The Dead

“Sure,” MacAleer said, obviously agitated. “But I’m telling you, that witch doctor won’t do you any good.”

“Probably won’t hurt either.”

Dennis and Max walked off toward the priest.

“Don’t I have to know some kind of prayers or something?” Dennis asked.

“Father Chuck’ll tell you what to say,” Max said. “And remember, we’re not promising instant deliverance here. Even if your sins are forgiven, that’s not enough. You do have to believe. MacAleer’s right about that. He’s not as big an idiot as he seems. But faith without works is dead, as Saint James used to say. And unforgiven sins are a big obstacle to belief.”

Making their way round a big green Oldsmobile, they reached Father Chuck, who had temporary custody of MacAleer’s Beretta. The priest looked briefly over his shoulder as they came up, then back through the bay-door windows.

“Father?” Max asked.

“Yes?”

Max hesitated; he had some difficulty asking. “I was…well, wondering if you might hear our confessions.”

“You want me to hear yours?” Father Chuck asked sarcastically.

“Yes, Father,” Max answered, trying to ignore Father Chuck’s tone.

“I’m flattered,” Father Chuck said. “But I don’t do confessions.”

“Come on, Father. I know I’ve rubbed you the wrong way, but…”

“I don’t do confessions,” the priest insisted, apparently in earnest.

“I thought administering the sacraments was supposed to be one of your jobs.”

“Some sacraments. The ones I approve of.”

“You approve of-?”

“Well, not just me. The vast majority of Catholics don’t feel any need to be confessed. And I have no wish to encourage them in something so degrading.”

“Degrading to who?”

“The person who comes crawling in to confess, to be contrite for things that no one needs to be contrite for. All that guilt and self-loathing-the most damaging of emotions. I’m not going to cater to such negative feelings. I prefer trying to lift people up, to make them realize that the glass is half-full, not half empty…”

“What about when the glass is busted, Father?” Max asked.

“Even then, the contents are still on the counter or the floor,” Father Chuck replied.

“Did you learn that in seminary?”

“Yes,” Father Chuck answered stoutly. “Do you really think your hellfire-and-brimstone version of Catholicism is still being taught?”

“So what is it now? Theology of cliches?”

“For some people, the Sermon on the Mount is nothing but a collection of cliches.”

“One man’s beatitude is another man’s banality?”

“The Church must learn to express itself in the modern world. And cliches are an indispensible tool.”

Max laughed, thunderstruck. “You mean they really did teach you theology of cliches? It’s a real subject?”

“I wrote a paper on it.”

“On always seeing the silver lining? Or letting a smile be your umbrella?”

“On how it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive.”

“Is it better?”

“Why do you think it’s become a cliche?”

“Do you also think it’s better to starve hopefully than to eat? Better to lust hopefully than to screw?”

Father Chuck shrugged.” Perhaps it is-my sexual experiences are never that fulfilling. But my mind’s still open.”

“Just like it is about your vows, I take it?”

“Better to let off steam than hold it in.”

“Wouldn’t it be better just to think hopefully about letting off steam? That way you could live up to your vows and your cliches.”

“How medieval.”

Medieval? Max thought. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what Father Chuck meant.

“Besides,” the priest went on, “most American Catholics think priests should be allowed to marry, or would if they thought about it.”

“Father, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I’m sorry I’m not to your tastes.”

“Look, I’m sorry too,” Max said, exasperated. “But all this is beside the point.”

“And what’s the point?”

“Confession. Would you at least go through the motions for us?”

“Will that work?” Dennis asked anxiously. “Doesn’t he have to believe?”

“No,” Max said. “Once he’s been ordained, he has the powers for the rest of his life, no matter what he does. He could become a Marxist, and still absolve us.”

“Some of my best friends are Marxists,” Father Chuck said. “And they don’t do confessions either.”

“I believe it,” Max said.

“And I very much resent this notion that priests are actually repositories of magic. I’d reject that kind of power in any case. What am I, a witch doctor?”

“I guess not.”

“Max, he says he doesn’t have any power,” Dennis said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Max answered. “If we can just get him to administer the sacrament-”

“Get me to act contrary to my own beliefs, you mean,” Father Chuck snapped. “Well, you might as well forget it.”

“Maybe we should just hold a gun to your head,” Max said.

“Now hold on, Max,” Dennis protested.

“Just kidding,” Max said, and paused. “You wouldn’t be denying us the sacrament because you don’t like me, would you, Father?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure I buy that stuff about standing firm in your convictions. Not after you made such a big deal about going back to help those people, then wimped out yourself.”

Father Chuck spun, eyes burning. “You bastard.”

“Come on, Uncle Dennis,” Max said.

They headed back toward MacAleer.

“Don’t you think that was being pretty rough on him?” Dennis asked.

“Maybe,” Max said. “I’m real tired. And pissed off. I think confession works, you see. Which means he was being a lot rougher on us than I was on him. He’s a son of a bitch.”

He spat.

Max caught some sleep, woke for a stint on watch, and dozed off again after Jamie MacAleer replaced him. Waking once more three hours later, well into the afternoon, he had some food.

“Think we should try to start that Oldsmobile?” Dennis asked.

“What the hell,” Max said, screwing the top back on his canteen. He got to his feet, and they went out to the car.

“Hey,” Jamie called, “When’s someone going to relieve me?”

Max looked over his shoulder at him. The teenager held Max’s Remington, and had it pointed carelessly at him and Dennis.

“Hold your water,” Max replied. “And aim that thing some place else, huh?”