Of course it stunned Mabry. Confession and forgiveness—which till now he’d never heard called a trick—were not standard practice in the Episcopal Church, not in the branches Mabry had heard of. Hadn’t even the Catholics more or less given it up, after Vatican II? But he said “Sir, you better tell me what you mean before I can answer. I’m no kind of expert in such dark waters.”
Tasker looked up at last and searched Mabry’s face, and then his lips moved as if they’d speak. But no sound came.
In another thirty seconds Mabry thought He’s having a stroke before my eyes. And he stepped on forward, knelt beside Tasker, and touched his knees. “Pa, you want something else now? Should I call Audrey?”
But Tasker’s hands came forward, right and left, and shoved Mabry back. When Mabry was in his own chair again, Tasker finally said “I failed your mother six or seven times—I’ve truly lost count. Honest to God, I’ve lost perfect count.”
Mabry knew not to ask for further details. “She loved you, Pa, right down to the end. Any failures didn’t matter then, whatever they were.”
Tasker said “I know that much—but thank you anyhow. You want to know what they were, my failings?”
Mabry said “Since you’re asking me—no, I don’t. I can’t see what good that would do either you or me, or Mother in her grave.”
Tasker thought it through slowly, behind a face that looked self-possessed not unstrung. At last he said “You’re the one I’ve got to offer this to, the only one.”
Mabry actually pointed toward the kitchen.
But before he could even speak Audrey’s name, Tasker shook his head. “She’s a fine young woman but innocent, innocent so far as I know.”
“She’s had two sons with no visible father.”
Tasker put a hushing finger to his lips. “She’s not a priest. You noticed that, did you?”
Mabry said “I did.” Then he held both flat palms out before his own eyes as if expecting the true stigmata to dawn in the room, like a phosphorus outburst, in utter silence. “I hadn’t really noticed I was one though.” He likely hadn’t smiled so broadly since before he joined Frances, to wait by her deathbed.
Tasker repeated “You’re what I’ve got. Remember Martin Luther’s doctrine of the priesthood of all believers? Even Calvin believed it, I think I recall. So whether you like it or not, Old Sausage, you’re my priest at the moment.” Despite the cast on his ankle, Tasker swung his leg from the pedal of his wheelchair onto the floor and pressed up to stand.
Mabry said “Oh Jesus, you’ll ruin yourself.” And in two seconds, he’d gently seized Tasker by the elbows and seated him again.
Tasker said “It won’t feel right if I can’t kneel. I come from a kneeling church, remember?”
Mabry said “I seem to. But don’t downgrade me now. If you’ve got something you need to unburden, I—and the Lord—will accept your words from any position. While we’re remembering, remember the Last Rites.”
Tasker’s face had clouded again in a fresh confusion.
Mabry said “You can whisper or confess in your mind. You don’t have to say one word I can hear.”
Tasker waited again. “You’ve got to hear, fool. You’re the only one concerned—only one still alive.”
Mabry laughed. “Fool? Didn’t Jesus say anybody that calls his brother a fool is in danger of hellfire?”
Tasker agreed. “I’m pleased you remember that much scripture still, but you’re not my brother.”
Mabry finally saw he was cornered. He looked down and straightened the legs of his trousers. He was part of that last generation of men who want their wash pants lightly starched and ironed. In Italy and France he’d washed his own shirts and trousers in the bathtubs of several hotels, feeling always more than a little grungy. Even now, though, he fiddled with the ghostly creases in the khaki on his thighs. It was the last delay he could think of before hearing his father out in the matter of guilt and forgiveness. Then he thought to listen for Audrey; was she still in the kitchen? No, no sound at least. He suddenly thought of the formula he’d heard in movies where priests unburdened other humans, so he took a deep breath and said it to his father. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
Right or wrong, Tasker said “Eighty-three years,” his actual age.
From there on, Mabry was on his own. He said “Pa, what hurts?”
