“Serves him right,” I heard, “he let the sinner go—”
Then, after what seemed an eternity of torture, they let me go. The priest was calling from the church steps, so they ran off to confession. I slowly picked myself up and rubbed the bruises on my chest. Florence handed me my shirt and jacket.
“You should have given me a penance,” he said.
“You don’t have to do any penance,” I answered. I wiped my eyes and shook my head. Everything in me seemed loose and disconnected.
“Are you going to confession?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered and finished buttoning my shirt.
“You could never be their priest,” he said.
I looked at the open door of the church. There was a calm in the wind and the bright sunlight made everything stark and harsh. The last of the kids went into the church and the doors closed.
“No,” I nodded. “Are you going to confession?” I asked him.
“No,” he muttered. “Like I said, I only wanted to be with you guys—I cannot eat God,” he added.
“I have to,” I whispered. I ran up the steps and entered the dark, musky church. I genuflected at the font of holy water, wet my fingertips, and made the sign of the cross. The lines were already formed on either side of the confessional, and the kids were behaving and quiet. Each one stood with bowed head, preparing himself to confess all of his sins to Father Byrnes. I walked quietly around the back pew and went to the end of one line. I made the sign of the cross again and began to say my prayers. As each kid finished his confession the line shuffled forward. I closed my eyes and tried not to be distracted by anything around me. I thought hard of all the sins I had ever committed, and I said as many prayers as I could remember. I begged God forgiveness for my sins over and over. After a long wait, Agnes, who had been in front of me came out of the confessional. She held the curtain as I stepped in, then she let it drop and all was dark. I knelt on the rough board and leaned against the small window. I prayed. I could hear whisperings from the confessional on the other side. My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and I saw a small crucifix nailed to the side of the window. I kissed the feet of the hanging Jesus. The confessional smelled of old wood. I thought of the million sins that had been revealed in this small, dark space.
Then abruptly my thoughts were scattered. The small wooden door of the window slid open in front of me, and in the dark I could make out the head of Father Byrnes. His eyes were closed, his head bowed forward. He mumbled something in Latin then put his hand on his forehead and waited.
I made the sign of the cross and said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” and I made my first confession to him.
Diecinueve
Easter Sunday. The air was clear and smelled like the new white linen of the Resurrection. Christ was risen! He had walked in hell for three days and on the third day he had risen and was sitting at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth—
The two lines stretched from the steps of the church out to the street. The girls’ line was neat; they looked like angels in their starched white dresses, each pair of hands holding a white prayer book and a rosary. The boys’ line was uneven, fidgeting nervously. We pulled at our ties and tugged at the tight fitting jackets. We did not hold our prayer books or rosaries in palmed hands. Around us proud parents smiled at each other, waiting for the priest to open the doors. From time to time a mother would move to the line and straighten this or that on a nervous kid.
Behind me Horse whinnied into the clear Christian air.
Bones snapped at him, and one of the high school sodality girls whose job it was to keep us in line whacked him on the head.
—Christ will come to judge the living and the dead—
I knew.
“What was your penance?” Horse asked Lloyd.
“Ain’t supposed to tell,” Lloyd sneered.
“Bones got a whole rosary!”
Everybody laughed. “Shhhhh!” the high school girl said.
“Hey! There’s Florence!” Florence was standing against the wall, sunning himself in the morning sun that was just now beginning to warm the cool morning air.
“He’s going to hell,” Rita whispered next to me and Agnes agreed.
“Augh, augh, augh, hummmmph,” the Horse neighed nervously at the mention of hell. His large teeth chomped hard and a white spittle formed around the edges of his mouth. The air smelled of fresh-cut hay.
Up in the bell tower the pigeons ducked and bobbed at each other and sang their soft cooing song. Christ was risen. He was in the holy chalice awaiting us.
“I heard Rita’s confession,” Abel bragged.