The priest narrowed his eyes trying to get a better visual of the man’s face when the man arrogantly leaned in closer, pressing his face up against the screen.
“There, does that help. Can you see my expression now? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. You want to see if anything you’ve said has me feeling remorseful.” He laughed. “So let me save you the trouble. I’m not.”
“You know, I’ve always thought of you as a devout Catholic, and I’m shocked you have disobeyed the laws of the church and broken one of the Ten Commandments.”
“Fooled ya, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did. Shouldn’t you be punished for breaking the laws of the church?”
“Why should I? I told you a few minutes ago. She drove me to it — like self-defense.”
“Are you saying she attempted to kill you too?”
“No,” he covered his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.
“This is all very amusing to you, eh?”
“It is. I’m finally free to move forward with my plans. That’s the way it works. When you don’t get what you want, you take it! Plain and simple.”
“Two wrongs never make a right. Maybe the police won’t understand, but you need help badly. They can give it to you. If you confess now, they’ll go much easier on you than if you hide from the truth.”
“Oh, yeah, they’ll help me all right. They’ll hold my hand as they walk me to my cell.”
“Stop it, you know precisely what I mean.”
“Look, I’m confessing . . . to you. You’re the only one who knows the truth, and I know you’re not going to tell anyone. Isn‘t that right, Padre?”
“Please don’t waste your time trying to intimidate me. It will not work.”
The man laughed into the screen again, and for the first time, Father McKinley could smell liquor on his breath. The priest sat motionless and stared back at him. “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”
“Hell, yeah. I’ve been celebrating.”
The old priest closed his eyes and sighed. The man must have sensed his disapproval because he backed off and waited for the priest to continue.
“I think you know very well the seal of confession cannot be broken without repercussions. But understand one thing, I cannot help you save your soul if you won’t help yourself. I ask you to remember that one day you will have to answer to the Lord, our God. How does that make you feel?” He watched the man’s body stiffen from the challenge.
“I will continue this façade until the cloud of her death blows over — and, it will blow over. Trust me on that one.”
The man’s shoulders slouched as he lowered his head to his hands and then began to rock back and forth.
The priest smiled, inwardly sensing he was getting through to him. Father McKinley cleared his throat to get the man’s attention, “Is that remorse I’m detecting, after all?”
“No, I told you, I don’t regret anything.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you do, and it’s eating away at you a wee bit at a time.”
“Nice try, Padre,” he answered in a rush of words.
The fear the priest felt earlier had now diminished and was replaced with despair. He needed to try something different--something to get his attention. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he raised his arm to slide the screen across the track to shut him out, hoping to scare him. “I can’t help you . . . please leave my confessional.”
The man’s voice rose as he banged his fist against the wall, “You wait just a damn minute. I’m not done.”
“Then say something that makes sense,” the priest fired back, as he sank deeper into his seat.
“She was a bitch and she got what she deserved,” the man pressed his nose on the partially opened screen, trying to see the priest with one eye.
Father McKinley opened the screen the rest of the way. “Do not swear in God’s house.” He watched as the man’s hands balled into fists.
His face flushed with anger. “I came to you to confess my—”
The priest cut him off. “Because you wanted me to tell you it was okay?” He shook his head baffled by his behavior. “Penance, is not psychotherapy. Contrition is willful regret for your sins. It isn’t a matter of feeling comfort, but the acknowledgement of the evil of your sin and the resolution to sin no more.”
The man laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything like this again,” a smirk planted on his face. “There, now that solves your problem, doesn’t it?”
“What problem is that?”
“You wanted to hear me say I won’t do this again.”
“You’re not listening to me. I want to hear you say you’re sorry for your sins because without contrition, your confession is not valid. What you just told me does not constitute repentance.” He swallowed hard. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you regret—”
The melody of a popular ring tone cut the priest off. Annoyed by the intrusion, Father McKinley watched the man check the screen of his cell phone, and then jump to his feet.
