Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I ought to see someone.” Again in bra and half-slip, she had returned to the vanity to repair her makeup. “Maybe I ought to see your doxy. Maybe she could tell me how you arouse her passion. We could compare notes. Maybe you’re just doing something wrong by the time you get around to me.”

  “Hey! What’s this all about?”

  “‘Sorry, Em; have to work late tonight. I’m going to stay downtown. Get a good night’s sleep now.’” It was both an imitation and a parody of his phone call to her the previous night.

  “It just so happens that I did stay at the Collegiate Club last night. You may feel free to call and check it out.”

  “Oh, never mind. If you bothered to tell me specifically where you slept, you probably slept there. So what happened—she go home to visit Mommy? Or did you two have a falling out? Trouble in paradise, hmmm?”

  “Where did you ever get the notion that there’s another woman? You haven’t a shred of proof. It’s an unfair accusation, you know, and I resent it!” He hoped—almost prayed—that Em had not identified Jackie at the spa.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Frank. A woman knows.

  “For one thing, if you were not having satisfactory sex with some woman—and by satisfactory, I mean that you’d experienced her orgasm—you’d be plenty worried about yourself. I know you, Frank. God, how I know you. I don’t come, yet you stay serene and relaxed. That’s not you, Frank. That’s not Frank Hoffman, the over-achiever, Frank Hoffman, the smashing success, Frank Hoffman, the macho man, Frank Hoffman, God’s gift to womankind.

  “No, Frank: You know there’s nothing wrong with you because there’s at least one woman somewhere else who is moaning and groaning and coming due to your manly ministrations.”

  Hoffman began to protest, but Emma interrupted him. “No, Frank, just this once let it be my show. We both know I know the truth.” She continued dressing, not for tonight’s party, but for the balance of the day.

  “The point is,” she continued calmly, “that, as the man said, Frankly, Frank, I don’t give a damn. We’re not in love anymore. But we make a good couple. We look good together. So we can show each other off at concerts, parties, weddings, nights on the town, at Company shindigs, and for the benefit of your pal Bishop Ratigan. And if you feel the need, as you apparently did a few minutes ago, I’ll study the ceiling for the duration. It just doesn’t matter.

  “And we won’t get a divorce,” she continued as he sat up and stared open-mouthed at her. “I have no present reason for seeking one, and you can’t afford one: It would ruin your carefully constructed reputation as a good Catholic and a good family man—and that would hurt you at The Company.

  “On top of everything else, you would never settle for even half of our property—and I would never walk away from you without much more than that.

  “So hang on to your mistress, Frank. But just one thing: I don’t ever want to meet her. I mean that! If I ever even see her, all that I’ve just said may very well go right out the window.”

  Fully dressed, she left the room.

  A bravura performance. He was not totally surprised. She always had been a strong-willed, impulsive woman. But the intensity of her attack had brought him up short.

  Gradually, he became aware that he was still naked, sitting upright on the bed. He might just as well begin the day again with a shower.

  As he showered, he considered again all she had said.

  She was right, of course, about the divorce; it was out of the question—for more reasons than she had enumerated. With that in mind, and knowing now how she felt about him, the future did not look all that bright.

  In situations such as this, it was not Frank Hoffman’s habit to sit still and allow fate to have its way with him.

  The more he considered his future, both immediate and distant, the more life with Jackie at his side seemed the ideal solution. At least better. They turned each other on. Jackie was Catholic, too, even though she would be more accurately described as lapsed. Still, there was no previous marriage, no legal impediment to her return to the Church. And even if there were some problem, he was sure Mike Ratigan could solve it. And they would look good together. Better even than he and Em.

  Yes, it seemed right, However, all that did not come close to altering the fact that divorce was out of the question.

  But what other way could he possibly get Em out of his life? He pondered that problem as he stood still and let the hot water massage him.

  Since no one would be at the rectory tonight, Father Koesler had not bothered to shop for treats for the kiddies. An empty parish rectory on Halloween undoubtedly would result in soaped windows. There was no help for it. Today’s schedule had him available for confessions from 4:00 till 5:00 this afternoon, offering the 5:30 Mass; then, after a light supper, he would offer the 7:00 Mass, after which he would again be available for confessions for approximately an hour. And Ratigan would not return until later this evening.

  He glanced at his watch. 4:30. In half an hour he would leave the confessional and begin preparation for the afternoon Mass, another comparatively recent innovation in Catholic life. Before the Second Vatican Council, Church law had obliged Catholics to attend Mass on Sundays. Now, the obligation remained the same, but the time span had been expanded to include any Mass offered after 4:00 p.m. on Saturdays.

  Koesler breathed a sigh of gratitude that Ratigan had been unable to help with confessions today. Koesler’s anticipated crowd of penitents had not materialized. He had thought that the combination of Halloween, the Feast of All Saints, and Sunday might beckon multitudes to the box. But so far, it hadn’t happened.