But Tasker couldn’t speak. He said the word “I,” maybe four times, before he shut down—no tears, no apparent confusion, just silence.
Mabry realized, in the next few moments, that he felt cut off, even disappointed. Somehow his visit had triggered this moment; and raw as his father’s proposal had felt, now he wanted to hear the rest. He thought another moment, then said “That’s fine. I’ll make a confession of my own to you now. Then if you feel like you want to go on and say something to me, I’m here to listen.”
At first it looked as if Tasker would refuse, but then he extended open arms.
And Mabry went toward him, kneeling as nearly as he could, almost touching Tasker. On the way there, he told himself You can’t lie now, you can’t serve yourself. You don’t know whether he wants details or just a list of the earnest sins you’ve already covered. Try that first, then see if he’s satisfied. By the time Tasker’s hands were on his shoulders, Mabry felt that tears were bound to come shortly. Still he tried to speak and words came readily. “Father, I’ve never confessed out loud to a live human being in all my life. I can’t even think of the names of all the Seven Deadly Sins, not now anyhow; but I’m sure I’ve committed every one already, except maybe murder—I don’t recall murder.” He grinned in an effort to lighten the mood.
Tasker wouldn’t take the rescue. He only said “You’re the one who would know that, not I.”
So Mabry ducked under and plowed ahead. “The worst one, as you’re bound to know, is adultery.”
Tasker said “Not one of the seven. Try lust instead—illicit desire. Not that adultery’s not bad enough.”
Mabry said “All right—lust and all the other six and anything else you’re likely to name, except child molestation, rape, physical hurt to others, and murder.”
Tasker said “Sloth” and waited a good while, looking to the window opposite his chair. There was still clear daylight.
Mabry said “Why sloth?”
Tasker said “Because most theologians have claimed that pride was the prime of all dire sins, and of course it’s bad, but my observation after sixty years of close sin-watching is that pure laziness tops the list. Most people persist in all the other wrongs just because they’re too satisfied with lying motionless on their bed or their couch—or the couch in their mind—to stand up and change.” Tasker waited, then laughed till actual tears poured. Then at last he could say “Just trying to help you along, Old Dog, or cheer you a little anyhow. You’re not a lazy boy. Or you weren’t, when I knew you.”
Mabry said “I’m not now and thanks for the cheer.” He thought he’d stop there and see if Tasker nudged him forward. His knees were hurting also; he rocked side to side.
But Tasker didn’t tell him to go sit down or to stand and stretch his legs.
So Mabry said “You forgive my sins, sir?”
Tasker said “One minute, son. Don’t tell me too much; but maybe just tell me the worst single thing you did, in lust, to another human being.”
Mabry was baffled by the near-coincidence of this request and the serious game he and Marcus had played in the car, coming home. Why twice in one day? To the best of his knowledge, though, his father hadn’t spoken with Marcus in the late afternoon. And if he had, surely Marcus wouldn’t have brought up such a personal subject. Mabry wiped his damp lips and said to his father, eye to eye, “When I tell you, then will you tell me?” He’d tried to signal a touch of fun in his eyes and his tone.
But if Tasker caught the offer of fun, he didn’t respond accordingly. He said “I told you I failed my marriage on either six or seven occasions. Let’
s call it seven.” Then he took the time to look round the walls, plumbing his uncle’s framed engravings and photographs as though he’d never see them again and must take their memory with him, wherever he was headed.
Mabry said “And the failing was lust?”
Tasker came back gradually but finally answered in a voice too loud for Mabry’s hopes. “I fucked three women six or seven times—women in my churches who were meant to be in my spiritual care, though I all but ruined them. Forevermore. I stood one of them upright in the vestry and took her from behind. An altar boy was maybe ten feet away in that deep closet, fetching candles. If he heard a sound, he never told me so.”
Mabry had never heard his father say fuck, and the word itself was more startling than the confession. But what Mabry said now was “The women were all grown—am I right?”
