Vengeance(75)

“Vegas, huh.” The two of them looked at each other and nodded, slapped shut their notebooks, and waved their way out the door. Joe leaned back on the couch again and started flipping through channel after channel: knives slicing meat, kids swinging on ropes, women cleaning their kitchens. He went through all five hundred twice and I saw he wasn’t stopping anytime soon, so I got my new mittens on and went outside for more of that quiet I was always complaining about.

It was cold and crisp and the moon shone flat on the field with a strange dead light, all gray and unnatural. I started down the road without really thinking, ’cause if I had been I would’ve said to myself, Sadie, the cops just been here and this ain’t no way to behave, but something about the moon and the quiet erased those thoughts and suddenly I was there. It looked the same as all the other fields. This is why they put up markers, I thought, tapping my feet to keep out the cold. Otherwise no one knows where you last set foot on earth. I tasted the salt before I knew I was crying and was suddenly on my knees tearing at the snow, periwinkle blue pounding at the crust then throwing handfuls of cold past my legs. It should be red, I thought, I’ll dig down until I see some red …

And then Joe’s hands were on my shoulders, and he was carrying me in those arms that looked too thin to hold anything heavier than a shovel, and I woke up in my bed, sun warming the curtains and the smell of coffee sneaking under the door.

After a knock-knock, Joe came in holding my favorite mug, steam licking his face, and he kind of smiled at me. He put the mug on the table and smoothed my hair back and said, “I know you didn’t mean to do it. I made you, and I’m sorry.”

We were fifteen again, and he was the only boy in the world for me, movie-star handsome standing on the side of the quarry, beads of water glowing on his skin before he dove in and came up laughing.

We were twenty, and married, and I was pregnant and he had a decent job, and we were moving to the city soon as we saved enough money.

We were thirty, still happy even though none of the babies had worked out, and his job was the same, and I had trouble breathing in summertime.

We were forty, and even though we had each done a terrible thing, he still bought me mittens and lied to the police and brought me coffee in the morning. And I thought to myself, This is a good man. And I said, “Let’s move to the city.” And we never spoke of it again.





SILENT JUSTICE

BY C. E. LAWRENCE


Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Father Aleksander Milichuk pressed his fingertips hard against the sides of his forehead in an attempt to stop the throbbing in his right temple. Another Monday morning, another migraine on the way. He really needed to back off on the Sunday-night drinking at McSorley’s. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, as his mother was so fond of reminding him. Maybe she was right; he was nearing forty, and these days just a couple of drinks could bring on a wicked headache. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three weeks.” The voice on the other side of the confessional was a breathy tenor, the voice of a young person.

“Is it a venial sin or a —”

“A mortal sin, Father.”

Something in the man’s tone made him lean forward.

“And what was this sin, my son?”

The answer came in a low voice, barely audible.

“Murder, Father.”

Father Milichuk sat up very straight on his narrow bench, his mind snapping into sharp focus. He was no longer aware of the throbbing in his head. Panicked, he tried to think of a response, but his tongue was dry as paper and stuck to the roof of his mouth. There was a rustling sound from the other side of the confessional, as though the man were removing something from a plastic bag. Crazy, improbable thoughts darted through the priest’s head. What if he brought a gun with him? His knees shook as fear flooded his veins. Say something! He tried to remember if he had ever heard this voice before.

“Aren’t you going to give me penance, Father?” The man’s tone was patient, weary.

The priest was very good at identifying voices and was certain he had never heard this man’s voice before.

“Uh, yes, of course,” he sputtered finally. “Say twelve Hail Marys —” He stopped, stunned by the feeble inadequacy of his response.

The man on the other side of the booth chuckled sadly. “That’s all?”

“H-have you confessed your sin to the police?”

“I’m confessing it to you.”

“Yes, I know, but —”

“I don’t want to go to prison.”