He heard sounds from the other booth and could not be sure but somehow felt that the other one was crying, too.
So here they sat, while the sinful world rushed by on streets, here in the sweet incense gloom, two men on opposite sides of some fragile board slattings, on a late afternoon at the end of summer, weeping.
And at last they grew very quiet indeed and the voice asked, anxiously, "Are you all right, Father?"
The priest replied at last, eyes shut, "Fine. Thanks."
"Anything I can do, Father?"
"You have already done it, my son."
"About ... my joining the church. I meant it."
"No matter."
"But it does matter. I'll join. Even though I'm Jewish."
Father Malley snorted half a laugh. "Wha-what?"
"Jewish, Father, but an Irish Jew, if that helps."
"Oh, yes!" roared the old priest. "It helps, it helps!"
"What's so funny, Father?"
"I don't know but it is, it is, funny, funny!"
And here he burst into such paroxysms of laughter as made him cry and such floodings of tears as made him laugh again until all mingled in a grand outrush and uproar. The church slammed back echoes of cleansing laughter. In the midst of it all he knew that, telling all this to Bishop Kelley, his confessor, tomorrow he would be let off easy. A church is washed well and good and fine not only by the tears of sorrow but by the clean fresh-cut meadowbrooms of that self-forgiveness and other-forgiveness which God gave only to man and called it laughter.
It took a long while for their mutual shouts to subside, for now the young man had given up weeping and taken on hilarity, too, and the church rocked with the sounds of two men who one minute had done a sad thing and now did a happy one. The sniffle was gone. Joy banged the walls like wild birds flying to be free.
At last, the sounds weakened. The two men sat, wiping their faces, unseen to each other.
Then, as if the world knew there must be a shift of mood and scene, a wind blew in the church doors far away. Leaves drifted from trees and fell into the aisles. A smell of autumn filled the dusky air. Summer was truly over.
Father Malley looked beyond to that door and the wind and the leaves moving off and gone, and suddenly, as in spring, wanted to go with them. His blood demanded a way out, but there was no way.
"I'm leaving, Father."
The old priest sat up.
"For the time being, you mean."
"No, I'm going away, Father. This is my last time with you."
You can't do that! thought the priest, and almost said it.
But instead he said, as calmly as he could:
"Where are you off to, son?"
"Oh, around the world, Father. Many places. I was always afraid, before. I never went anywhere. But now, with my weight gone, I'm heading out. A new job and so many places to be."
"How long will you be gone, lad?"
"A year, five years, ten. Will you be here ten years from now, Father.
"God willing."
"Well, somewhere along the way I'll be in Rome and buy something small but have it blessed by the Pope and when I come back I'll bring it here and look you up."
"Will you do that?"
"I will. Do you forgive me, Father?"
"For what?"
"For everything."
"We have forgiven each other, dear boy, which is the finest thing that men can do."
There was the merest stir of feet from the other side.
"I'm going now, Father. Is it true that good-bye means God Be With You?"
"That's what it means."
"Well then, oh truly, good-bye, Father."
"And good-bye in all its original meaning to you, lad."
And the booth next to his elbow was suddenly empty.
And the young man gone.
Many years later, when Father Malley was a very old man indeed and full of sleep, a final thing happened to fill out his life. Late one afternoon, dozing in the confessional, listening to rain fall out beyond the church, he smelled a strange and familiar smell and opened his eyes.
Gently, from the other side of the grille, the faintest odor of chocolate seeped through.
The confessional creaked. On the other side, someone was trying to find words.
The old priest leaned forward, his heart beating quickly, wild with amazement and surprise. "Yes?" he urged.
"Thank you," said a whisper, at last.
"Beg pardon . . . ?"
"A long time ago," said the whisper. "You helped. Been long away. In town only for today. Saw the church. Thanks. That's all. Your gift is in the poor-box. Thanks."
Feet ran swiftly.
The priest, for the first time in his life, leaped from the confessional.
"Wait!"
But the man, unseen, was gone. Short or tall, fat or thin, there was no telling. The church was empty.
At the poor-box, in the dusk, he hesitated, then reached in. There he found a large eighty-nine-cent economy-size bar of chocolate.
Someday, Father, he heard a long-gone voice whisper, L I'll bring you a gift blessed by the Pope.
This? This? The old priest turned the bar in his trembling hands. But why not? What could be more perfect?
He saw it all. At Castel Gandolfo on a summer noon with five thousand tourists jammed in a sweating pack below in the dust and the Pope high up on his balcony there waving out the rare blessings, suddenly among all the tumult, in all the sea of arms and hands, one lone brave hand held high .. .
And in that hand a silver-wrapped and glorious candy bar.
The old priest nodded, not surprised.
He locked the chocolate bar in a special drawer in his study and sometimes, behind the altar, years later, when the weather smothered the windows and despair leaked in the door hinges, he would fetch the chocolate out and take the smallest nibble.
It was not the Host, no, it was not the flesh of Christ. But it was a life. And the life was his. And on those occasions, not often but often enough, when he took a bite, it tasted (O thank you, God) it tasted incredibly sweet.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Douglas Bradbury was born in Waukegan, Illinois, in 1920. He graduated from a Los Angeles high school in 1938. His formal education ended there, but he furthered it by himself—at night in the library and by day at his typewriter. He sold newspapers on Los Angeles street corners from 1938 to 1942—a modest beginning for a man whose name would one day be synonymous with the best in science fiction! Ray Bradbury sold his first science fiction short story in 1941, and his early reputation is based on stories published in the budding science fiction magazines of that time. His work was chosen for best American short story collections in 1946, 1948 and 1952. His awards include: The O. Henry Memorial Award, The Benjamin Franklin Award in 1954 and The Aviation-Space Writer's Association Award for best space article in an American magazine in 1967. Mr. Bradbury has written for television, radio, the theater and S, and he has been published in every major American magazine. Editions of his novels and shorter fiction span several continents and languages, and he has gained worldwide acceptance for his work. His titles include: The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, I Sing the Body Electricl, The Golden Apples of the Sun, A Medicine for Melancholy and The Illustrated Man.
Bradbury, Ray - SSC 21 Page 25