Chapter Three
Kade
Seven Years Ago
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice is soft, angelic, and pure, like a perfectly melodic song. “That’s what people say, right? I’ve never been in one of these things before.”
“Well, first you make the sign of the cross, and you tell me how long it’s been since your last confession.”
“Oh,” she squeaks, sounding nervous. “First timer, remember?”
“Right,” I say, noticing the shimmer of her dark hair through the metal lattice privacy screen separating us. “Well, first-timer, tell me what’s on your mind.”
She inhales quickly and holds it far too long before exhaling again. “I don’t know if I should be here.”
“Not knowing if you should be here is probably a good sign that you should be. What’s troubling you? Everything we say is between you, me, and God.”
“I’m not really a God person. I don’t know what I believe.”
“Questioning your faith is a normal part of exploring spirituality. We’re all searching for answers. Why did you feel drawn to this church?”
“I don’t know. I was out for a drive, and something pulled me in.”
“Had you traveled far?”
“From the Springs. I… I needed to get out for the day. A little escape from reality. There’s a lot going on at home.”
“The Springs? That’s a big change from this little town. Do you like the city?”
“No way. I grew up in Rugged Mountain. I miss it so much. The trees, the quiet, the little Sunday afternoons by the river reading or listening to music. It was perfect.”
“Yeah, it’s a gorgeous town. Great little church, too. The priest there is very easy to talk to. You ever stop by there?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I could stare at a wall in that town and an hour later he’d have told everyone what I’m thinking.” She laughs sweetly under her breath, and for a second, I feel more man than priest, which doesn’t happen much anymore.
She’s funny.
I clear my throat. “Small towns can be like that. We had a rather large potluck debacle last year. Someone told someone else something about someone’s daughter, and the whole church knew about it before noon.”
“So, you’re saying I’m screwed?” There’s a sarcasm in her tone that I’m amused by. Maybe it’s because she’s speaking so casually. So few people speak to me that way anymore.
“Quite possibly, though I reckon I’ve done fairly well at securing the confessional booth. No secrets have made their way out yet.”
She knocks on the wall twice, a hint of wildflowers sweeping through the screen as she moves. “Checking for soundproofing. Am I allowed to do that, or did I just sin or something?”
“Not that I know of.”
“That you know of.” There’s a smile in her tone. “This job seems complicated. Does anyone ever come in confessing like a major crime?”
“Haven’t had any major crimes yet. Most confess sins related to lust and dishonesty.”
“So, affairs?”
“Affairs, impatience, jealousy. We are human, after all.”
“So, what do you do when a married woman tells you she’s been touching herself to thoughts of the police chief?” She’s barely finished her sentence when I hear a sharp, fleshy pop followed by her muffled voice. “I shouldn’t have said that. See… this is why I don’t belong here. Sorry.”
“You belong here if you believe you belong here, and… we all sin. So, if someone comes in with that confession, I would remind them of God’s mercy, I’d assign three Hail Mary’s a day for a week, and encourage self-control.
I’d then mention some guided readings from Corinthians, and I’d advise that the person perform an act of kindness to redirect her mind and spirit.
” I pause for a long moment. “Is this your confession? Are you lusting after the police chief?”
There’s a shrug in her voice. “Guess you’ll never know.”
“A hard-to-get confession. I like this. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a challenge within the confessional.” I grin. “So, tell me, how many times a day do you think about this man?”
“So many times.” There’s a grin in her voice as she talks.
“I think about him the second I wake up in the morning until I’m falling asleep at night.
The lust is uncontrollable, really. See, he’s got this constant postnasal drip that just does something for me.
I doubt one act of kindness will be enough given the things I’ve thought.
” She’s on the verge of laughter as she speaks, and I’m not sure I’ve been this happy to have a conversation in months, years maybe. “There’s something more, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, he’s nearly seventy years old and I’m still in my twenties. I’m sure that’s double the sin, right?”
Okay, she’s young.
I hold my laughter at bay and stay reserved out of the scant chance that all of this is real. “These kinds of impure thoughts should be treated with quickness. I’d recommend two acts of kindness this week along with the before-mentioned prayers.”
There’s silence for a long moment as my mind reels with thoughts of how to keep the conversation going. This has never happened before. Then again, I’m usually not laughing in my confessional booth either.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” She swallows hard. “I’m not really lusting after the police chief.”
