40. I’M NOT ASKING
I’M NOT ASKING
Ifolded my hands in my lap; my fingers feeling colder than they should have for this time of the year.
I sat on the creaking bench, same as I had a hundred times before.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.
” My voice sounded steady, but I wasn’t telling the whole truth.
I wasn’t here to confess, I was here to warn .
. . to expose. I leaned forward, pressing my hands together.
“Father, I need to talk to you about something, something that I’ve recently been made aware of.
” There was a soft shift on the other side of the screen from Father Cyrus.
I could hear the rustle of his sleeve, the quiet inhale. “It’s about Father Frederick.”
That got his attention. He didn’t speak, but I knew he was listening closely now.
“There have been rumors,” I continued, swallowing the lump in my throat, “and I’ve seen the way he watches the girls, the way he watches Violet.
It doesn’t feel right, Father. It’s not just talk, there’s something about him, something unsettling. ”
“Birdie, I didn’t think you were one to fall prey to rumors.” He chided me gently. “You’ve always been more discerning than that.” His words were soft, but I could feel the caution behind them.
“I’m not!” I snapped. “You know I’m not.”
Silence again. I could almost hear the slow turn of his thoughts, the soft shift of cloth as he adjusted on the other side of the screen.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded article, its edges worn soft from the amount of times I’d read and reread it, and I pressed it flat against the wood. “I found this.”
I heard him shift forward, and I held the page in place while his eyes moved over the words.
“And now he’s here,” I continued, “watching girls like Violet. Hoping to get one of them alone.” I didn’t know if my words were registering.
Was he really hearing me? Was he understanding what I was saying?
The booth felt smaller suddenly. Hotter.
My palms were clammy as I held up the article, the paper going soft at the edges where my fingers pressed.
I didn’t dare lower it. I needed him to see it. To really see it.
He leaned closer, breath moving through the screen.
“My God,” he whispered. “I knew he was troubled. I—,” his voice was careful, as if he was choosing his words.
“I’ve suspected, Birdie, I have. But suspicion alone .
. . it’s not enough in this place, not in this town.
Father Frederick hasn’t acted on anything. ”
I looked at the cross carved into the panel in front of me.
It was small, just a shape etched into the wood, but tonight it looked like a wound.
“This isn’t just suspicion anymore,” I insisted.
“It’s a pattern. He tried to follow Violet home the other night.
And if we wait for more proof, for him to act on it, someone’s going to get hurt. ”
“Birdie,” he reasoned, voice low, “you understand what this would mean. If you’re right, if we bring this forward without something ironclad . . . the backlash won’t just hit him, it’ll divide the town. You’ve seen what happens when the wrong person gets blamed.”
“I’m not wrong.” I warned.
“I know.” He said. There was weariness in his tone, a knowledge of exactly how deep the rot could go.
“But if you’re going to bring this to light, you’ll need more than a gut feeling and a yellowed article.
You’ll need something that can’t be ignored.
And if he’s as careful as you say—” He trailed off as if his mind had changed paths.
“This is serious, Bernadette,” he added quietly, “as a priest, I am bound by the trust of the church.” His words a mix of caution and growing certainty.
“I know what I’m looking at.” I exclaimed, my voice sounding harsh, even to me. “I can see it in the way he moves, the way he speaks. There’s something insidious in his charm. He knows people are looking, and he’s good at hiding.”
Father Cyrus’s voice softened. “I hear you, Birdie. But we need to be careful. If we expose him without cause, it will bring a storm to this town, and we’re not ready for that. We’ll be fighting a battle on all fronts.”
“I know,” I whispered, rubbing my temples as the frustration built. “But I can’t let him get away with it.”
Father Cyrus didn’t respond immediately, but I could hear the shift in his breath, as though he was steeling himself to carry another incredible burden.
As if he was giving me permission to take on the responsibility of what we both now knew was coming.
“I know you can’t, Birdie.” He exhaled softly.