my eyes: the suffering they feel when I deny them what they need.
'SO IT'S OVER THEN,' ROSARIO says to me on the phone.
'It's over. They'll both be put to death, eventually.'
She is silent, and I feel that silence, understand it. It's the silence of the unfulfilled, the unfinished sentence.
'Why doesn't it make me feel any better?' she asks me.
'You know why.'
She sniffles. She is crying.
'Yes, I guess you're right.'
It's not enough because her child is still dead, will always be dead, will never come back. Nothing fixes that, not ever.
'Thank you for calling me, Smoky. And for . . . well, everything.'
'Good-bye, Rosario.'
We hang up and I know good-bye means good-bye for good. The families of the victims don't seek me out; I am forever associated in their minds with the loss of their loved ones. Rosario is grateful, they always are, but I need to be their past, not their future. It used to bother me; I understand it much more personally now. I drive to my next stop and consider the past weeks. Have I learned anything? As much as I despise learning because of my brushes against the monsters, I also know it's one of the main things separating me from them; I can learn and change, they cannot. Secrets. They run through everything we do, everything we are. Religion calls them sins, and says they'll keep us from heaven. They can be big or small. We can hold on to them like they were bars of gold. Everyone has them.
Maybe religion has it right, but perhaps it's just a metaphor. Maybe, just maybe, we carry heaven and hell with us, right here on earth, all the time. Maybe holding on to our darkest secrets puts us in a living hell, and perhaps the relief we feel when we disclose them is a form of heaven.
*
*
*
'HI, FATHER,' I SAY.
Father Yates smiles, happy to see me. The church is empty. He guides me to the first pew and asks me to sit down.
'How are you?' he asks me.
'I'm well, thanks. How are you?'
He shrugs. 'Better. Some things have changed. Churches have been issued equipment to check for bugs in the confessionals. Issued with the PR edict of 'ensuring, in this age of technology, that the sacrament remains sacrosanct.' '
'Someone's going to put two and two together eventually.'
'I agree. But the church is reluctant to admit its weaknesses.' He grins. 'Which is one of its weaknesses.'
'Still not jockeying for a cardinal-ship, I see,' I tease him.
'I'm not built for that kind of politics, so it's just as well.'
'Yeah, me neither.'
'Then I guess we'll both just continue to do what we do.'
'I guess so.'
'Interesting, though,' he muses. 'Michael Murphy said that he was about the truth, but in the end, he may do more damage to the safe haven of confession than anyone else in the history of the Catholic Church.'
'He'll never see it that way, Father. Not in a million years. They can't deal with their own contradictions.'
We fall silent. I look at Jesus, still paint-chipped, still suffering.
'Why are you here, Smoky?'
'I need something from you.'
'What?'
I hesitate. Find Jesus again.
Am I sure about this?
'I need you to hear my confession again. It'll be brief.'
He studies me for a moment and then he stands up and indicates the way to the confessional booth.
'FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I have sinned. You know how long it's been since my last confession. I lied to a man today. It was a big lie.'
'What was the nature of this lie?'
'I told him I had done something, something terrible. I later told him I had lied, that I hadn't really done what I'd said.'
'But you had?'
The big question, with the big answer, the one that never leaves me. It's there with me when I wake up, when I go to sleep, as I go through my day. It played a part, I'm sure, in my career choice.
'Yes. I had actually done what I confessed to him.'
'Do you want to tell me what you told him?'
'No, Father.'
A pause. I can almost hear him thinking this through. I can sense his reluctance, and his suspicion.
'This thing you told him, do you think God heard it too?'
'If He exists, then it was really meant for Him, Father.'
'I see. So you want to admit here that what you said was true, but you don't want to say it again.'
'Something like that.'
He sighs.
'Do you want to be forgiven for this thing?'
'I don't know, Father, to be honest. I just know I want to admit that it happened. That's a start, isn't it?'
'Yes, Smoky. It's a start. But I can't give you penance or absolution this way.'
'Penance is under way and has been for a long time. As far as absolution goes . . . we'll have to see. I just need to know that you heard me, Father. I'm still not sure if forgiveness is a part of the picture.'
I'd ask my mom, if I could.
'I heard you, Smoky. And if you ever want to tell me more, I'll listen.'
'I know, Father. Thank you.'
I HEAD DOWN THE HIGHWAY toward home and Bonnie and Tommy and I think of my mother. I remember her beauty, her smiles, her temper. I remember every second I spent with her, and I cherish those memories for what they are: times and places that will never exist again.
I killed my mother when I was twelve. I did it from love, true, but I've always wondered: Is that why I can understand the monsters the way I do? Because there's a little bit of monster in me too?
What do you think, God?
He remains silent, which is my continuing and basic problem with Him.
Mom?
Maybe it's my imagination, but the breeze in my hair through the car window feels like a reassuring touch, and I am, for a moment, at peace.
44
'HOW IS SHE?' I ASK.
'See for yourself,' Kirby says.
The hotel room Callie chose to quit Vicodin in has seen better days. She's lived inside this room for twelve days now and it reeks of sweat and vomit. She'd refused to go to a formal treatment center, which hadn't surprised me.
'Housekeeping is going to hate us when we finally let them clean this place up,' I observe.
