve spurring him on, Donovan headed for Glendunne, a small village just north of Waterford City, where he’d reserved a room at a distinguished Bed & Breakfast, known as Glendunne House. It was part of a hotel chain called Failte Eireann—Welcoming Ireland— old mansions that had been converted to upscale, but reasonably priced guest houses.

Checking in at the stately mansion, Donovan met his hostess, Mrs. Brennan—a lady in her mid to late 60s, with a warm smile and curly gray hair. He felt a restless anxiety as he asked if she could serve him a cup of tea now, and perhaps dinner later that evening.

His last two years at Killgarson had been among the best of Billy’s life. His kick-boxing prowess launched him to legendary standing in school and, indeed, in the wider Kilkenny community. He continued his discipline with Tommy Dixon, growing bigger and stronger as puberty hit. With each passing month and with every fight won in under-14 competition, so grew the respect and deference of the Killgarson community.

Lady luck smiled more than once on Billy’s 6th grade year. McKenzie was transferred in October, and given a parish upland, in north Kildare, a small village called Rathmore. Killgarson school had a going away party for McKenzie; Billy was chosen by Mr. Duggan to present a book of Yeats’s poetry and to do a reading of Billy’s choice.

Puffing on his crookshank pipe, Dixon retraced how it all came about in New York: “Kick-boxing is one of the great traditional sports of the Orient; it was fairly new in the States at the time, in the 60s. I used to work out at this local YMCA up near 42nd Street, and they had classes there run by a legendary Burmese kick-boxing champ named Tohsio Tenaka. He later went on to train some of the greatest kick-boxers of all time.”

At this Dixon went silent for a moment, relit the pipe, and said, quietly: “Don’t get me wrong, young Donovan. I’m not braggin’ or boastin’ here, but Tenaka once told me that I was one of the most talented fighters he’d ever trained, including the Japanese great, Nai Shegei. I took it as a compliment; he wasn’t wan for saying random blather. Very mild-mannered man. Never heard him raise his voice.”

As he entered the kitchen, his mother’s brusque greeting handed him a ready-made alibi: “What kind of child am I raising that goes and plays football in a new suit? Now look at it. Sure, I’ll never get the stains out. What did ya do, roll in the mud? Go up and change and don’t you ever let me see you do that again!”

“I’m sorry, Mammie,” Billy replied. “It won’t happen again.” Then he made himself scarce before she took too close a look.

Over the next half-hour, Billy lived three lives and a hundred years of fear and guilt. What if McKenzie found out that he’d lied to his mother about other things—like the eggs that he ate without telling anyone—and the apples he’d stolen from Mrs. Dolan’s orchard two years ago. Perhaps McKenzie had forgotten about him altogether.

As he was working up the courage to bolt for the freedom of the beautiful May morning, McKenzie had strolled in with his vestments still on. Without speaking, he’d beckoned Billy to follow him into the sacristy, the inner sanctum where the priest held his private prayers before services.

Pacing behind a hawthorn hedge, he imagined a conversation with Janet Woolf, one of his brightest graduate students—3000 miles away in Boston—if she were to come to him with this kind of dilemma. “Tell me, Janet, what are your rational categories of action here? What place does linguistic theory have? What would Romsky—his favorite American linguist—suggest? How about the pragmatists, like Lucas Makoff and Katherine Duhring? Good. I see you’ve covered the range.”

Enough theory. Who was he kidding? This was not a problem anthropology could solve for him; not today, not ever. It was time to reframe this whole mission, and not just to fit into some abstract, academic framework.

Six hours on a cramped red-eye from Boston had Donovan in a foul mood—jumpy and irritable. He’d resisted this journey for 18 years; never thought he’d find himself back in Ireland with this mission. Still, he reasoned, if things worked out, this would be the first and last time he’d have to make the dreadful trek. For a man who hated to travel, once was plenty. All the more reason to make this one count.

He’d been jerked from a semi slumber by the screech of the landing gear on the Aer Lingus jumbo jet, slicing through the dense fog over Shannon airport. His wristwatch—which he’d set five hours ahead—showed “5:45 a.m., February 3, 2005,” as he vaguely tuned in to the faux-British accent of the young stewardess prepping the passengers for landing.

Strapped pertly in her seat outside the cockpit, her short, green skirt showing off a pair of long, sexy legs, the stewardess rotely issued a litany of commands: “Please secure your tray tables and be sure your seats are in the upright position for landing. Check the seat pockets for personal….” Donovan tuned her out, reflecting on the pitiful irony of native social climbers still trying—and failing—to mimic the upper-class accent of their former British colonizer, fifty years after independence.

From his window seat near the front, Donovan smiled grimly at the familiar mosaic of green fields, brown fences, and silver streams decorating the luscious landscape of the Limerick dawn. As they came in for landing and taxied down the runway, he retraced—for the umpteenth time—the chain of events that led him to this ‘homecoming’ moment.