“I have to leave, Padre,” and he was out the door before the priest had a chance to say another word.
The man pulled a cap out of his back pocket and covered his head, adjusting the brim to hide his face and walked out the door. The thick humid air hit him like he’d just entered a sauna, and his sinuses swelled making it more difficult to breathe. He hated humid days like this because it always made him feel clammy, like he hadn’t showered.
In the distance, a flash of lightening snaked across the sky beckoning the threat of rain, and he hurried toward his car parked at the end of the lot in a secluded area. Along the walkway, he developed a sudden paranoia as though someone was watching him. His chest heaved in and out as he gulped in deep breaths of air to defray the illusion of a chain being tightened around his mid-section cutting off the circulation. He coughed, trying to rid himself of the feeling, and looked around the area with a suspicious eye. He half smiled remembering how silly he’d been earlier thinking there was someone in the church. It wasn’t until the wind kicked up that he decided his mind was playing tricks on him and convinced himself that paranoia was going to ruin everything he’d been working toward if he didn’t nip it in the bud.
4
Ritchie grabbed Max’s arm. “Dive.”
“Wha . . . what . . . dive?”
Ritchie clung onto Max’s arm in a tight grip. “The man is back,” he whispered.
“I know, Rich. I can see for myself.”
The boys flattened their bodies onto the velvety knoll. Ritchie lay as flat as a pancake, but his feet jiggled nervously. Max gently kicked him on the side of his leg.
“Move closer to the bush,” he whispered in the boy’s ear.
“Okay, okay.”
Max looked over his shoulder to check on his friend who was now shaking. He glanced down to make sure Ritchie had all his body parts concealed. The boy’s feet still jutted out in plain view. He elbowed a warning to him, and nodded toward the boy’s feet, signaling for him to move them up. Ritchie tucked himself into the fetal position while Max held onto the lower branches of the bush, pulling himself in closer to get a better view of the man.
As the man’s footsteps grew heavier, Ritchie began hyperventilating, and Max was furious, wishing he hadn’t pressured Ritchie into being his sidekick. The boy didn’t have the stamina for this kind of work. He gave an anxious tug on his arm and leaned in close to his friend. “I can hear you breathing.”
In the distance, another flash of lightening shot across the sky then crackled into a loud bang. Max covered the recorder with his backpack knowing the rain would pour down any minute and recalled the last time he and Ritchie were in a lightning storm. Ritchie had freaked out with fear. He looked over at him now and noticed Ritchie’s head was buried inside the well of his crossed arms, and he was shaking from head to toe. A tinge of sympathy waved through Max, and he draped his arm across Ritchie’s back to let him know
he wasn’t alone. As the man got closer, Max felt another adrenaline rush. This was so much fun.
The man’s footsteps became rushed and more pronounced. Curious, Max moved in closer to the bush pulling on the undergrowth, but it caused the bush to rustle. The man stopped again, surveying the area with wariness. Fortunately for Max, a sudden gust of wind kicked up, and heavy drops of rain fell from the sky. The man’s face creased into a smirk, and he quickly jogged past the boys’ stakeout post.
A flicker of apprehension shot through Max wondering if the man saw them when he passed by. But wouldn’t he have stopped? Max brushed off the thought but not without saying a silent prayer first. There was no way he’d leave his post despite the large drops pelting against his body like sleet. When the rain increased, Max readjusted himself over the recorder. A non-functional recorder with water spots on it would really be a dead giveaway when his father picked up the equipment from the house. Max turned his attention back to the man as he clicked on his key fob to unlock his car doors and watched him scoot behind the steering wheel in one quick shot. After he shut the door and started the engine, the windows fogged within seconds. Max didn’t take his eyes off him. The window suddenly lowered on the driver’s side. A few minutes later the rain came down even more forcefully, but Max would tough it out regardless.
When the car was out of sight, Max jumped to his feet, shoved the recorder under his T-shirt just until he could put the equipment back inside his backpack. “C’mon, Rich, let’s get out of here.”
