BRIGHTMOOR CONFESSIONS

by Greg Rhodea

A confession isn’t a confession unless one repents.

“Bless me, Father, for I have skinned.”

Loren frowned and leaned closer to the mesh that separated confessor from penitent. He’d been at it for three extra hours now because Father Tim hadn’t shown up. Night had fallen, and the church outside the confessional was as gloomy as a closed mouth. This would be the last confession of the night, and Loren was tired and eager to get out of the ghetto and back home. He must have heard the man wrong. Yes, that’s it. “How long since your last confession?”

A sound began on the other side of the booth, like someone snapping an empty nutcracker together. Click click click. It took a while for the man to answer, and when he did it came in a whisper. “Five hours.”

Loren leaned closer to the screen, but still couldn’t make out the features of the man on the other side. Nor what was making that clicking noise. Five hours? “I see. Well what would you like to confess?”

“I was a boy.” A sob broke from the other side of the panel, and the clicking stopped. A shuddering inhalation of breath. A shift of bodyweight.

Loren nodded to himself. This wasn’t unusual. He wondered if it was one of the local bums. Detroit was in bad shape—and Brightmoor was the worst of it. Father Tim would have known. He’d served at the parish far longer and been a local gangbanger before his conversion. He even said he liked it here, which Loren couldn’t fathom. Loren leaned in again and sniffed. No alcohol. There was something else though—something rich that carried over the scent of carpet glue and wood polish.

 “I was a boy, right? Maybe nine. Ten. Murph found this cat.” Click click click. “And we—” Another sob. “Oh God.”

“Go on, my son,” Loren said gently. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” He realized that he was holding his water bottle and unscrewing and screwing the cap over and over. He made himself tighten it and put it down on the bench beside him. The dark cherry wood made the water inside look like black ink.

The voice grew flat. “I made him come back in the alley. Hit him on the head. Tied him up. I got Murph’s knife.” Click click click. “When he woke up I started on his legs. I’m sorry, Father, I’m so sorry. I peeled him all.”

A chill went down Loren’s spine. He’d seen a thing on the news where some dead dogs and cats had been found in Brightmoor—flayed. Forgive me Father, for I have skinned. Good Lord. “This is a venal sin,” he said calmly.

The clicking stopped. A deep breath. “No, Father. Mortal.”

“The mistreatment of this animal, as wrong as it was, is not mortal sin. You were only a child. You didn’t know.” Loren realized he had the water bottle again and made himself set it down. “Once you’ve confessed it the stain is washed away.”

The sobbing began again. “Thank you, Father.”

Loren hesitated. It was always a hard call what to press in the confessional and what to save for a counseling appointment—but you couldn’t always get those. “Though that’s not the whole reason you’re here, is it? What you did as a boy.”

Silence. “It’s getting worse.”

“Tell me about it.”

The man stayed quiet so long that Loren wondered if he had fallen asleep.

When the voice came it sounded reverent. “St. Bartholomew, he was skinned—right, Father?”

Loren frowned. “Sounds familiar. But let’s keep this—”

“Do you think God rewarded him? For gettin’ peeled?”

“The Lord rewards his martyrs. Yes.”

“You think he was happy about it—when he got upstairs?”

Loren sighed. “Turn your thoughts to yourself. This is a time to reflect and confess.”

The man’s voice grew muffled, like he was covering his mouth with both hands. “I just have to see them underneath, Father. It’s no good when they’re dead. It’s in the blood—you know?”

Suddenly it struck Loren where he’d heard clicking like that before. When he was a teenager his brother Mark had gone on a mission trip to the Philippines and came back with a butterfly knife. Mark practiced with the thing over and over—till he cut his knuckles and their mom took it away. This clicking was just like that. Unlock, flip, catch, lock. Unlock, flip, catch, lock.

Loren leaned in for another look, but the booth was just too dark to see anything. Lord have mercy. He made his voice light. “If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to purify us from all unrighteousness. But you must be honest.” He almost heard the other man nod.

“Yes, you’re right. I want that, Father.”

“Good. Now tell me about the other animals you have abused.”

Silence. “You saw the news.” The voice was dead flat.

Loren realized he’d unscrewed his water bottle again. He took a drink. Screwed the lid back on. Set it down. “Yes. But don’t worry. Whatever you say here is privileged. Confidential. Protected by law.”

More silence.

Finally the other man spoke. “I bought this rabbit yesterday. From the pet store.” Click click click. “You ever hear a rabbit scream, Father?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.” He had grown up on a farm north of Traverse City and had heard foxes catch them at night out in the fields. It made him cry once as a kid.

The man’s voice was almost a sigh. “Then you know.”

Loren knew.

Suddenly he felt how alone he really was. If Father Tim were here Loren would have felt better. The older priest knew these streets and those who live on them. Anytime thugs got out of line outside, Tim would just step out and flash his old gang tattoos—flaming skulls that ran up and down his forearms. Even junkies figured out pretty quick that Tim was no Father Guido. But Tim was nowhere to be seen tonight, and the church stood empty and alone in a neighborhood that looked more like a warzone.

