A Night of Odd Confession

Rosary beads, with the lacquer rubbed off, the Father’s hands travelling down, the hypnotism of the prayers, over and over the prayers, o Mary, full of grace, please forgive me, for when I reach that final bead, when I’ve said all can be said, I’ll have to go up there myself and kill that man dead.

*

Father Faustos swept most days.

If it wasn’t a Sunday, he’d sit in solitude at the pews, until a straggler or two’d come in for confession, and he’d prescribe them an Our Father like a doctor would a sugar pill.

It was Wednesdays were most predictable. Father would perk up at 9:00 A.M. and stand ready at the door, and pretend not be excited for Aurelio to come in for confession.

Aurelio gave Faustos somebody to talk to about anything other than God. Faustos gave Aurelio somebody who wouldn’t judge him. Sitting there at 9:00 A.M., it was the closest either got to a beer after work, to a friend.

Over the years, Aurelio’d brought his son in with him. He was named Aurelio too, so they called him Junior. Fausto had the privilege of being a second father to the hunched-over kid with a zero haircut, who grew into a head-high teenager in 70s sideburns.

*

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Aurelio said.

Aurelio and Faustos sat, cross-legged, in the drab confession closet.

“I thought we dropped this schtick years ago,” Faustos said.

“I gotta say it, Father, or it dudn’t count. Everyone knows that,” Aurelio said.

“Very well then, my beloved son,” Faustos said, hamming it up. “Confesseth your sins to me, for I am the Lord’s ears!”

“So, I just got into The Kinks,” Aurelio said.

“Fifty Hail Marys,” Faustos said.

“Ha-ha,” Aurelio said. “Anyway, The Kinks. Their best album is this joint called Arthur: Or The Decline And Fall Of The British Empire.”

“Okay,” Faustos said, “so nobody’s heard of it.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem,” Aurelio said. “Nobody’s heard it. But get this – and this is being a bit harsh – but this album, The Kinks’ best, is better than The Beatles’ worst.”

Faustos shook his head. The curls on his head banged around like wind chimes.

“And what exactly is The Beatles’ worst?” Faustos said.

“Well, that’s not for me to decide,” Aurelio said. “But, uh… Yellow Submarine is The Beatles’ worst, easy.”

Father Faustos’ face twisted into puzzlement, then discovery, then humor.

“You know how God said he’d forgive all?” Faustos said. “Yeah, he heard that and changed his mind.”

The men burst into raucous laughter, the kind that involves tears, and they stayed in that limbo for a while. They savored it.

Wiping away his tears, Aurelio grabbed Father Faustos' shoulder, squeezed it.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Aurelio said.

“Oh, c’mon, drop it,” Faustos said.

Aurelio’s gaze went distant as divorcees.

“For real this time. I cheated on Rebecca,” Aurelio said.

The conversation dwindled off into an awkward series of pauses and ums and silence.

Faustos knew what Aurelio wanted to hear. He prescribed him an Our Father like a doctor would a sugar pill.

*

“I feel like I’m in trouble,” Junior said.

“Why’s that, son?” Faustos said.

“My dad would kill me to hear it,” Junior said.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that here,” Faustos said. “I can’t tell anybody a lick of what you say, not even your dad.”

“Thanks,” Junior said.

“That said, I’m sure your dad wouldn’t react…negatively, to whatever it is that’s bothering you,” Faustos said.

“He would,” Junior said. “But that’s beside the point.”

Faustos locked eyes with Junior. His face was marked in serious hurt. It challenged Faustos’ view of Aurelio. He thought he knew the man well, but that day made him think twice. All things considered, Faustos had only gotten glimpses into Aurelio’s life, the tiny pieces that Aurelio allowed him to have.

“Well,” Faustos said. “You can tell me. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

Junior hung his head.

“You go to hell for lust, right?” Junior said.

“No… well… not necessarily,” Faustos said.

Junior nodded. It betrayed his confusion.

“Lust is normal,” Faustos said. “Lust is temptation. Temptation itself is not a sin.”

Junior turned that over in his mind.

“Something happened,” Junior said. “I can’t explain the thing because I don’t want to. But it was bad and it was sin and it’s marked me for hell. I know you mean well, but it’s true. I didn’t want it. I like the person who did it, and I still love them, even, but I didn’t want it. It’s like hell came to me. How is that fair? To try so damn hard and, still, hell comes to you.”

Junior was numb. He was as still and dry as the David.

Faustos was stunned. He didn’t have a word for Junior. No Our Father, or Hail Mary would bring him peace or comfort.

Junior put his hand on Faustos’ shoulder, and he plopped a small parcel on Faustos’ lap.

“It’ll help you understand,” Junior said, tapping the parcel. And he left.

*

Faustos was shaken. He couldn’t sleep on that night of odd confessions, so he went into the church and laid himself on one of the pews.

Faustos imagined himself giving mass the next Sunday. In the crowd, Aurelio was as indistinguishable as anybody in the sea of faces. Junior, on the other hand, wore his face like a mask. His eyes were empty. Faustos had the uncanny feeling he was not the head-high teenager in 70s sideburns, but some android wearing his skin.

The parcel, a thin rectangular thing crudely put together in brown postal paper, lay on Faustos' chest. He’d thought of burning it, to rid himself of the guilt of not opening it - or, the guilt of uncovering what he suspected lay inside.

Fine, Faustos thought. He accepted his burden, and ripped open the parcel.

*

“But there are exceptions?” Faustos said.

