The Thunder Keeper

1


Rain scattered like shotgun pellets over the roof of St. Francis Church. From the distance came the sound of thunder, diffused and muted. Every time the front door opened, a blast of cool, moist air rattled the door to the confessional and swept through the cracks into the small cubicle.

Father John O’Malley slipped a bookmark between the pages of Indian Country and flexed his long legs into the shadows beyond the tiny circle of light from the lamp behind his chair. The rungs of the wooden chair dug into his back muscles. He should move one of the upholstered chairs from his office to the confessional, he reminded himself. The trouble was, he always forgot until the next time he heard confessions.

Just inside the door was another straight-back chair, so close he could shove it sideways with his boot. There was always a penitent who preferred the informality of talking to the priest face-to-face in the sacrament of reconciliation, but most of his parishioners liked the traditional anonymity of the confessional, whispering sins and failings, remorse and prayers from the tiny cubicle on the other side of the metal grate in the paneled wall to his left. Arapahos were traditional.

He glanced at his watch. Almost four-thirty. He’d been in the confessional since three. Every Saturday afternoon, between three and four-thirty, either he or whatever assistant priest happened to be assigned to St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation could be found in the confessional. Usually they took turns. Today had been the turn of his new assistant, Father Don Ryan, but something had come up. Father Don had to go out. Could Father John possibly hear confessions?

It had been fifteen minutes since the last penitent. Father John stood up and stamped his boots on the thin carpet, trying to work the stiffness out of his legs. He was about to shrug into the jacket that he’d draped over the back of his chair when he heard the front door open. A stream of chilled air filtered into the confessional.

He sat back down.

Finally the door on the other side of the confessional opened, and a slim dark shadow slid across the grate. There was a noisy intake of breath, then another.

Father John felt his senses switch to alert, the way they had when he was a kid back in Boston, coming home from baseball practice after dark, spotting a gang of tough older boys under the street lamp down the block.

He said, “Do you wish to make a confession?”

“Yeah, I wanna confess.” A man’s voice, the slightest midwestern accent. The man was not Arapaho.

“Please begin.” Father John bent his head toward the grate. In the dim patchwork of light, he could make out the protruding nose, the hooded eyes. The rest of the face was lost in shadow.

“I gotta tell somebody what happened.” The man spoke hurriedly. “But it’s gotta be, what d’ya call it, confidential. Know what I mean? I remembered going to confession when I was a kid, so I come here. You aren’t gonna go blabbing, are you?”

For a moment Father John considered explaining the conditions required for a valid sacrament—intent to confess, sincere remorse, firm purpose of amending one’s life—then thought better of it. The man was here, and he needed to confess.

He said, “Whatever you say in the confessional stays in the confessional.”

A long sigh, a mixture of relief and impatience, burst through the grate, leaving an aftermath of garlic and mint.

“I didn’t mean for the Indian to get killed—”

“What Indian?” Father John interrupted.

“Up there on the ledge, watching. I didn’t think the boss was gonna kill him.”

“What are you talking about?” Father John leaned forward, all of his senses alert. He could feel his skin prickling. The air was heavy around him, the sound of the rain far away.

“I’m trying to tell you, Father.” Impatience leaked through the voice. “Me and the boss went up the mountain to talk to the Indian. At least that’s what I thought was gonna happen. Encourage him to mind his own business. Maybe punish him a little, know what I mean? The boss likes that. The Indian looked like he was strung out on dope. Sitting cross-legged like a beggar, his eyes glazed over. He was just staring up at the carving in the rock. Next thing I know, the boss hits him in the head with a pipe. Christ, I didn’t even know the boss was carrying a pipe. Then he picks up the Indian like a sack of garbage and tosses him over the cliff.” The voice had begun to crack, remorse and despair leaking through.

Father John was quiet. He was trying to get his mind around what the man had said. There had been a murder. An Indian thrown off a cliff. A couple of seconds passed before he was aware that the man in the shadows was waiting for him to say something.