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I tip my chin up, silently pleading for Savio to condemn this evil bastard. The only weight a priest can truly throw around is the refusal to absolve someone. He can’t go to the police, can’t do anything to make someone truly ‘behave.’ But he can refuse to let them atone.
It’s what always pissed me off about the mob and stuff. Maybe it was all in the movies, but the idea that a priest would condone murder never sat right with me, and it told me the human beneath the cassock was on the take.
“I want to stop this,” Paolo whispers. “I don’t understand why I do it. Why I need—” Savio says nothing, and Paolo’s gulp is audible. “I hate—. I-I tried to kill myself yesterday, Father. Anything to avoid these feelings, these thoughts?—”
I blink at that, taken aback. And the anger whirls from me. Not because his niece’s abuser doesn’t deserve my anger, but because now I’m confused.
When Savio sends him on his way with a few token Hail Marys, I’m even more confused.
What just happened?
How did we go from a fury so strong it made the church vibrate with it to a penance so weak, that the kid earned more time on his knees than Paolo did?
For a second, I falter.
I doubt.
But then, I ponder the darkness in Savio’s eyes, think about what I saw in them, and then I think about his file.
All those suicides…
When Paolo retreats to a pew, almost flinging himself on his knees, his shoulders shaking, I wonder if it’s an act. Then I ask myself who he’s playing the role to… God?
Savio sure as hell isn’t watching, and he’s the only one Paolo thinks knows his dirty secret.
Diana: What’s happening?
Diana: You can’t go silent on me!!
I roll my eyes.
Me: The bastard’s been absolved and he’s on his knees as we speak.
Me: A lady just went into the confessional. She covets her neighbor’s lasagna recipe
Diana: Talk about a contrast
Me: Yup. I’m going to go. I’m fine but I need to think
Diana: There’s nothing to think about. You can’t do anything there, babe. You don’t have any contacts with charities or whatnot. But stay in touch. I’m here if you need me
Me: I know
Diana: Love you too xo
At that very moment, like God’s hand is on my shoulder, Paolo clambers to his feet.
When my shoulders itch, my wings making themselves known to me, I get to mine.
He’s a slender man, but his belly’s large. Rotund. He slips his sunglasses on, and I know why too—his face is red from crying. He also hunches his shoulders, hiding his expression by dipping his face under the upturned lapels of his coat.
I find it interesting that even though it’s warm out, to the Italians it’s freezing.
Here I am, sweating in a thin anorak and scarf the second we make it out of the church and into the sun, and he’s huddled in his coat like we’re in the middle of a blizzard. And he isn’t the only one. I pass a woman wearing fur!
Being outside the church, after what just happened, feels… off.
As if the world has changed, or I have. I’m not sure which.