“When I was driving home, I saw you walking from school with those two boys,” I said.
He choked on air.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “I just want you to understand two things. Those bandannas they were wearing around their heads? That’s the fashion accessory of choice for members of the Aztec Rulers. You know who the Aztec Rulers are?”
Manuel shook his head, but his eyes flickered in a way that told me he was lying.
“They’re an international gang that specializes in drugs and illegal-weapons distribution. You hear what I’m saying, right? Drugs and illegal weapons.”
He acknowledged me with a slight nod.
“Good. I’m telling you this just to make sure you understand that they may or may not be who they appear to be. But whether or not they’re Aztecs, they are welcome here. Everyone is welcome here. Especially friends of yours. Okay?”
He finished his lemonade. As he stood there with the glass tipped to his mouth, I thought there was something different about him, but I couldn’t tell if it was his physical appearance, his carriage, or just my imagination.
That evening I listened to confessions after Mass, as was customary on Friday nights during the summer. I heard seven in a row, and then I waited fifteen minutes to make sure there weren’t any stragglers, engrossing myself in a series of obscure prayers for wayward souls written by Saint Ignatius of Constantinople. I was drifting on a parallel plane of consciousness, meditating on missing and lost parishioners, when the kneeling bench creaked on the other side of the confessional screen.
At first, the person didn’t say anything. English and Spanish are spoken in equal measure in my parish, so I usually have to guess which language to use to break the silence in cases like this. Now, however, there was no guesswork involved. They say a priest’s chastity increases his sensory strength. I’m not sure that’s true, but I smelled Maria’s rose perfume as soon as she arrived. The hint of lily, vanilla, and white musk gave her away.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I said in Spanish.
She repeated the Trinitarian formula. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
I let a few seconds pass. “Yes?”
She could barely get the words out. “It’s been four weeks since my last confession. But my last confession was a lie.”
I let a few more seconds go by. “Why was it a lie?’
“Because I was unfaithful to my husband. I was unfaithful to my husband … with one of the men that had him killed.”
As she sobbed, I dreamed of stepping out of the confessional, lifting her in my arms, and comforting her like a man. This pleasant vision flitted in and out of my mind in a nanosecond and was usurped by the reality that a priest must be a judge. He has jurisdiction over the penitent, and the power to forgive sins.
The role of judge is my least favorite. As a priest, I relish the opportunity to help the penitent heal, but as a man, I’ve never fully forgiven myself for one particular sin, so I am insecure about sitting in judgment of others.
After absolving Maria of her sins, I waited a few more minutes to let Maria say her penance before turning off the lights and locking the church. I saw her walking to the rectory ahead of me, and as she passed under the streetlamp at the corner of the church lot, the light illuminated her figure. I couldn’t help but notice her hips gently sashaying in the fabric of her capri pants. And once again I insisted to myself that I did not think of her in the way that other men did. I did not want to touch her. I did not want to possess her. I did not love her more for having the strength to confess to her transgression.
When I got to the rectory, I locked myself in my room and prayed for her and her son’s health and salvation, and for the strength to keep my vows. As I prayed, it occurred to me that if Maria knew who was responsible for her husband’s death, she and her son might be in constant mortal danger.
By 11:00 p.m., the lights were off in Maria’s and Manuel’s rooms. The prosthesis on my leg is a transfemoral one, commonly known as an AK, because the leg was replaced above the knee. It also uses a myoelectric, battery-powered device that works with a time lag. I have to put on additional socks intermittently because the fit fluctuates during the day. I was taking off the last pair in preparation for my nightly stretching routine when I heard a car door close.
My bedroom sits atop the living room at the front of the rectory. I peeked through the curtain and saw a Lincoln Town Car parked across the street. I assumed it was a livery car — no one actually buys a Lincoln Town Car — and looked around to see if some well-heeled party animal was taking a leak along the fence after a night of drinking at Black-Eyed Holly’s up the street. I didn’t see any such person.