Chapter 2
Shortly after a young lady leaves the confessional, I’m ready to depart as well, since it’s already past confessional hours. I’m opening the wooden door when it’s suddenly pushed back, closing me in.
“One minute,” a man’s voice says.
I glance at the lattice and watch someone stand on the other side.
“Hello,” I say, almost like it’s a question.
“I came back, but nobody was here.”
I slowly get to the bench and sit down. “When did you come?”
“I don’t fucking know. Two days ago, maybe.”
“I have specific confessional hours.”
“Well, you should have them posted on the fucking door or something.”
My lips twitch. “We have them on our website. Or you could have called.”
“Or you can just tell me now.”
“Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday I’m here for confessions from eleven in the morning to eleven forty-five.
And Wednesday from twelve-thirty to one, and six to six-thirty.
On Saturdays it’s from ten to eleven and again from four to five.
However, there are times when there are two of us here, taking confessions. ”
“Jesus Christ,” he huffs. “I didn’t know I’d have to write it down. Why can’t it be the same time every day?”
“Well, we have—”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He’s rude and brash, but I stay quiet to see if he’ll open up more this time. Instead, several long seconds go by with both of us just sitting in silence.
“Did you always know you were gonna be a priest?” he asks, once again, catching me off guard.
“No. Not always, but for a long time.”
“You sound fairly young.”
“I’m thirty.”
“How long did it take to become a priest?”
“About eight years.”
“So you devoted your life to this right after high school? Through your twenties you learned about Jesus instead of, I don’t know, drinking and fucking and doing shit young people do?”
I shift in my seat. “Well, we all have different paths.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He pauses briefly. “You ever regret it? The path you chose?”
“Not yet.”
He chuckles. “You need to work on your believability." With a sigh, he continues. “I don’t think there was any other path laid out for me than the one I’m on. I didn’t have a choice.
Sometimes doctors raise future doctors. A guy in the Army is gonna have kids who go to the Army.
You know? You do what’s expected of you—what your dad wants you to do.
But hey, I guess I shouldn’t complain. I have a fairly good life.
I don’t want for much, and I’m good at what I do. ”
“And what is it that you do?” I question.
He laughs again, but it’s not authentic. “Oh, Father. We aren’t there yet.”
“Are you here to confess anything?”
“If I confess, then what?”
“I’ll give you a penance.”
“What’s that gonna be?”
“Depends on what your sin is.”
“Could the penance be to tell me to turn myself in?” he asks with a laugh. “Because I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Father.”
His statement leads me to believe that whatever he’s referring to isn’t just lustful thoughts or drug use. In his hesitations and omissions is a confession I may not want to hear, but honestly, it piques my curiosity more than it should. Who is this man on the other side of the lattice?
“I cannot go to the police myself,” I tell him, “But I—”
“Is this like that doctor/patient confidentiality thing? What I tell you, you can’t repeat?”
“Correct. The sacramental seal is inviolable.”
“But you would still judge me.”
“It is not for me to judge anyone. I could maybe encourage you to make the right decision.”
“That’s the problem, Father. Your right and my right are two totally different things. You live to obey your Lord and Savior, but I’m my own savior. I have my own rules to abide by, and they don’t fall in line with the laws of your God.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask, knowing it’s not what I should question. “Why come to a confessional and not confess?”
“Is it not a process? Am I on your timetable, Father?” he bites, frustrated with me.
“Forgive me,” I say. “You can continue to come here as often as you like.”
He snorts. “Right. Well, I guess I’ll be going.”
“I’ll be here Saturday,” I say before he can leave.
“Yeah. Ten to eleven and four to five, right?”
“That’s right.”
He doesn’t say anything else, I simply hear the door open and close followed by his heavy steps as he leaves the church.
For the rest of the evening, I kick myself for questioning why he’s here. It was the wrong thing to say, and I hope he comes back. I hope he gets to a point where he can confess, if not for anything but to maybe make himself feel a little lighter.
But again, something tells me I may not want to hear it.