Vicky had seen him before at River Inn. He drank scotch on the rocks, though he always requested it light on the rocks with a twist of lemon, and he liked to swirl the ice around in his glass in between gulps. And he was indeed a gulper, if Vicky’s memory served her correctly. He could finish off eight ounces of scotch in about three large gulps. He usually sat at the bar, drank quickly, spoke to no one and ordered two or three drinks. He would leave then, always seemingly unaffected by the alcohol, his gaze and gait as clear and steady as when he walked in the bar. She had no idea he was a priest for he was always dressed just like anyone else, not like today, in his black pants, black shirt, white collar, and something like a long purple scarf draped over his shoulders and hanging down into his lap.
Vicky wondered if he recognized her too. He made no indication that he did and, for once, Vicky was too embarrassed to indicate that she recognized him. She sat in the chair across from him, thinking it best to remain silent and let him speak first. She would figure out something to say by then. He made the sign of the cross and muttered the words, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” He looked at her with his cool grey eyes and thin lipped smile of disinterest, waiting for a response. Vicky said nothing until she could stand it no more.
“This could become the stare off of the century,” she said finally.
He smiled, a natural smile this time, and seemed a little amused and caught off guard. “Are you here for confession?”
“Not exactly. To tell you the truth I ain’t even one of your fold–Catholic, I mean.” He nodded as if he already knew. “Are you gonna throw me out?”
“No.” He said it without hesitation, waiting again for her to respond.
“Guess you’d like to know why I’m here then?” Again he said nothing, acknowledging with a slight nod and giving only the faintest trace of a smile. “I ain’t at all sure to tell you the truth. Except that I need to talk to someone.” Vicky’s guard was still up as she searched for something she could trust in the cool grey eyes of this stranger with whom she found herself face-to-face. “Is this confidential?” she blurted out.
“Absolutely. I’m bound by the seal of the Sacrament.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. Rest assured that anything you say here must remain here.”
She took a deep breath and sized him up one more time. She thought she remembered her grandma telling her something Mabel Murphy had said about priests. When her grandma asked why they couldn’t get married Mabel told her it was because they’d be too tempted to tell their wives everybody’s sins. So confession had to be secret. Right? She still wasn’t at all sure but she had to step out in trust–and faith.
“I have this problem,” she began slowly. I have close to seven thousand dollars I got by illegal means. Drugs. My cousin is–was–a big-time wheeler dealer in the Lamasco area. He’s been missing for several weeks. I think maybe he’s dead.” Vicky began crying. Father Mudd handed her a box of tissues that sat on a small table next to him. The box was full, new, and quite undisturbed until Vicky quickly pulled out several tissues from the top. Some dust flew up as she did so. No one had touched this box in a long time. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and wondered why more people didn’t cry in here like she was now. Vicky saw a spark of humanity in Father Mudd’s tired grey eyes as he handed the tissues to her. Vicky told her story–the whole thing, including why she decided not to notify the police, how she desperately wanted out of the business, and how paranoid she’d been of late. Father Mudd listened mostly, interjecting a few questions here and there for clarification.
“So how exactly can I help you?” Father Mudd asked when she was finished.
“You can tell me what to do with the money. I can’t keep it. It’s blood money.”
“That’s a tough one. If it were stolen I’d to tell you to return it. But it’s not exactly stolen, is it?” Vicky shook her head. “You’ve already told me you’re getting out of the business, so you’re on the right track. I don’t know what to tell you about the money except you’re right in not wanting to keep it. You have to give it away–to someone or some place where it will help people. I can’t tell you where or who to give it to. You just have to pray about that.”
Vicky nodded her head, satisfied with the answer and feeling some relief from the pressing anxiety that weighed on her so heavily over the past few weeks. She didn’t want to leave. She felt safe in this little room with this stranger who would keep her secret. Just as she would keep his secret about the scotch, which she now knew after studying his face that he imbibed too much and far too frequently.
“I have a few more questions to ask, but I don’t wanna hold you up or deprive someone else of a turn.”
“They’re not exactly beating the doors down to get in here.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not many people go to confession anymore, at least not around here. So what’s on your mind?”
“Well, how exactly does this confession thing work anyway? I’m just curious.”
“Actually the new term is the Sacrament of Reconciliation though most everyone around here still calls it confession. You’re reconciling with God, making peace as it were. The person seeking forgiveness comes and confesses their sins–all those thoughts, words, and deeds that have separated them from God and others. After that the penitent makes an Act of Contrition, a prayer stating that they’re sorry for their sins with their whole heart, and that with the help of God’s grace, they’ll make a new start and make every effort to amend their life. Then the priest gives them absolution.”
“Absolution?”
“Offers them God’s forgiveness and releases them from their sins.”
“You say that like you’re reading it out of some textbook. Do you really believe it?” Vicky said, noticing the weariness had returned once again to his countenance.
“You’re here to talk about yourself, not me.”
“Right. So why go to a priest? I thought only God could forgive your sins.”