Tasker looked puzzled. “You mean were they minors? Of course they weren’t. To the best of my knowledge, they were all over thirty.”
Mabry said “Then I very much doubt you ruined them. Weren’t they in charge of their own minds and bodies?”
“Son, a lot of women all but worship their priest. Or they did back when I was young enough to want them. So ruin is the word, and don’t try to change it.”
Mabry said “All right.” He couldn’t be sure of what should come next, but he said what he thought his father needed. “Then you’re surely forgiven.” He wondered Is one single word of that true?
And Tasker said “Who’s the forgiver—you or God or all those women?”
Mabry said “I’m bound to say it’s all the above.”
Tasker said “You don’t believe in God.”
Mabry said “Have I ever told you that?”
“No, but you haven’t told me a number of things. Do you act like you believe in—what?—what we used to call a Higher Power?”
Mabry said “Maybe not, sir. But neither does the pope, on a good many days.”
Tasker said “You’ll have to discuss that with him; he barely ever phones me. But don’t slip out here now; I’m needy. What do you mean if you still claim your father is truly forgiven?”
Mabry said “Again, so far as I know, there’s no human being who wants you in jail. Or in a torture chamber. Or naked in front of a firing squad.” When his father didn’t look up or speak, Mabry said “Am I truly wrong?”
Tasker’s face began to shed years till he looked maybe a decade younger or the way he’d looked twelve quick years ago when his wife Eunice died and Mabry drove him home from the graveyard and heard him say “If you still pray, pray for me to go soon” and then burst out in the glorious laughter of a likable young man who’s just won a race.
Here and now Mabry—still on his knees—lowered his head to his father’s lap, and Tasker’s hands took his son’s big skull by both the ears and raised it to where he could meet the good eyes. Then he said “Thank you, boy. Maybe I can live with that.”
Mabry waited as long as his legs could bear their squat. Then he rose and went back to the facing chair, and the first thing he could see were the bottles of Scotch and bourbon by Tasker’s chair. He said “You ready for an after-dinner slug?”
Tasker said “I’m ready but I doubt we are.” When he thought his son looked appropriately puzzled, he went ahead. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
Mabry said “Fifty-three years, Father.” He made a move to kneel again.
But Tasker stopped him with an upright palm. “Didn’t you confess to me just now? Didn’t I sidetrack you in my usual roadhogging way?”
Mabry said “I told you my main sin was lust—adultery against Frances Kincaid, a kind of saint, almost as patient as one anyhow—way more times than six or seven.”
As if he were asking the price of gas, Tasker said “Just give me a rounded-off number.” He didn’t smile.
Nor did Mabry. He knew the answer, almost surely. “With fourteen women in my thirteen years of marriage.”
“How many times, total?” By then Tasker’s face had the flat shining look of an automaton, some dreadful ticket-taker at the gates of Last Judgment.
Mabry tried to resist. “Is that figure necessary, Pa?”
The Pa didn’t work. Tasker nodded yes.
And like many grown men, Mabry thought he knew the answer. “Depending on what you count or don’t count as violations, a hundred thirty-odd” (he wouldn’t have sworn to anything near, but the rough number felt true when he said it).
Tasker’s face went even worse. Now the ticket-taker seemed near combustion. When he spoke, though, he said “Your sins are forgiven. Go and sin no more.”
Mabry knew that the formula repeated Jesus’ words to the woman caught in adultery, the one Jesus saved from a lynch mob by inviting “him who is without sin” to cast the first stone. Were those precise words appropriate for Mabry though? He said “Thank you, sir. One detail though—can an unmarried man commit adultery?”
Tasker said “With a married woman, sure—fool.” He finally smiled.
Mabry laughed as if at a vast discovery. He slapped his forehead and said “Of course.” He also rose for the Scotch bottle.
But Tasker had reached to the lower shelf of the table by his wheelchair. He brought up a small black box with a silver carrying handle.
Mabry thought he might remember what it held but no, not yet.
