Father Walker was a conduit. And, he had to admit, it felt good to be special.
That Saturday was no different than most. Although there was a screen that separated him from the confessor, he knew their voices. He knew who had stolen from their neighbor, who had impure thoughts of a friend, and who had taken the Lord’s name in vain. Father Walker listened, inquired as to how they could repair the damage they had inflicted on family and friends and then provided a list of penance to earn the Lord’s forgiveness. Hail Mary’s, the Lord’s Prayer, and such.
Late in the afternoon, Father Walker was feeling sleepy. The confessional was stuffy that time of day. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He would remain another twenty minutes before closing confession.
He felt good. He was doing God’s work. In that manner, he earned his own forgiveness. That was his penance.
The door opened.
Someone sat.
Father Walker sat up and cleared his throat, smoothing out the wrinkles on his lap. The silence stretched out. He tried not to look through the screen, felt that privacy was due to the confessor. But he couldn’t help himself, not when a minute had gone by without a word. However, he couldn’t see who was there.
Perhaps the person was new to confession.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Father Walker said. “You begin with that when you enter confession.”
Silence.
Strangely, a cold shiver ran down Father Walker’s back. He folded his hands on his lap, feeling the quiver in his palms.
“You shake,” the confessor said. “Do you know why?”
Father Walker swallowed but his throat was dry.
“Do you know why you fear?” the confessor continued.
“Son, this is a confessional. You need to confess your sins so that I may offer you God’s absolution in return.”
Silence filled the confessional.
Father Walker’s insides turned icy.
His mouth worked silently. His tongue was gummy. The medicine had that effect on him, but now his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth like a communion wafer.
“Who do you confess to, Father?”
“The Lord hears my confessions.”
“Does anyone else?”
“Listen, son, you need to—”
“Does anyone know the secrets you keep?”
The anger that attempted to burn away the cold shivers was snuffed by a paralyzing grip of fear. He knows. Oh, dear Lord, he knows. He knows.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” Father Walker muttered. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of death—”
“What about your flock? Are you not their shepherd?”
“The Lord hears my prayers. He guides my hand and words. He forgives. He sent his only begotten Son to die for the sins of the world. Only he has the power to forgive.”
Father Walker squeezed his hands like one was trying to strangle the other.
“You have no right to come into my Father’s house and cast judgment.”
He took a deep breath.
Pressed his face to the screen.
“You have no right.”
Father Walker stood up. His knees, weak.
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE ME IN THE PRESENCE OF THE LORD!”
Father Walker jumped out and reached for the confessor’s door. He had no right to expose a confessor but this was no ordinary confessor. This was not one of his flock. This was an intruder imitating the word of God, casting stones in his house. It was Father Walker’s duty to clean the Lord’s house.
To purge it.
He threw open the confessional.
Empty.
His breath, laboring. He stepped in and looked around the tiny room no bigger than a closet. There was no way, no way, no way, no way, no way, NO WAY, NO WAY…
“Father?”
Ms. Sidling was standing outside the confessional, her purse over her shoulder and her eyebrows knitted with concern.
Father Walker left the church. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t exactly walking. He just needed out. He needed a breath. He needed to clear his mind.
And he could use a pill.
XVI
Father Walker believed in structure.
He didn’t feel like walking in the park, but it was Wednesday. He needed to walk; he needed to prepare his homily. It wasn’t like he could call off mass.
But you can call in sick.
I’m not sick.
Yes. You are.
Not like that—
He shook his head. Ever since he started with the Zoloft, he started having conversations with himself. They were just thoughts, but they felt real. Too real.
Fresh air.
Father Walker parked his car at the entrance and started his typical route around the baseball diamonds and toward the lake. He walked slowly, hands folded over his stomach, and focused on one foot and then the other. Usually, the sounds of squabbling ducks and the smell of cut grass cleared his mind and his homily unfolded. In cases like today, he reached for a notebook with scriptures that would inspire him.
He opened it at random.
Proverbs 28:13. Whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.
The book clapped shut.
Father Walker put it in his pocket. His pace quickened.
He didn’t want to think of confession. He’d confessed his sins already. He had been forgiven. He didn’t need approval of his fellow man, only the Lord.
Only Jesus.
Father Walker finished his walk.
He got in his car and headed back to the rectory without a word prepared for his homily. Nothing came to him.
XVII
The hospital room was softly lit over the head of the bed.
Father Gordon was breathing softly. The tube was beneath his nose. The wires still in place on his head and chest. His wrists still bound to the bed.
Father Walker let the door close behind him.
It had been a month. Father Gordon’s complexion was ashen. His cheeks sagging. A line of saliva glistened from the corner of his mouth.
Father Walker remained standing.
He didn’t want to sit.
He didn’t want to stay.
