Chapter 1 - Penance

 

Chapter 1. Penance

Father Cullen

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been a very long time since my last confession."

Her voice is low.

Disinterested.

And a bit harsh.

I have to believe if she was truly indifferent, she wouldn't be here. I can tell by the tone of her voice she's angry about something. The church? Her own actions? Someone else's?

Whatever it is, it's what brought her here. It's what's important.

I do this. Try to pinpoint the underlying emotions this confessional witnesses.

Sometimes it's a whisper, a subtlety to their words, or the way they deliver them, that tells me they need assistance in more ways than just a standard prayer asking for forgiveness.

This one, despite the simple memorized words she's recited, is screaming for it.

I've been a priest of the Catholic church for four years now. I've had my own congregation for one. I don't have the experience some of my elders do, granted, but many of them find confessions to be more of a necessary task than assistance for the downtrodden. They've grown immune to the empathy it requires. That people require.

"May the body of Christ be-"

"I'd like to preface this confession with the fact that I am here because my mother guilted me into it and not because I think I need any absolving whatsoever for anything I've done with my own life."

I'm not sure if I'm quiet because I'm stunned into silence or because I'm waiting to see if she's finished her thought.

"And if I may, it's slightly creepy to make someone sit in a dark, dank box and confess their secrets. I mean, what's the purpose anyway? If we wanted you to know them, they wouldn't be secrets. Right?"

I wait. There could be more.

"Hello?"

"Sorry. I didn't know if you were done."

She hesitates but then gives me a short, "I'm done." And I can almost envision her there, stubborn, crossed arms and all.

"Okay, first of all, please know, no one's forcing you to be here."

"Ha!"

"And secondly, the dark, dank box is a metaphor. I like to think of it as a place where people can keep their sins. Where others won't see. Or hear."

She's quiet again after that so I continue. "It's there to make you more comfortable confessing your secrets. But, if you'd like, we can take this out into the sanctuary for the entire congregation to hear. I'm open to suggestions."

"Um."

I shouldn't be smiling. But I enjoy stunning her into her own silence. I'm a bit competitive that way.

"Hello?" I call out when she doesn't respond.

A pin could drop for the next few moments. I'm pretty sure I hear her swallow and I'm beginning to second guess myself.

Anyone who's spent the past year getting used to my practices as a priest should know I have only the best intentions when I make light of this holy custom. But maybe she doesn't. Maybe she's not part of the congregation. I think I would have noticed her.

The silence is deafening. I may have overstepped and embarrassed her, changed her mind about being here.

I need to reconsider my sarcasm going forward. "I'm s-"

"I kissed my sister's fiancé," she blurts out.

And the way she says it tells me there's a lot more to the story.

"Or," she starts again, "H-he kissed me."

That last part concerns me.

"Care to elaborate?" I ask her.

"I'm a terrible drunk. Or, so I hear," she whispers. "I mean, I'm not an alcoholic. Some people might think so, but I don't drink every day. I just-"

"Like to drink."

She's quiet for a few seconds. "Yes."

"Did this fiancé... force himself on you?" My jaw clenches at the thought of it.

She hesitates again. "No."

"I see." I let out a sigh of relief.

"I didn't ask for it either, though," she explains. "And I stopped it as soon as I realized what was happening."

Why do I sense a but in there, somewhere?

She sighs. "But-"

"I knew it!"

"Excuse me?"

I clear my throat and feel heat rising to my face. I wasn't aware I'd said anything out loud. I shouldn't have said anything out loud. It's unprofessional.

"Go on."

"No, please. You go ahead, Father. Please tell me what you knew."

Wow. This just got awkward.

"Well..." I hesitate but if she wants to know, I should practice what I preach and tell her, right?

"It's just that I had a feeling there was a stipulation to your previous declaration."

"Because… God?"

"Because life."

"No offense, but what exactly do you know about life? You ever kiss your sister's fiancé?"

"Only child, actually."

"A Catholic only child?"

I grin. She's got a point. "My mother was Catholic. From what I hear, my father had a low sperm count."

"So, no on the kissing your sister's fiancé."

"It's not to say I haven't had experience in doing things the church might not approve of."

I see her shadow leaning forward in her seat, bringing her face up to the grating, almost like she's trying to get a good look at me. "Such as?" she asks in a whisper.

The way she says it makes me want to tell her everything I've ever done. Every lie. Every stolen cigarette. Every extra glass of wine in the office late at night. And then I want her to absolve me of it all.

She'd be good at this. In my seat. Switching roles.

I picture it. Or try to.