“Why are you acting so scared all of a sudden?” Ritchie asked wide-eyed. “You think he saw us, don’t you?” the boy demanded, his voice climbing to a higher pitch.
“I dunno, but let’s hurry. I’m soaking wet.” Max’s dark hair was drenched, his bangs dripping water down his face. He bent over pulling the small recorder out from under his T-shirt and quickly shoved it safely inside his backpack. Twisting the end of his T-shirt to remove most of the water, he swiped his face.
“So do you think he saw us?” Ritchie asked again.
“I have no clue. Stop worrying. If he did see us, it was only the back of us. You didn’t look up, did you?”
“No.”
“Okay, then we’re fine.” Max puffed his cheeks and blew out air. He didn’t have the heart to tell Ritchie he had looked up and the man did look in his direction. Maybe the man saw his face. And maybe he was just being paranoid. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Max said.
“Hey, you have to go back in and get the microphone.”
“Forget it, Dad will think it’s been misplaced.”
“Now you know he’s going to blame you, Max.”
“Crap, Ritchie, you sound just like him.”
Ritchie ignored Max’s sarcasm and launched back into questioning. “Did that man look familiar to you?”
“Yes, but I can’t figure out where I know him from.”
“Oh, crap,” Ritchie, said in a shaky voice. “That scares me even more,” he jiggled nervously in place. “Tell me the truth, Max, do you think the man saw us?” His voice cracked. “Do you?”
“What difference does it make?” Max shouted impatiently. “He doesn’t know who we are anyway. Besides, he zipped past us too fast to even get a look.”
“Are you sure?” Ritchie stood wide-eyed. “I’m scared.”
“Scared of what? The man? Or getting caught?”
“Both . . . I guess.” Ritchie kicked a stray stone on the sidewalk with the tip of his sneaker. When the rain stopped abruptly, both boys sighed simultaneously.
“But it’s too late to be thinking about that now.” Max grabbed the end of his T-shirt and wiped the raindrops running down the sides of his face. “We better get home before it rains again, Rich.”
“But you have to get the microphone.”
“Nuh-uh,” Max shook his head emphatically. “That means I’ll have to confess some bogus sin if I get caught in the confessional. I just went to confession last week. Why don’t you go for me, and if Father opens the screen, you confess.”
“I’m not Catholic, bonehead.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I could tell you how to do it.” Max could tell by the expression on Ritchie’s face he wasn’t about to budge. Max scratched his head disappointed his friend wouldn’t do it for him. He took a step back and tried to figure out a way to return to the confessional for the microphone without being noticed. He rubbed a hand over his chin as he thought about it. “I guess I could just go back in and make something up.”
“Won’t you go to hell if you do that?”
“If I lie, you mean?” Max asked.
“Yeah, if you lie. Doesn’t God keep a list of your lies?”
“Why are you asking me such stupid questions? I don’t know.”
Ritchie pointed his finger in Max’s face. “If you’re worried about having something to confess, you can always tell the priest the truth about how you stole the precinct’s surveillance equipment after your father already told you to leave it alone.”
“Very funny, Rich,” Max grumbled. “C’mon, man, go for me,” Max begged.
Max stared at Ritchie. He scrunched his face and pouted, hoping his friend would change his mind, but Ritchie continued to ignore his request. What kind of friend was he? Max sighed dramatically realizing no amount of begging was going to work – Ritchie wasn’t going to help him out.
Max groaned in frustration. “Okay, I guess I’ll just go and get it over with.” His stomach did a somersault dreading a return to the confessional. “You wait by the bikes,” Max ordered. “Hold my backpack until I return and be ready to take off as soon as I come out.”
Ritchie nodded in agreement.
Max noticed a few cars had entered the parking lot as he was heading to toward the church door. The crunching of the stones under the tires sounded like a crackling fire.