Tasker set it on the tabletop, opened it, and very carefully began to remove the contents—a small round silver dish, a small rectangular bottle, then a tiny box from which he took several circular objects that looked like goldfish food from thirty years ago—dry white wafers.
Oh Lord, it’s his portable communion kit. It had been way more than twenty years since Mabry had taken communion anywhere, so it came out of him before he thought. “I haven’t done that in years and years.”
Tasker’s delicacy in arranging the elements of the holiest sacrament in his faith absorbed almost all the attention he could muster. But he managed to say “This isn’t something that you do, son. It’s a living body that you eat and drink.”
Mabry thought He’s really a crypto-Catholic now—that’s plainly transubstantiation.
But when Tasker faced his son, what he said was no part of the Catholic mass. He’d always known the old Episcopal prayer book by heart—ninety-nine percent—and now he cut to the chase and began the service. “‘Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbors, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways; draw near with faith—’”
At that, Mabry spoke again without thinking why. “You keep that little kit near at hand always?” He hadn’t noticed it before this evening.
Tasker seemed untroubled by the intervening rudeness. “No, I needed it two or three days ago when your friend Gwyn Williams stopped in here on me.”
Mabry had already heard of Gwyn’s surprising visit here for communion; he also knew he could delve little further into Tasker’s duties before he’d meet the thick wall of professional secrets. But he said “Has she been by here many times lately, since her latest trip home?”
Without looking up, Tasker said “You’ll have to get that information from her, next time you see her.”
Mabry said “I wouldn’t dream of invading anyone’s spiritual privacy,” but he kept his place.
Tasker said “I mean to go on with this now, for my own sake. If you care to join me, you’re welcome of course. If not, kindly leave.”
The voice was as strong as it had ever been, in all Mabry’s life; so he still kept his place.
And the voice went on. “‘—Draw near with faith and take this holy sacrament to your comfort, devoutly kneeling.’”
Mabry knew enough to realize that his father would now omit the General Confession—likely on the grounds they’d confessed already—so he knelt again, this time for the body and blood of Christ. Or so the old man claimed. And who am I to doubt it, miserable fu
cker that I am, my home city ruined and maybe my country and me stove up at middle age—maybe headed for a worse destination than a wheelchair—with no skill that anyone truly needs, with no one I really love and no one who loves me but (maybe, just maybe) this old fellow here?
Yet the following morning—clear sun through oak leaves that had still not fallen and mild clean air through the open windows—Mabry was up and in the kitchen before Audrey had dressed his father. That door was shut. So he set the breakfast table for three and sat down to read the Raleigh paper with a cup of black coffee (Audrey had apparently made that early). He mainly avoided the front-page news. The headlines told him there was nothing fresh. The casualty figures were varying wildly from hour to hour, always in the thousands; the blame had been claimed by the Muslim group al-Qaeda; and the words hero and heroism were plainly in for the over-work they generally got when Americans came under fire anywhere. Were other peoples so proud of themselves? Weren’t acts of strength and decency, in the face of whatever fear and danger, assumed to be the average brand of human behavior—from adults at least?
When his father’s door opened, and Audrey rolled the old man out, Tasker also seemed ready for something better than what the current world was promising.
—So much so that, by just past eight, when they’d eaten their way through another big breakfast—corncakes with actual fresh white corn in the batter, bacon, broiled tomatoes, and a second pot of strong coffee—Mabry thanked Audrey with unmistakable sincerity and then asked his father if there was some place he could take him, some pleasurable drive to occupy the morning.
Tasker glanced first to Audrey, who showed no resistance; so he said to Mabry “Can you lift a man who now weighs maybe a hundred forty pounds?”
Mabry said “I’m an art conservator, remember? I can hurl around life-size marble statues of Hercules—and with no more damage than was done by the average Visigoth. Is that good enough?”
Audrey said “You saw Marcus built us that ramp off the back porch. Mabry, you bring the car right up to there; and we’ll have no problem.”
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