Maybe it's something about her voice or something in the purpose behind everything she says. It disrupts my focus for a moment. Then I clear my throat and redirect my attention back to helping her. "We're all guilty of sin, mine are no worse or better than yours."

"No contest there, Father. I can assure you mine are way worse. I don't need God whispering in my ear to know that."

"Maybe not. Maybe we all just need to get it off our chests once in a while."

"You sound like my mom. Only with a deeper voice."

"I've been called worse, I suppose." I chuckle. I can't help it.

"And if I ask what else you've been called you'll probably find another flowery way to avoid the question. Am I right?"

"That's not how this is supposed to work," I tell her. "I generally ask the questions, not the other way around."

"Come on, Father. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"You've already told me yours, unless there's something you're leaving out."

Call it a hunch. Or intuition. But there's definitely something she's leaving out.

"Really? How much time do you have?"

There's also something about her that makes me want to sit here for the remainder of the day, listening to her mock me in the house of the Lord.

"As much as you need. I'm having dinner with a parishioner and his family but I'd skip it if you asked me to."

I would?

I would.

I'd do it for any member who needed me.

Really.

I hear her sigh again and then the rustle of fabric as she shifts in her seat.

"I told you. I don't need this. I'm here for my mother."

I feel a strong need to offer an olive branch so I take a deep breath and let it out slow before making my confession. "I worshiped Fergie unabashedly for two and a half hours straight at a Black Eyed Peas concert in Jersey one night in 2010."

That felt good. Better than I thought it might. I haven't said the words out loud since I committed the sin. Not even to God. Not that he didn't already know.

Despite the guilt, it was a good night. And I still have a poster with her signature on it behind a picture of the Pope in my office.

She hums. "Pre-priesthood or post?"

"Pre, but I was studying to be a priest, so-"

"Doesn't count," she says, catching me off guard.

"What?"

"Doesn't count."

I have to laugh. "Of course it counts."

"Nope," she insists.

"Okay, why not?"

"You were planning on committing yourself to God, but it wasn't official yet. No vows were broken. Just like with Be-, I mean, my sister's fiancé. It was the best time to get it all out of our system. I mean, your system. We're talking about you. And Fergie. And worship."

I have to say, I appreciate her logic. It's an interesting take. I feel like this conversation could go on for hours, but I have certain responsibilities when I'm inside this dark, dank box.

"Forgive the wording here, but could I just play Devil's advocate for a moment?"

I swear she just sniggered.

"Sure, why not?" she says.

"Planning to commit is as solid as the commitment itself. If someone needs to get it out of their system before the actual commitment, don't you think maybe they should reconsider committing in the first place?"

"Yet here you are in a confessional, despite Fergie. Don't you think you should practice what you preach?"

My point precisely. Her insight is unsettling, but honestly, I'm kind of enjoying it. Until something she said a minute ago sinks in. Something about getting things out of her system.

"Are you saying you wanted the kiss? With the fiancé?"

She said she didn't ask for it. That doesn't mean she was repulsed by the guy.

"That's not the point. And anyway, aren't you just supposed to give me some prayers to say? I don't remember confessional being like a debate."

This is so much more fun though. "What would be the purpose?"

"I don't know, penance?"

I laugh as quietly as I can. I'm not sure if she's heard me, but I try to stifle it at least. "I have a feeling you've done enough of that on your own. Don't you?"

More quiet. Then rustling. She's gathering her things. I hear the doorknob turn.

She's done here.

I don't know if I did enough. Said enough. I honestly feel like I blew it. I worry she'll leave and I was of no use at all.

"You're very weird for a priest, you know that right?" she says.

It's almost a compliment. And her voice is lighter than when she arrived.

Maybe I was of use. "I've been told."

I'm pretty sure she laughs. I wish I could see the expression on her face. I wish I could match her voice to her eyes. A mouth. A person. A parishioner.

My parishioner. But which one?

"Keep up the good work," she finally tells me before leaving.

Good work. That's debatable. But hopeful.

I'm supposed to wait. Give her time to leave.

I cheat the system and crack my door open a bit. Not fast enough though. I'm only permitted a quick view of her as she steps through the doors, heading outside.

I get a glimpse of long brown hair. Jeans. A t-shirt with a rock band of some sort on it. Can't tell who, though.

There's a tattoo on the back of her forearm, too small to see clearly enough to know what it is.

She carries a backpack in her hands and is wearing high tops. Black ones.

And she appears to be here alone.

I don't know her.

After a year of confessions at St. Mary's, that was the most exhilarating one yet.

I'm hoping it's not her last.