Page 20 of Priestly Sins

Finally, she asks, “Why was today rough?”

“Can’t say. Wish I could, but I can’t. Let’s just say it’s hard to not to be able to help when people are hurting.” She can take that as she wants, assume it’s about her or not, but her confession today is just one more thing I’ll let my mind spin on after I get home.

“Are you a doctor? They help people who hurt themselves,” Clara pipes in. From the corner of my eye, Sirona goes immobile.

“No, sweetheart. I am not a doctor.” Switching the subject, I ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

And that is that. The melody of her little voice and the enthusiasm in her words fill the empty space. By the time I leave, with a half dozen end-of-day cookies in tow, I feel lighter than I have in a while. I drive away, but only after the lights switch off and the Honda Accord rounds the building heading away from uptown.

Instead of heading home, I drive west to St. Rose and park at the library, walking the mile and a half to the church rectory and knock. Terry is shocked silent to find me on his threshold.

“Invite me in for a drink?”

Startled beyond action, he merely steps aside, allowing me through, and the door clicks behind me.

He passes me with an arc of his hand and tilt of his head. “Kitchen’s this way.”

“Shitty fucking day today, Terry.”

He stops mid-stride and turns, mouth agape. After his confession, no language should surprise him.

“Same.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, I had to confess to a friend about some embarrassing behavior today.” His words form bile on my taste buds, but his cavalier attitude makes me stay.

“And do you feel absolved?”

He leans against his dining room chair, calculating. He simply nods, not wanting to verbalize anything.

“Interesting choice of words —embarrassing behavior. I’d thinkheinouswould be better. Or maybeabhorrent. Don’t you agree?”

“Sean?”

“Yes?”

“I came to you in good faith. Repentant.”

I stare at him, no motivation to speak, no will to look away.

He pulls out the chair and slumps down into it.

I pace.

“How old?” I thunder.

“What?”

“How old were they?” I repeat.

“I don’t want to get into this.”

“Well, I fucking do. How. Old?” My voice goes steely. Holding my rage in check makes the words come out just above a whisper.

“Various.”

“Try again. Try harder.” I tower above him, one hand on the table, one on the back of his chair.