  There had been a few more adults than usual—people who remembered the good old days when plenary indulgences that could free souls sentenced to purgatory could be easily gained on November 2, the Feast of All Souls. Since plenary indulgences could be gained only by those who were free from serious sin, confession was very popular as these feasts approached. The Feast of All Souls still followed All Saints, but indulgences had pretty well fallen into desuetude. Still, some Catholics had formed the habit of confessing before All Saints’ Day. And for some, the habit was hard to break.

  But Koesler had badly misgauged the number of habit-ridden Catholics.

  He heard the shuffling sound peculiar to someone entering the confessional room. He looked to see who might appear coming around the screened area. Instead, the person knelt on the other side of the screen. Silence. No way for Koesler to know whether the penitent was collecting his or her thoughts or whether he or she was waiting for some sign from the priest to begin.

  “All right.” He got the ball rolling.

  “Oh!” came the startled whisper, as if the penitent were surprised there was actually a priest on the other side of the screen. “Oh . . . bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, uh . . . maybe six months since my last confession.”

  Koesler didn’t recognize the voice. But then he never tried to.

  “I’ve lied a few times. Lost my temper around the house. Got angry at the kids. And missed Mass once—but I had a bad cold. And that’s about it, Father. I’m sorry for these and all the sins of my past life, especially for disobedience.”

  It was a man’s voice. That was clear even through the whisper. And it was not a chronologically elderly man. But, in terms of sacramental and moral theology, this was an old-timer of the first water.

  He had no serious sin to confess. Yet, instead of concentrating on one fault and trying to do something to correct it, he was still bringing in the old laundry list of sins. He felt the need to confess missing Mass even though he had a perfectly legitimate excusing reason. And, finally, after all these years, he still concluded his confession in the very same way he had as a young boy, even to the specification of disobedience as the most serious fault of his lifetime.

  This was the type of penitent who used to confess monthly on a regular basis. After Vatican II, he’d heard that C
atholics might consider going to confession less frequently, perhaps, but more penitently, more resolved to reform. However, he, and many like him, elected to cut back on the quantity while changing nothing else about the quality of their confessions.

  As was his wont, Koesler, at this point, would deliver a brief fervorino. Whether the penitent paid any attention to it or not, he would expect it.

  “Maybe on your way home from work,” Koesler suggested, “you could give a little thought to the difficulties your wife and children have faced that day. Then, if you can try to forget the problems you experienced at work and concentrate rather on how tired and frustrated those at home might be, maybe you will be able to be more thoughtful and considerate to them.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  It was an automatic response. Koesler had expected nothing more.

  “For your penance, say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.”

  Koesler began the absolution in English, but, instead of silently listening to the words, the penitent began reciting the traditional act of contrition. An old-timer to the very end.

  What the hell, thought Koesler, if this guy isn’t going to listen to words he can understand, I’ll just slip into the old Latin formula.

  After Koesler completed the absolution in the ancient language, the penitent rose and departed.

  Koesler felt great. Just like the good old days when everything was automatic. The penitent put sins in “the box” and the confessor wiped them out with an absolution which the penitent could not have understood even if he had been listening. He was not listening because he was mouthing a prayer of contrition by rote. It didn’t make a great deal of sense now any more than it had then. But an occasional nostalgic return to the past could be fun now and again.

  The next penitent entered. Business was picking up.

  Once again, the penitent knelt on the other side of the screen. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . uh . . . oh, it’s been quite a few months since my previous confession.”

  Frank Hoffman. Koesler couldn’t help recognizing the voice, which was pitched softly but not whispering. Besides, Hoffman was the only penitent in Koesler’s experience who correctly referred to his previous confession as “previous” instead of the grammatically incorrect “last” confession. As usual, Koesler had not tried to identify the unseen penitent; he simply couldn’t help knowing who it was.

  “During this time since my latest confession I have been angry many times, frequently with my wife. I have taken God’s name in vain several times. I was tardy for Sunday Mass a few times.” He paused.

  Koesler knew Hoffman to be a very wealthy and important executive. This recitation of a series of mundane peccadilloes caused Koesler to wonder again, as he had many times before, at the lack of “business sins” confessed. In all his years of hearing confessions, he would not have to go beyond the fingers of both hands to count the number of times he had heard anyone confess sins relating to business life. Were Catholics sinless from nine to five? He did not think that possible.

  “And,” Hoffman continued, “I committed adultery many times. Too often to bother counting.”

  Koesler recalled that in his previous confession, Hoffman had confessed to adultery. Yet he could not treat Hoffman as a recidivist, since by kneeling on the other side of the screen, the man had consciously chosen to remain anonymous. He had not been successful in achieving anonymity only because Koesler had recognized a specific speech pattern. Yet for the priest to indicate that he was aware of Hoffman’s identity by bringing up a detail from a previous confession would violate Hoffman’s right to his choice of at least a semblance of anonymity. The rule was that a confessor was not to do anything relating to confession that would be odious to the penitent. On the other hand, based even on this confession alone, Koesler thought he ought to say something about a sin which by Hoffman’s own admission was not only serious but habitual.

  After Hoffman had concluded his confession, Koesler said, “You are a married man, since you confessed being angry with your wife. And the person with whom you are sinning sexually, she is married or unmarried?”

