Every Saint a Sinner

by Pearl Solas

  “How was he injured?”

  Yvette rubbed her temples with her finger pads. “He was beaten in the shower. He was alone when the guard who brought you here found him, and he refuses to identify whoever attacked him.”

  Frank moved his head in two staccato nods, ran his hand through thinning hair, and said, “Well, I guess you should take me to him.”

  Although prepared by Yvette, Frank nonetheless had to exercise rigid control over his facial expression when he saw Paul’s bruised and battered body and face. Frank forced himself to look directly into Paul’s single functional eye—the other was completely swollen shut. The “good” eye was less white than yellow, and had a bright red broken blood vessel.

  “Will you please help me drink some water?” Paul croaked.

  Frank complied, noting an unprecedented humility in Paul’s tone. When Paul had finished drinking through the straw that Frank held to his parched and split lips, Paul said, “Thank you. And thanks for coming.”

  Waving aside Paul’s thanks, Frank held his face in the compassionate expression he had cultivated during his long professional practice. He knew Paul was most likely to get to the reason he had requested Frank’s presence if Frank kept his face attentive and his mouth silent.

  Paul focused his yellow and red eye on Frank and rasped, with effort, “I need to make my confession.”

  Frank paused before beginning, gently, “Of course I’ll hear your confession, but first perhaps we should discuss why you feel such urgency. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending our relationship is not contentious. Would you feel more comfortable waiting for Father Matt? He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I know you’ve been through something terrible, but Dr. Yvette didn’t appear to be concerned that you have any injuries that won’t mend.”

  This unassuming acknowledgement of Paul’s implicit fear of imminent death caused Paul’s eye simultaneously to well with tears and to widen with naked terror.

  “I don’t think I’m going to make it, Frank. I know what Dr. Y says, and I’m sure both of you believe I’ll recover, but there’s something very wrong. I just know it. Yes, I’d prefer to make my confession to Matt—but I don’t think I have long enough to wait and I can’t risk it.”

  Frank looked at the man he had loathed—the arrogant and vain man who embraced all that Frank had struggled to eradicate within himself. Frank took in the handsome face that had been disfigured, the strong body that was now broken, and his disdain weakened against the force of his innate sympathy for any soul in pain. This sympathy was as inextricably a part of himself as his unwanted sexual desires. Instead of trying to gather the wary reserve he had intended to maintain, Frank’s voice unconsciously warmed as he placed his hand over Paul’s and said, “Let me get my stole.”

  After he had secured the stole and said the prefatory blessing, Frank waited with unhurried expectation.

  The usually cocksure Paul began with halting confusion, “I . . . I’m not sure I’ve ever made a genuine confession before. Hell, I’m actually pretty sure I never believed in God the entire time I wore the collar. I basically just said whatever I needed to say to convince my confessor that I was repentant about some minor infraction. Really, though, I was never bothered by anything I had done. I sure as shit never confessed the really juicy sins—the ones that landed me here.”

  Paul licked his dry lips and Frank, anticipating his thirst, lifted the water to the injured man’s mouth. Paul took another long pull from the straw before continuing.

  “I never cared about forgiveness of my sins or removing any impediment to my relationship with God because I neither had nor wanted a relationship with God. My goal was winning admiration and power. I learned early in life that the collar was a direct path to those goals, and my vocation would provide me with the materials for what eventually became my favorite pursuit. I had ready access to an endless supply of naïve young men who thought I was a hero.

  “Making regular confession was just another part of the game I played. Repentance and reconciliation didn’t figure into my algebra. I crafted confessions like works of art—just the right mix of introspection, remorse, and yearning for justification through faith—and then, I flawlessly performed those confessions. I could tell when my confessors had been moved by my performances, and seeing their response to my ‘humility’ felt like winning. One can never know what’s going on in another person’s head, but they really didn’t know.”

  Paul’s words had come in a torrent. While he paused to take a labored breath, Frank interjected, “Acting as your confessor, it’s certainly interesting to hear how much you enjoyed manipulating confessors and mocking the sacrament. At the risk of beginning down a road of circular logic like Vizzini from The Princess Bride, what you’ve said so far begs the question: Why should I continue to participate in what you’ve just told me is probably a sham? How do I know you’re not manipulating me like you manipulated all those other confessors?”

  Paul attempted a few deep breaths. Every movement confirmed that his barely subdued terror remained. Unexpectedly, he barked out a harsh laugh. It ended as abruptly as it began when Paul felt its painful consequences in his damaged ribs. “It’s really fucking ironic that my motivations for confession are questioned the only time they’ve ever been genuine.”

  Paul continued in a low, flat voice, “You can’t know for sure. You should proceed as if my intent to manipulate you is a real possibility. I guess I can only offer this comfort: If my desire for repentance and reconciliation is not real, it’s on me and not on you. Even though I didn’t take the sacrament of ordination seriously, please just do what your vows call you to do: bear witness. Be the tool that helps me connect with God and trust that he’ll sort out my motivations.”