“Kind of figured. Is there something else you’d like to talk about?”
Again, there’s silence. “No, but thank you for listening. I, ugh, I should get going. I only stopped out of curiosity. I wasn’t expecting the whole confessional thing, but it’s been nice to talk.”
“You say you stopped out of curiosity.” I stretch out the words unintentionally, as though my body doesn’t want her to leave. “Do you think that means something?”
“So, you’re saying signs exist?” There’s a rustling I can’t identify on her end of the booth. “How do I know if this was a sign?”
“Divine presence often manifests as inner peace. Do you feel inner peace having stopped here?”
“This is the first time I’ve smiled in months, but is that the sign or is the sign supposed to be more glaringly obvious? Is it like a slap in the face or a subtle change in the wind, ‘cause if God has been sending me subtle messages, I’m not sure I’d pick up on them.”
I swallow back a grin of my own at the thought of what her sweet smile must look like. “God welcomes all with mercy. If you believe you’re receiving a sign and it leads you to peace, you should pray on it.”
“I’ve never prayed before. How do I do it? Do I just say whatever’s on my mind, and God’s like… listening?”
“Basically, yes.” I readjust in the hard wooden chair I keep meaning to replace as I direct my gaze toward the metal grate. I tell myself it’s so my voice will project more clearly, though deep down I know it’s because I’m still searching for the details of her face, the shape of her body.
Why? Why the hell am I searching for the shape of her body?
“You can start with your own words. You can start with a specific prayer, or you can simply say, Lord, help me. Any words from your heart are good.”
There’s a momentary pause where I find myself growing more and more desperate to see the beauty God’s created with her, but I glance away before the sin devours me.
“Have you always done this priest thing?” Her voice is more somber now.
“Yes. I’m meant for the priesthood. I’ve known it since I was very young.”
“How does a person know something like that?”
“It’s cliché,” I run my hand down over my beard, “but I believe wholeheartedly that God called to me.”
“What does that even sound like? I mean, did you hear his voice ordering you to the church?”
“Sort of, yeah.”
“So, you hear the voice of God, and this isn’t a mental illness?”
I laugh and my chest feels full in a way it hasn’t before. “Not that I know of, though I’m not taking anything off the table.”
“That’s probably smart,” she says, standing in the booth, her dark hair falling in front of her face as she moves.
At least I think that’s what I see. “I find that the voices are untrustworthy. Hell, I find most things are untrustworthy, eventually. This, though,” she pauses, and the floorboards creak, “I’ll remember this conversation.
Thank you for listening to my nonsense. I’ve had a crazy week and…
this was a nice reminder that there’s still good in the world. ”
Lord, help me. I don’t want her to leave.
I tell myself the thoughts are pure. That I feel this pull because of the slight twinge of sadness in her voice, that I feel drawn to help, though I know deep down it’s more than that.
Somehow, my body is reacting to her presence.
It’s reacting in a way I’m not used to, in a way I can’t well define with words.
Hell, I’m having a hard time defining the reaction with feeling.
All I know is that I don’t want her to leave the booth.
“It was a nice reminder for me, too.” I grip the arms of the chair without thought, as though resisting the urge to get up and follow her out. Curiosity has never had me so intrigued. Not once have I ever wanted so badly to match a face to a voice.
“How did I remind you that there’s good in the world? I blew in here, didn’t know what I was doing, and rambled for fifteen minutes. I think I even made a joke. I’m sure that’s frowned upon.”
“Your intentions were pure. I can feel it. If you ever find yourself on a drive again, you know where to find me.”
“I do,” she says, shoes clicking against the hard wood before she opens the door and light filters into the booth that hadn’t been there before.
There are a thousand more conversations I’d like to have with her. A thousand more topics I’d like to explore, though they’re selfish and not at all in line with my mission.
I hold my rosary close to my chest, my grip focused on the first large bead after the crucifix as I pray and proceed to move along the beads. Usually, this ritual pulls me out of my head, drags me back to center, and reminds me of where I belong.
Right now, though, for the first time in my life, prayer isn’t doing a thing. All I’m thinking about is the sound of that woman’s voice, and how I get her back here again.