  “She’s . . . uh . . . never been married, Father.”

  “I see.” Koesler paused momentarily.

  “The problem, I fear, is that, no matter how this relationship began, by now you are merely using this woman. Perhaps you are using each other. But it is not likely a healthy or productive dalliance.

  “Worse, since you are married, it has nowhere to go. And I think a continuation of this relationship may be particularly unfair to the woman. Don’t you think you ought to do something about this situation?”

  There was a slight pause. Then, rather brightly, “You know, that’s funny: I was thinking along those very same lines earlier today. I think I have an idea that just may solve this problem. Your advice, in a way, just brought my thinking to a head.” He did not add that Father Koesler might well not approve of his plan if all the details were revealed. That might be a matter to be handled in some future confession.

  “Very good!” Seldom had the priest’s advice been so quickly effective. He felt very good about that. “For your penance, suppose you try to do something particularly nice for your wife.”

  I tried to do that earlier today, thought Hoffman, but she didn’t care for it.

  Koesler absolved Hoffman, who then departed.

  There followed nearly twenty minutes during which Koesler alone occupied the confessional. Once again, he was grateful Bishop Ratigan had been unable to help out. It would have been a long spell before Ratigan would have allowed Koesler to live down the confessional jam that didn’t gel.

  His line of thought was interrupted by a teenager, who hurried around the screen and plopped in the chair opposite Koesler.

  “Hi, Freddie.”

  “Hi, Father.” Freddie settled into the chair as if this were going to be an extended visit. That was seldom the case with fourteen-year-old boys, and it would not be the case with Freddie. “It’s been a couple of months since I was to confession, Father. I really got on my mother’s nerves this time, Father. She’s been on my case for most of the two months. But it finally come to me: It’s my fault. My dad says it’s a phase I’m going through. I hope to hell it is . . . oh, excuse me, Father. But anyway, it was getting so bad I thought I’d try to turn it around and go to confession. And that’s just about it, Father.”

  “What could you do for your mother this evening, Freddie?”

  “Everything! Take out the garbage, clean my room, practice the piano, do my homework, not bug her to go out trick or treatin’, go to bed on time.” Freddie appeared frustrated. “And that’s not the half of it, Father.”

  “Well, every trip begins with the first step, Freddie. So, why don’t you clean up your room for your penance.”

  “Neat!”

  Koesler absolved Freddie and he was gone.

  No one followed him. Koesler glanced at his watch. A quarter to five—fifteen minutes to go.

  Just above his watch, Koesler noticed a speck of dust on the sleeve of his cassock and brushed it off. It brought to mind the old Holy Cross priest who, years back, had been an institution within an institution at Notre Dame. One of the stories about him had it that the Notre Dame boys would go up to the old priest’s room for confession. As each boy knelt by the priest’s chair to confess, he, now having trouble with his memory, would make little chalk marks on the sleeve of his cassock to aid him in remembering what sins had been confessed so he could assess and impose a proper penance.

  One Saturday afternoon, so the story went, a boy arrived at the priest’s room and began confessing violent acts bordering on mayhem. The priest nearly covered his sleeve with chalk marks. “How did you manage to do all this damage?” the priest asked when the student had completed his confession.

  “Playin’ football.”

  “Oh? And who were you playin’?”

  “Southern Methodist.”

  �
�Oh, well,” said the priest, brushing away all the chalk marks, “boys will be boys!”

  Koesler again glanced at his watch. Ten to five. Ten more minutes.

  Koesler reflected upon his habit of checking the time more frequently as the end of any event neared. He decided this would be a good time to review quickly the outline, which existed only in his mind, of the homily he would preach at Masses this weekend.

  However, he was distracted soon after beginning his review by someone entering the confessional. Instinctively, and throughout his years as a priest, Koesler had never come to terms with the last-minute penitent. Especially when most of the hour went by unused by anyone, why did people wait till the last minute? He considered it a thoughtless act. He had never considered that what to him was the last minute was to some penitent his or her only available moment.

  This penitent happened to be Cindy Mercury, well known to Koesler. She stepped around the screen and took the seat opposite him. She was wearing a blue cloth coat with a small artificial fur collar. It seemed an inexpensive garment for one of her station in life.

  Her hair, covered by a silk scarf, was in curlers. To Koesler, a woman whose hair was in curlers was simply stating that she was soon to be somewhere more important than where she was right now.

  Cindy’s husband was an actor. So, unlike the auto executives of the parish, there was little way anyone could estimate Angie Mercury’s income. But Angie and Cindy appeared with some regularity on the lifestyle pages of local newspapers and magazines. And their donations to the Church were substantial. Not as much as Charles Chase or Cindy’s brother, Frank Hoffman, but well above average, nonetheless.

  Koesler considered Cindy perhaps the most attractive of many attractive women in the parish. Her abundant blonde hair seemed naturally wavy, and she had a model’s profile, reminiscent of the late Grace Kelly.

  Koesler picked up the Bible from the small table next to his chair. In the new form of the sacrament of reconciliation, the first rubric was the reading of a passage from the Bible. A rubric that Koesler dispensed with in the confessions of children.