  Paul adjusted himself to alleviate his discomfort, and continued, “I know Dr. Y doesn’t believe my situation is as serious as I know it is. But holy fear of imminent death can bring even the biggest cynic to true belief and genuine repentance. I’m not one of those deathbed penitents who hedges his bets on the off-chance that God exists. I’ve been ordained, honored, admired, disgraced, and defrocked, but I’ve never experienced certainty of the reality of God until a couple of hours ago. Having come into contact with that presence and that reality, I can’t live a second longer, and I certainly can’t go to what’s after this life, without at least trying to wash the stains on my soul.”

  Frank again assumed an expression of patient encouragement, and he nodded for Paul to continue.

  Paul furrowed his brow with uncertainty, “I know I’ve facilitated this process a thousand thousand times, but I just don’t know where to start.”

  Frank responded, “If you believe time is short, why not start with the deepest stain?”

  “Might as well jump in,” Paul agreed. “Obviously, we both know why I’m in this place, but I’m not sure that’s really the deepest stain. I mean, it’s not like I raped any of those young men, and they were young men. They weren’t little boys. They were past puberty, past the age of reason, and they made a choice. I never forced anyone. Sure, there was some seduction involved, but they enjoyed that part as much as I did.”

  Frank was stunned by Paul’s entrenched defensiveness, and took a moment to collect his wits. He had counseled many grown men who, as adolescents, had been gutted by abuse and manipulation that, according to Paul, they had “chosen.”

  Frank struggled to maintain the pastoral demeanor required of him in his role as confessor, and though he kept the volume of his voice low, he couldn’t completely remove a steely undercurrent as he asked a series of questions to explore Paul’s unrepentant declaration. “Didn’t you say earlier that power was one of your primary motivations for pursuing the priesthood?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m right to assume that, like many of us who chose this vocation, you first perceived that power as a child through the lens of the unquestioning deference that our Catholic communities and families bestow on priests?
”

  “Sure.”

  “So, of course, you knew that the balance of power between you and these boys was not equal. I’m not just talking about the differences in age. These boys were conditioned from birth to see your collar as the symbol of God’s wisdom and power on earth, and to trust your judgment as approaching infallibility. Is that about the measure of it?”

  Paul, perceiving an uncomfortable trap, weighed his words carefully, “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “If you’re honest, isn’t it true that what excited you, more than the physical pleasure, was not ‘seduction,’ as you called it, but exercising the power that came with your vocation to confuse and bend these boys to your will?”

  Paul swallowed painfully. He had heard these arguments before, but they had never resonated as deeply as when he was confronted with the imminence of his mortality and the possibility that, sooner than he expected, and much sooner than he was prepared to accept, he might have to confront the One who would slice through his justifications and self-deception to the enormity of the damage he had inflicted.

  Frank did not relent. “Isn’t there a word for using influence and vastly unequal power to coerce sexual gratification?”

  Paul looked at Frank pleadingly. “I know what you want me to say, Frank, but I can’t say that word.”

  “If you are genuinely repentant, you must face the reality of your actions. Refusing to say ‘rape’ doesn’t alleviate your guilt and, in the same way, using accurate language for what you did doesn’t aggravate your crimes. The beauty of the sacrament of reconciliation is that you might feel a lightening of your spirit if you stop using evasive language to describe your sin. Sin is exactly what it is.”

  Paul nodded, and then immediately winced at the sharp movement. “Maybe I’ll just start by describing what I did, and then we’ll see whether it’s important to label it.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow, but waited in deference to Paul’s preferred approach. Paul cleared his throat, “Shortly after I began teaching, I realized how interesting I was to these young men. I remembered something similar from my own days as a student—the magnetism of a gifted teacher. These boys had such shining eyes, and they fell all over themselves to be useful to me or to have a little of me to themselves. These were the standouts among their peers. There were also weaker, less popular boys who acted similarly toward me, but they didn’t interest me and I never encouraged them. I loved it when the leaders of the class sought me out because they thought they could go far with my guidance. At first, there were no sexual overtones to these relationships—I just enjoyed the ego stroke.

  “My first young man really did make the first move. After he graduated, all bets were off. At first, I limited my physical attentions to students like him. Eventually, though, they began to bore me because it was too easy, and they were too emotional when it was time to move on. It required energy I no longer wanted to spend. So, I began to choose boys who were more firmly on the heterosexual end of the spectrum. It was more of a challenge, but the seduction was so much more exciting! I’ve heard about some men shortcutting this process with physical force, but that felt like cheating. There was an art to cultivating the patience and discipline that would mold red-blooded American males who didn’t have an inkling of homosexual tendencies into pliable participants who would do whatever I asked.

  “There was a fairly typical pattern. What started with purely platonic activities and attention gradually moved to extremely subtle innuendo, to increasingly overt expressions of my interest, to making the first physical overture. It was fascinating to watch their reactions change from innocent pride in receiving my attention, to confusion, to dawning awareness, to mild revulsion tinged with concern about disappointing me, to resignation. I liked that these relationships had a natural life cycle. I didn’t have to worry about the unpleasantness of a lovesick admirer. When their time at the school ended, they were ready to move on, and so was I—it was tidy and satisfying.”