He ran down the hill so fast, he lost his footing and slid on the wet grass. He jerked to break his fall. A sharp pain shot up his leg, and he stopped to rub the muscle hoping to relieve the ache. Now that there were cars in the parking lot, it meant confessions were underway. He groaned and continued his trek toward the church.
The sidewalks steamed like the busy streets in Manhattan. That was a good thing during the winter, but not the summer when the humidity was as high as the temperature. He knew it was only a matter of time before it would encase his body and make him feel worse than he already did. He entered the vestibule and walked through the opened double doors and dipped his finger back into the holy water. A fleeting thought gave him comfort knowing he’d blessed himself twice. Maybe he wouldn’t go to hell after all. He made his way down the aisle toward the confessional. His wet sneakers squeaked and sloshed in concert with the creaking old floors and drew the attention of a few parishioners waiting to confess their sins.
Max had been surprised when Father McKinley announced at Mass he was expanding the days and hours of confession, but now he understood. He hadn’t realized there were so many sinners in New York. He saw a few people he knew kneeling in the pews, but he wasn’t nervous. If they told his parents he was in church, they’d probably celebrate thinking he’d seen the error of his ways.
The light above the confessional glowed red, indicating the booth was in use.
He eased himself into a pew, knelt down, and began reciting every prayer he ever knew, one after the other. He prayed for a sign, any sign from above that his father wouldn’t find out he’d used the surveillance equipment. When nothing unusual happened to let him know God was listening, he panicked and prayed harder. Nevertheless, he wasn’t sorry he’d recorded what he’d hoped would be some confessions. At least he had something on tape, and that was a good thing.
The green light above the confessional flicked on, and the door opened. Max stepped out of the pew, ahead of a parishioner who shot him an irritated expression, but nodded agreement when she eyed his wet clothes. He mouthed a thank you and she smiled. Stepping back to allow the person exiting the con
fessional more room, he was surprised when he realized it was Mr. Cullen, a local merchant. The man immediately recognized Max and gave him the thumbs up sign, but he frowned at his wet clothing. Max grinned slightly and gave a shrug. He patted Max on the shoulder.
Over the last several months, during Father McKinley’s Homily, the priest had been pushing for the young parishioners of St. Catherine’s to confess their sins on a weekly basis. The priest thought it would help make them more aware of their behavior outside the church.
Then, when Father McKinley extended catechism throughout the summer, Max knew his parents would insist he attend it along with summer school for failing English literature. Over the last six weeks, he’d felt like a sequestered Carmelite Monk who prayed most of the day, but now his summer break was almost over. Today was the most fun he’d had, because regardless of his sins or shortcomings, being a sleuth took precedence over everything else. Nevertheless, he was still hoping to get in and out of the confessional without uttering a word.
He walked into the confining room and knelt down. He could hear the low whisper of voices from the other side of the confessional.
For a brief moment, Max’s mind became clearer, and he realized if he moved fast enough, he wouldn’t have to confess a bogus sin to the priest. Besides, it didn’t feel right to lie to a man of the cloth. Lying to his parents or a friend was one thing, but lying to a priest? That wasn’t cool. He pictured the devil rubbing his hands together with a gleeful expression on his face.
He shook off the image and crouched down low in the darkness, quickly sliding his hand toward the location of the microphone. Doing something he wasn’t supposed to do always made him break into a cold sweat, especially with the air conditioning blowing against his wet shirt. He shivered while his heart hammered out of control, banging against his rib cage like a jackhammer cutting through pavement. The thought of a heart attack seemed unrealistic for a twelve-year old, but it didn’t stop him from wondering if it was possible for him to croak right there on the spot.
When his hand located the microphone, he shoved it into his pocket, reminding himself how it had dropped out before. This time, he’d hold onto his pocket when he made his beeline exit. Excited the task moved quickly he stood upright and exited the confessional, just as the priest slid the screen open. He closed the door behind him and bolted down the aisle as though the church was in flames.
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