He just wanted to see the man. Guilt gnawed at the thoughts he was entertaining. Thoughts of ripping the cords from his head, yanking away the oxygen tube; thoughts of wrapping his hands around his throat and hurting him.
Hurting him, badly.
Something Father Walker couldn’t do when the old man was alive and well. Father Gordon was just too cantankerous. Just too mean.
Now he was withering in a hospital bed and, somehow, he still weighed on Father Walker. Still a burden. He always thought when he was dead and gone, that he would pay for his sins when he faced the Lord and Father Walker would be free of his burden so that he could be a true shepherd to his flock.
But he wouldn’t die.
He just wouldn’t die.
“Why must I suffer for you?” Father Walker muttered.
You choose to suffer, he answered himself.
Father Walker stood at the door, hand on the knob, afraid to get any closer to the old man, afraid he would do something he would regret. He stayed until a nurse came into the room to record his vital signs.
Father Walker rushed to the steps.
Who takes your confession?
Shut up.
Who hears your sins?
He sprinted down the steps.
Sprinted to his car.
XVIII
Yellow pulled the last bag of mulch off the wheelbarrow.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead. The flowerbed was clean of weeds. The entire thing. She was sure there was so much more to do, but someone was keeping the weeds out of the ground.
And she knew who.
He’s still here.
She slept well at night. She slept deep and clean. She never saw him outside the trailer or when she walked to the church or even in the gard
en, but he was around.
Theresa sat on the bench and blew smoke at the sky. She’d strained a muscle loading one of the bags of mulch into the truck and had to rest. She moved the bench back under the shade of the crape myrtle and resumed a relaxed position.
Yellow tore open a bag of cedar and took a moment to inhale the fragrance. Of all the chores, this was her favorite. It used to be that the smell of earth and wood brought her closer to feeling special – closer to God. She enjoyed the warm feeling of the shredded chips in her hands and the way it looked when it was spread evenly among the plants.
Bag after bag, she emptied into the garden and spread it on hands and knees. Theresa even got up after awhile to pick up the empty plastic bags. Yellow continued mulching. Theresa tapped her on the shoulder and held out a bottle. Yellow took a swig of water and wiped her face.
She went back to work.
Until a shadow fell over her.
She looked up at a man.
A very grave man.
XIX
Father Walker paced inside his study.
It was Saturday. Mass was at 5:15 pm. He was not finished with the homily. In fact, he had not written a single word. Instead, he paced back and forth, occasionally looking out the window. At some level, he knew what the homily was going to be. But first, he just needed to do something. Maybe if he did this something he could go back to a homily that was safe and helpful to his congregation.
Safe.
I just want to feel safe.
Lord, forgive us our trespasses.
A car door slammed.
Father Walker peeked out the window. Theresa was getting out of her red truck. She opened the tailgate while Yellow came around the other side with the wheelbarrow.
Father Walker turned away.
He paced again. He thumped his hand against his legs, thinking and thinking. Fear spread throughout his stomach like ice crystals. He splashed water on his face. He just needed to do this. He was acting ridiculous.
Like a child.
He was a leader of men. He was a chosen voice of God and he was hiding from the truth. It was just words. It was what he needed to do.
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Father Walker forced his door open. He forced his way outside.
The sun was fierce.
He covered his eyes with sunglasses.
Children were squealing at the playground. The Johnstons and Gladstones were having a picnic. There were several other cars in the parking lot. Someone was getting out of a red Mustang and waved at Father Walker. It was that doctor. Doctor Espada.
He ducked around the building.
His wingtips crunched in the gravel.
Theresa was standing at the end of the path, holding plastic bags. She was watching the black ponytail bob above the bed of coleus. The yellow ribbon flipped back and forth as Yellow spread mulch. The ribbon was bright, like the sun. The ribbon fluttered and shined against the blackness of her hair.
Lead us not into temptation.
Father Walker forced his feet to continue forward.
He forced each one, cold with fear, to aim for the bouncing ribbon.
His thighs were numb.
His chest, cold and tingly.
He stopped over the young girl, hands buried in the fresh mulch.
“Hello, Father Walker,” Theresa said.
Father Walker stood there.
Yellow looked up
Their eyes met.
He was remembering things he’d seen like it was yesterday. Things that happened. He imagined all the things that happened that he didn’t see. He knew the things that had happened and Father Walker said nothing, said nothing, said nothing.
NOTHING.
But deliver us from evil.
“I’m sorry, Amarillo,” he said.
“Father Walker?” Theresa said. “Are you all right?”
Yellow stood on her knees.
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lens. She couldn’t see the redness and the wetness.
She looked behind Father Walker.
“Father Walker, hello.” A young woman – blond hair and black leather satchel – came down the path. “We have an appointment at 2:00.”