Loren’s instinct was to spring out of the confessional and run.

But he stood for God.

God stood for him.

“Yes,” Loren said. “I remember the sound. Horrible.”
The man began weeping again. “Oh God, oh God. He screamed, Father, he screamed. I thought it wouldn’t be so loud. He screamed like a woman—a damn woman.”

Loren almost rebuked him, but something stopped the words. “I see.”

“And so I came here,” the man said through choking sobs. “I had to. Animals just didn’t cut it anymore—” The man laughed, a choking snicker that echoed like crickets in the dark.

Animals didn’t cut it any more? All the hairs on the back of Loren’s neck stood up. “What do you mean?” He shifted on his bench.

The laughter cut off. “I’m damn sorry, Father. Sorry to do this.” The wood floor creaked as the man stood up. “I knew I could get a priest alone. I had to. Forgive me.” The man’s voice broke as he wrenched open the door on his side and darted out.

Loren felt lightheaded as he wedged himself sideways in the booth. He latched onto his door with both hands and pulled. Inside he was surprisingly calm. Lord have mercy.

He braced himself for the kick that would splinter the door. He waited for the blade to come punching through the thin wood and strike his fingers. He waited to die.

As the silence rolled on, his heartbeat swelled in his ears like a jackhammer. No sound had ever been more precious. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. He forced himself to slow his breathing. He forced himself to fear no evil.

He held his breath and listened.

Silence.

His arms began to cramp. The sweat ran down his face like hot tears. Still he pulled.

Only when several long minutes had passed did he let himself hope.

He relaxed his grip on the door and leaned back with legs up, ready to kick, to fight, to live.

Only the shudder of his own exhalation broke the quiet.

He leaned sideways and peered through the screen. He could see out that side’s open door, but the dim light showed a deserted sanctuary. The velvet pew cushions looked like black blood. The banners in the narthex swayed like drying skins—in the breeze? Though he could only see a crack of it, the front door of the church stood open to the wind and swirling snowflakes. He could make out a patch of light from the streetlamp and a single hubcap lying out on the sidewalk. I shut that door. But had the other guy opened it coming in or going out?

Loren lowered his feet to the ground and stood. He reached behind him for his water bottle and drained it in one gulp. He screwed the cap back on with shaking fingers and set it on the bench. He stared at the cherry-wood paneling of his door. The thought of opening it and stepping out scared him like nothing else in his entire life.

So he didn’t.

He grabbed onto the beam above his head and struck out with both feet. His kick splintered the door on its hinges, and Loren followed the pieces out, diving and rolling into a crouch like a ninja. He stumbled to his feet and whirled around, fists clenched and up.

The church spun silent and empty around him.

His whole body was trembling by the time he decided he really was alone. He leaned on the nearest pew and prayed in a rush of gratitude—though he kept his eyes wide open.

He was about to head for the church kitchen and call 911 when he saw something pale on the floor of the confessional booth—on the other man’s side. He inched closer. The thing looked like an old cream and red raincoat that someone had twisted up and flung on the floor, still wet from being outside in the snow. The underside glistened. As he leaned over it the smell filled his nose—coppery and rich.

Loren bent over and vomited on the floor.

After he spat and wiped his mouth he stumbled toward the kitchen and the phone. He’d seen all he needed to see—distorted across one pale strip like faces on a deflated balloon.

Skulls. Surrounded by flames.

Father Tim had made it to confession after all.

~*~

After the police took his statement, Loren sat on the bench outside the church. Four cruisers waited with lights spinning while the detectives worked inside. Rubberneckers and worried neighbors watched from the other side of yellow tape. Snow fell. The wind blew. The flash of cameras inside the church flickered like silent lightning.

I hit him on the head, the man had said. I knew I could get a priest alone.

And so he had.

Loren sighed and stood up, pulling the blanket they’d given him tight around his shoulders. When the radios in the cruisers crackled, Loren walked to the head officer down on the sidewalk. “Did they find anything?”

The officer shook her head. “Not yet.”

Loren nodded. He’d told them to start looking in the alleys.

Walking back toward his bench he thought better of it and took the stairs over to the parking lot. From there he looked down the street to the glowing windows of the liquor store. At the two men slumped outside. Across the road to the foreclosed lot where kids played—and smoked. To the graffiti that ran up and down the parking lot wall like leprosy.

Loren frowned.

The man who had killed Father Tim was still out there. And while he had confessed, it didn’t seem to Loren like the guy had exactly repented.

Loren remembered his voice. Remembered his feel.

He looked at the street again, up toward the elementary school. Father Tim had known Brightmoor. Those who lived here, their kids and empty houses. And not just from the old days. Tim had kept up.

Father Loren hadn’t made much of an effort.

He thought about that for a while.

Finally he shrugged off the blanket and walked over to where his neighbors waited behind the yellow line. He didn’t know any of them.

I’m sorry, he prayed.

Original Fiction © 2012 Greg Rhodea