  Frank saw how Paul’s good eye shone as he re-lived his exploits, and he made no effort to disguise his disgust. “Well, I don’t think you’re manipulating me. I believe you accurately described how you used these boys, stole their innocence, and spat them out when you were finished with them. You know that describing the facts surrounding your sin is only one of the requirements of confession. You’re basically bursting with pride, and I don’t see an iota of remorse.”

  Paul thoughtfully chose his words. “You’re right,” he agreed, “I’ve never been sorry. But maybe there’s the start of a shift. I don’t want anyone else to know this, so I’m invoking the seal of the confessional, but the man who assaulted me was one of my young men. I didn’t recognize him at first—it looks like he’s lived a rough life since our time together, and he looks much older than his actual age—but he revealed himself during the attack. There was a rage and disgust that I never would have thought he was capable of.

  “I didn’t spend much time thinking about the nature or impact of my April-September relationships—neither of us was old enough for me to think of them as May-December relationships. I knew, intellectually, that while they were beneficial to the young men in terms of networking, they probably caused some psychological damage. I never had to see that damage, though. It probably shouldn’t have, but the vehemence of this man’s anger shocked me. He repeated several times that I ruined his life. If I’m being honest, I can’t be sure that being aware of the level of damage he believed I caused would have changed my behavior, but maybe it would have. I don’t know.

  “For the first time, though, I have some concerns about the harm I may have been responsible for. Maybe I’m not yet a true penitent, but I feel like I’m on the road. It scares me, but I really need the opportunity to go further. I’m willing to start the journey, but I’m afraid my body will fail me before I reach the destination.”

  Frank inhaled deeply and fixed his gaze on the crucifix in his hand.

  “I appreciate your honesty. I can’t imagine you’re trying to manipulate me about not being repentant. And you know I can’t grant absolution without repentance, but I’ll walk the road with you. For tonight, let’s end with a prayer.”

  Frank laid a light hand on Paul’s head and began, “Heavenly Father, whose ways are not our ways, thank you for being the compassionate and loving force who redeems all evil acts. While we grieve over the injury done to Paul’s body, we are grateful for the work of reconciliation you’ve begun in him. Grant him the strength to reflect unflinchingly on his actions with a mirror of truth. Help him to see and understand, with your understanding, how his sins have damaged others and have distanced him from you. Grant him the endurance to run the race you’ve set out for him, as the author and perfector of his faith. Bring him into genuine relationship with you and with the community of your holy Church.

  “Dear Lord, give Paul relief from his physical suffering so that he can focus on the hard work of seeking you and atoning for his sins. Grant him the grace and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart. Holy Comforter, grant Paul the peace that passes understanding. Ease his fear of imminent death if doing so will help him avoid distraction as he seeks relationship with you, and the repentance and reconciliation you desire for him.

  “For myself, Lord, please use me in accordance with your will to best help Paul toward your righteous wisdom, empathy, and love. If my sharing in any portion of Paul’s suffering will further your purposes, Dear Lord, I ask that, in accordance with your will, I may share his burden.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, we humbly pray. Amen.”

  Frank raised his head to see Paul’s single, discolored eye fixed on him. “So, you’re not going to grant me absolution tonight, then.” He said it as a statement rather than as a question.

  Remorsefully but resolutely, Frank said, “No, Paul. I’m encouraged you’re moving toward repentance, but I can’t, in conscience, grant absolution where repenta
nce doesn’t yet exist. I’ll be here to help you get there, though.”

  “And what if I die before we get there? You’re content to let me die like this?”

  “Again, Paul, your wounds are severe, but Dr. Yvette seems confident you’ll make a full recovery. We have time to do this hard work, and to do it right. Maybe this will be a comfort: Remember the prayer for those ‘whose faith is known to God alone.’ None of us knows all the implications of that idea, but I like to think of it as God’s ability to redeem and relate with people who have not explicitly repented or professed their faith, or who may not even be consciously aware of their own faith. It’s extremely unlikely, but if you die before making a full, genuinely repentant confession, and receiving absolution, even then, God is capable of completing the work he has started in you.”

  Seeing that Frank would not be moved, Paul turned his head and closed his eye. Frank placed a gentle hand on Paul’s, and gave it a pat. Frank’s prayer that Paul would experience the peace that passes understanding appeared to have been answered powerfully and affirmatively, and Paul’s heightened anxiety gave way to the morphine-like effect of that peace. He drifted toward sleep. Just before losing consciousness, Paul heard Frank say from the doorway, “I’ll come see you as early in the morning as I can.”

  Neither man knew, of course, that Frank would be in his own sickbed the next morning.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The first curious features on which Paul’s attention focused were his hands. They were folded in his lap, and they were so strange that he raised and examined them. They were smooth, fair, unmarred, and, most surprisingly, young. Paul knew these hands did not belong to his dark-haired, nearly fifty-year-old self. As one does in a dream, Paul acknowledged the strangeness and then mentally shrugged and accepted that these unfamiliar hands were his.