“We believe He can and does forgive your sins the very moment you repent, but because we’re human we need some tangible evidence of His forgiveness. We need to tell somebody.”
“Like get it off your chest?”
“Precisely. And we need to hear from somebody that God has forgiven us. The priest represents Christ with skin on.”
“You really believe it?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Your name’s Mudd, right?”
“Father Mudd. Yes.” He smiled a smile suggesting that he no longer found the tiresome old reference to his name amusing.
“So tell me, Father Mudd, if I confess my sins will you give me absolution?”
“I can’t. You’re not a Catholic.”
“What difference does that make if I’m really sorry?”
“Are you a baptized Christian?” The question was like a slap in Vicky’s face. Suddenly she was no longer the one in charge with her needling and baiting. Now she was the vulnerable one.
“Not exactly,” she said feeling her face drop and her voice take on a lower tone. “I got saved when I was thirteen, but I never got baptized.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. At first I believed real strong–after I got saved, I mean. But then things started going downhill in my life not long after that and I started to doubt. Started thinking the whole thing was just a mirage. I mean, sometimes it just seems too good to be true and life seems so hard. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“It’s all right. I think I know.”
“But I just can’t let go of the idea that it might be true–the whole thing about Jesus dying for our sins and rising again. Most of the time I go along not even thinking about it then all of a sudden something happens, like Bobby disappearing, and I get it stuck in my head again. Sometimes it’s like he just won’t let me be.”
“I understand.”
“I know you do. I can
see it in your eyes. You’re all dried up inside and confused, just like me. But I know, I know, I’m here to talk about me not you. Is my time up yet?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“I asked you first.”
“If you’d like to confess your sins I’d be happy to listen. I can’t grant you absolution but I can pray with you.”
“My sins! Are you kidding? Now I know you don’t have enough time.” She said with her usual brand of worldliness, but the truth was she was pleasantly surprised. He guessed just what she wanted–to unburden this heavy load onto some anonymous stranger who didn’t know her and was too unconcerned to spread stories. It was the same reason people confessed to her behind the bar. How desperately she needed the favor returned.
“So where do I start? Do folks generally confess their worst sins first or do they start with the little everyday bad habit type sins and work their way up?”
“They usually stick the really bad sins in the middle sandwiched between the cotton balls.”
“Cotton balls?”
“Yeah. Those sins they throw at me just to have something to throw, the ones that never shock or stun.”
“The ones meant to buffer the really bad sins you mean?”
“Exactly. The cotton balls are always meant to buffer the really bad sins, even if they never get around to confessing those.”
“Ah, ha,” Vicky said giving this last statement some thought. “You mean some folks are just too chicken to get to the really bad ones?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes they’re not even aware of what their really serious sins are.”
“So all they’ve got to give you are cotton balls?”
“Something like that.”
“Before you confess you have to examine your conscience, look within and see what faults you find there.”
“I been doing a lot of that since Bobby disappeared. So what do you want first? Cotton balls or golf balls?”
“I don’t think you’d be here if all you had to toss was cotton balls.”
“You’re right. Well, here goes,” she said with a deep sigh. “I’m a liar and a cheat. When you live on the other side of the law, you just naturally learn to lie and cheat so as to save your ass, sorry Father, I mean backside. You get to where lying and cheating becomes so much a part of your life. Half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I might’ve told a half dozen lies today and I wouldn’t even know it.” Vicky stared at the floor and heard only the hum of the heat go on.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“I’m an idolator.”
“Is that right?” He seemed slightly amused.
“You’re shocked I know a word like ‘idolator’, ain’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, but I seen it on your face. You didn’t say it but you were thinking it.”
“You have a chip on your shoulders.”
“How would you know? You don’t know me.” Vicky said in a voice that quivered and stammered. That same old hurt, that same old sense of being mocked, laughed at hit her as it always did–unexpectedly from some seemingly harmless look or remark from another. Her eyes and nose began to smart with the stubborn sting of tears.
“I know because you’re daring me to knock it off.”
“So what’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’re talking about your sins, right?”
“So what sin am I guilty of? You tell me.”
“Pride.”
“Pride?”
“Yes, pride. One of the seven deadly sins.”
“If I get rid of my pride then there’s nothing there. I’m just an inch worm ready to get stepped on. You know what I think? I think it takes one to know one. I think you got pride too.”
“Maybe so, but we’re not here to talk about me.”
“Yeah, and you interrupted my one sin to talk about another.”
“Where were we?” He handed her a tissue. Vicky sniffled and dabbed the tears.
“Idolatry.”
“Oh, yes. So what exactly is your idol?”
“The golden calf.”
He looked confused.
“The almighty dollar. Money,” she clarified. “Why else would I be in the drug business? It’s great money and all tax free. But it ain’t just the money. It’s loyalty to Bobby. And something else. A thrill, a kick, the high you get from doing something dangerous, something bad. There’s this excitement with being able to get away with it, being able to thumb your nose at all those respectable hypocrites out there. I’ve stolen and vandalized just for the hell of it, just to get that kick, that high from being bad. It feels good to be bad. I’m a rebel. I don’t know if that’s a sin or not.”