The blond woman smiled at Yellow, said hello to her. She said hello to Theresa. She held out her hand to Father Walker.
“I’m Amanda Spaulding from Catholic Charities.”
Father Walker just stared.
Just stared.
Just stared.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting…”
Father Walker walked off.
Amanda’s smile faltered. She followed him down the path where a dark-skinned couple waited. They were looking at Yellow. They greeted Father Walker.
“What was that all about?” Theresa said.
Yellow shook her head.
They watched Father Walker and the three people look back before going around the corner.
Theresa lit a cigarette. “What was he saying sorry for?” she asked.
Yellow grabbed another bag. She went back to work.
Her hands were shaking.
XX
The organ pipes vibrated the walls.
Father Walker stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his sleeves and collar. He combed his hair, his eyes never leaving the reflection. He took the large, wireframe glasses off and put them on the shelf, noticed the dark rings beneath his eyes, how deeply they appeared to be set in his gaunt face.
He’d become a ghost.
An empty man.
“Father?” Jimmy Farris cracked open the door. He was holding the golden cross. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
The organist had started the procession hymn over.
5:25.
Yes. Yes, we must go.
Father Walker left his glasses.
He joined the two altar boys waiting at the doors. The ushers stood next to them, nodding to Father Walker. He assumed a holy pose and followed the boys down the red carpeted aisle that divided the church in half.
Father Walker felt naked.
He felt the eyes of the congregation. They watched him walk to the altar. Watched him walk the three steps to take his place and raise his hands.
He felt Jesus on the cross, hanging above the altar, watching him begin mass. Jesus with the spikes through his palms, through his feet. Jesus with the crown of thorns and wounds in his sides.
Jesus, who died for their sins.
Jesus, who cleansed the world.
Sin is still in the world.
Sin is among us.
We are born into it.
Father Walker operated like a machine, reciting the opening prayers and procedures, something he’d done thousands of times. He kept his eyes cast down as he took his seat and allowed the lectors to read passages from the bible. He sat numbly.
He sat coldly.
The stained glass windows cast colored light on the parishioners. The windows depicted the Stations of the Cross. The windows illustrated Jesus dragging his cross to Golgotha while Roman soldiers stood by and watched. Jesus bled in the streets while people watched.
He was crucified while we watched.
While we did nothing.
Jesus was crucified.
A long silence hung in the church. Some folks began to murmur. Jimmy leaned over.
“Father?”
Father Walker stood up. He paused long enough for sensation to return to his legs. He did not want to fall, but he could not feel much besides the quiver of fear.
He took his place at the podium.
Eyes upon him.
Jesus watching.
He stood there. There were no notecards. There was no homily.
Father Walker stood there, alone.
He looked out.
The congregation looked back. Heads tipped toward one another and whispers fluttered off the walls. The silence continued until the doors opened.
A boy stepped into th
e church.
Drayton dipped his fingers in the holy font and crossed himself. He remained in the back.
Father Walker stood quite still. He saw his people. He saw their children.
I am the Roman soldier.
“Father Gordon,” he said.
I stood by.
His voice quivered. It was loud enough to get the attention of everyone. It was pained enough to hold their curiosity.
I watched.
“Father Gordon… molested…”
I did nothing.
“Your children.”
A collective breath. Confused expressions.
Father Walker held onto the podium. His knees knocked into the lower portion, but he held on to keep from falling. He held on to finish what he needed to do.
He was so cold. So scared.
“And I knew this,” Father Walker continued, his voice cracking. “I have known what he has been doing for ten years.”
Several people stood up.
Families in the back rushed out the doors, hands over the children’s ears.
Someone shouted.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
And Father Walker began to weep.
He let go of the podium. He fell into a heap and cried into his hands, felt the hot flush of tears pooling in his palms. Heard angry shouts. Heard the shuffle of a crowd. Some people came to him.
Some left.
Most remained, confused.
Drayton left Father Walker to his confession. His opportunity at redemption.
XXI
Yellow pulled the brush through her hair, still wet from the shower.
The ribbon was draped over the mirror while she ran the knots from her hair. When she finished with the left side, she started on the right. She put the brush down, pulled her hair back with both hands with an elastic band between her lips and tied it off.
Someone knocked on the front door.
There were strange voices. The volume on the television was turned down. She didn’t recognize who it was. She was relieved. She didn’t want Father Walker coming over to the house. She didn’t want anyone from the church coming over. Theresa asked her, again, why Father Walker would apologize. Someone had called after 5:15 mass that night and said Father Walker made some weird confession on the altar. Theresa said it was hogwash, that Father Walker was under stress and sometimes people say things they don’t mean. Still, she wanted to know why he apologized.
The Drayton Chronicles Page 17