He stood in Father Lumas’ office. Lumas, the tall blonde man who ran the diocese.

“No,” Lumas said. “No exceptions.”

“Somebody must hear of this, Father,” Faustos said. “We're talking about our own parishioners. People we love. What if I told you what it was?”

Lumas slammed a fist down on his desk. Faustos jumped back.

“If you tell me, which I implore you not to do, then you will be stripped of your priesthood, Faustos. It’s that simple,” Lumas said.

Faustos sighed like a frustrated dog.

“Whatever it is you fancy yourself, a detective, or a marshal, or a sheriff. Judge, jury, executioner. You are not those things. You are a priest, with an oath, and we do not break those oaths, lest we break our ties with God. Leave judgement to Him,” Lumas said.

Faustos gave up. He made to leave. He opened the door, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“God would judge you a coward,” Faustos said.

*

“Could you do it? Yes,” Brown said. Brown was a lawyer at Brown and Brown and Bickle. Faustos sat across from him in Brown’s office.

“But?” Faustos said.

“But? But the Vatican. They’d send the Pope himself to strangle you before they’d break confessional confidentiality,” Brown said.

“There has to be some way,” Faustos said.

Brown got up and looked out the window at the city.

“If there is, we’d love to hear it. Reports go missing. Get thrown out. If they make it to court, the church argues the state is breaking religious freedoms, and things get tied up for years, until it goes away,” Brown said.

“And the judge goes to confession, seeking forgiveness for trying a case that could hurt the church,” Faustos said.

Brown gestured 'exactly' with the wave of an arm. “Lawyers, too.”

*

“Father Faustos…,” Mr. Gilly, of Gilly’s Guns, said. “Do you know where you are?”

“America?” Faustos said.

Mr. Gilly hee-hawed a nervous chuckle.

“Look, Padre, I love you and all, and that was funny and all, but a priest in a gun-shop?” Mr. Gilly said. “It’s bad for business and it’s bad for judgement day.”

Faustos ignored him, bending over the glass case and perusing the little snub-nosed pistols.

“I’ve seen that one in Goodfellas, I think,” Faustos said, pointing out a gun.

“Father…,” Mr. Gilly said. “C’mon. Throw me a bone.”

Faustos leaned his elbows on the glass countertop.

“Okay,” Faustos said. “How’s this for a bone? You sell me one of these fine little firearms, and I don’t tell the papers how you ran unregistereds into Mexico.”

“Woah,” Mr. Gilly said. “You can’t do that!”

“Everyone with the ‘can’t’ nowadays. Can’t this, can’t that. Let’s not act like it’s God before guns in this country, okay? No laws saying a priest can’t carry,” Faustos said.

Mr. Gilly crossed his arms, panting, tongue hanging out like an ape.

“Goddamn,” Mr. Gilly said. “I hope you ain’t payin’ from the collection basket.”

*

Faustos carried the snub-nosed pistol on the bus for 10 blocks. He got off across the street from Aurelio’s building, a brick, five-story apartment complex left over from the 60s. It had a buzzer, so Faustos milled around, waiting for a tenant to emerge so he could slip inside.

In the meanwhile, Faustos unconsciously prayed his rosary. He rolled the beads around his fingers. His head felt floaty and he imagined he rolled planets in his hand, like God did.

Rosary beads, with the lacquer rubbed off, the Father’s hands travelling down, the hypnotism of the prayers, over and over the prayers, o Mary, full of grace, please forgive me, for when I reach that final bead, when I’ve said all can be said, I’ll have to go up there myself and kill that man dead.

*

“Father Faustos?” Junior said, his body halfway between the door to the apartment building. He wore a coat a size too big. He was on his way to fuel his addiction to cigarettes.

Junior was worried for Faustos, whose hair and beard had gone untrimmed for days, his eyes bloodshot from drinking all the Sunday vino, his fingers blistered from pressing the rosary deep into his skin.

Faustos lumbered over to Junior.

“Hey kid, hey…” Faustos said. His breath was rank.

“You okay, Father?” Junior said.

“No,” Faustos said. “But you will be, Junior. You will be. He tried so damn hard, but hell’s comin’ to him.” Faustos brandished the gun.

Junior didn’t flinch. He glimpsed the parcel in Faustos' pocket and understood why Faustos was there. He held the door open for him.

Before Faustos stepped in, he embraced Junior. Junior was stiff at first, then he threw his arms around Father Faustos and pat-pat-patted his back. They peeled off each other, and Faustos slipped in. The door squeaked shut behind him.

Junior pursed his lips, and put his hands in his pockets and walked off. A block away, Junior let out a primal scream.

*

Faustos was in the hall to Aurelio’s apartment. He could hear, faintly, the sound of The Kinks playing somewhere in those walls.

It was pleasant. The spinning guitar riff of Some Mother’s Son looping like a merry-go-round, the soft cymbal clinking, like a march almost, undercurrents to Faustos' steps toward Aurelio’s door. The drama of the low strings rose as Faustos' hand gripped the doorknob.

He was right, Faustos thought. Better than the Beatles’ worst. He almost thought of Aurelio as a friend again. He took the parcel out of his pocket and looked inside it, one last time, to scare away the second thoughts.

The pictures. Dear God, the pictures. Aurelio was so unlike his friend from confession. Aurelio was, at home, another thing entirely.

Some mother's son ain't coming home today…, the Kinks crooned.

Faustos' fingers bled on the rosary from squeezing a bead so hard. The final bead on the rosary.

Some mother’s son ain't got no grave...