“Only if you’re one without a cause. Do you have a cause other than thumbing your nose at all the respectable people?”
“I guess not.”
“Then you are guilty of pride?”
Vicky resisted the urge to make a comeback and thought about it. She guessed there was a sort of logic to his accusation of pride. She was, after all, a sort of reverse snob.
There was silence again between them at which time the heater clicked off and they were left with no hum, no white noise, no noise at all, only pure silence. “Anything else?”
“I got a vulgar mouth, but I don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. And I’m a drunkard.” Father Mudd looked at the floor. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore than he did.
“So what do you think so far? Golf balls or cotton balls? Vicky asked.
“Mmmm, more like ping pong balls.”
“Well, how’s this for a golf ball? I’m a harlot, a fornicator and an adulterer. Yeah, I’ve had sex with married men as well as single men. Just how many I couldn’t say. I’ve even had sex with women. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a dyke. I much prefer men. And I only did it three times, the women I mean. The first time I was, well you know, wasted–and sorta curious what it would be like. The second time I was also wasted and lonely and no one else was around.”
“And the third time?”
“I was just plain wasted.”
“Are you sorry for your sexual sins?”
“Sorry,” Vicky repeated the word back in a reflective whisper. “When I was younger, a teenager, I sometimes felt ashamed afterwards. I thought I’d really grown up when I quit feeling that shame. You know, thought I’d become a woman of the world. What a joke! Even those times when I thought it was really love, I look back on it now and I know it was nothing but feelings run wild. I look back on those great loves now and I can see we was just using each other for that high. You know that high where you feel so special, like a queen, like you’re walking on air. That’s the greatest high there is, better than booze, better than dope. But just like any high, once you get what you want you throw the bottle away, you burn the roach up until it’s nothing but ash. It’s the same with so-called love. You use someone to get high then you get rid of ‘em. It’s all so selfish really. Not like real love. Not that I would know what real love is, but I know it’s more than just feelings run wild.
“I don’t know if I answered your question or not. Heck, I don’t know if I’m making any sense or not. But I guess what I’m trying to say is, yeah I’m sorry, sorry for what I’ve done, sorry I can’t feel ashamed and embarrassed no more. I wish I could get that back. I wish I could be…I don’t know.”
“Innocent again?”
“That’s it!”
“Your sexual sins seem to be an extension of all the others. You’re driven by this recklessness, this need for excitement.”
“I didn’t know confession included a free head shrink session.” There was silence again.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Yes. This one’s a freaking bowling ball.” The heater clicked back on. Vicky groaned inwardly at the thought of having to speak louder to be heard over the annoying drone. She made herself sit up straight and look him in
the eye before she proceeded.
“It’s the biggie. Thou shalt not kill.”
He furrowed his brows into a sympathetic look designed to give her the courage to continue.
“You nailed it when you said I got this recklessness in me. But it’s even worse than recklessness. It’s something dark and hateful. I always knew if I ever let it go it would kill someone. I ain’t talked about it since it happened. I’ve tried to put it behind me.”
“Tell me,” he said moving closer.
“When I was seventeen I had this bad accident.” She touched the scar on her cheek and began to tell her story.
The fight with her father that precipitated the terrible incident had always been fuzzy in her mind after that day. So many of the fights all blurred together in her mind, but they all ended the same way–harsh words, accusations, slamming doors, and Vicky escaping from that house into her ticket to freedom–the used GTO Chief Bobby gave her. That terrible day was no different.
“I’m gonna kill that fucker,” she said as she started her engine and turned the GTO around on the long gravel drive that led up to their house. It had been an unseasonably warm day in mid February as the late afternoon sun burnt off the last of its glory. Ordinarily Vicky loved this kind of day with its promise of spring, beckoning her outside and opening up her country girl eyes to the wonders all around. But Vicky didn’t notice the day. She didn’t notice much of anything when that demon anger got a hold of her. She didn’t notice the trees in the woods by her house with their stark branches in silent waiting for the first light green buds to surface. She didn’t notice the sound of the gravel under her wheels.
She turned off the drive onto the long country road without noticing the wide open land that was their neighbor’s tobacco field with its brown earth waiting to be sown once again. Nor did she notice the neighbor’s clothes line with its sheets and dungarees hung upon it for the first time since autumn departed. She didn’t hear the birds chirping loudly as a noisy flock migrated back to their Kentucky home hoping for an early spring. She drove past the land and the farmhouses without turning her head once. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead of her but even so she didn’t see the road. Not really. She’d seen it all too many times. The only thing she noticed was the heat of her blood as it coursed through her veins, the pressure in her temples and the tightness in her jaw. She noticed the burning all through her that made her want to do something terrible with her hands–to hit, to strike, to render the same hurt she felt onto someone or something.
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