Hello, Good Father

It has never occurred to the priest that the smell of a church could be ruined by words.

This particular scent has always comforted him, evoking memories of stillness and comfort. The smell of old tarnished wood, gently and lovingly polished, and the light odor of dust settling over instruments and iconography have always signaled home to him.

Then, there are those words…

Sitting in a pew three rows back from the altar, the priest glances down at the black notebook sitting on his lap. A bead of sweat lingers precariously on his forehead, and then drips to the cover. The priest closes his eyes momentarily, seeing the words scribbled inside his journal.

“I held her down on a pew in the back of a church that looked like this one. Smelled like this one, too. It was just me, her screams, and the smell of religion.”

The priest’s eyes fly open. There are so many words, too many, scribbled in the black notebook. He knows that, as the confessor, he should not have written them down. The church dictates that they stay within the confines of the confessional and of his heart. However, to not record these confessions would have left them lodged in his brain, a cancer, poisoning the mind until his life was a thing of rot.

The notebook is almost full. How long has the monster been coming to him? He remembers the first day so clearly.

“Bless me, Father. I have sinned.” (A chuckle.) “That’s how it goes right?” (A pause as the priest acknowledges that the monster is correct.) “I haven’t been to one of these since I was a boy. To tell you the truth, I don’t really believe in all of this, in a higher power. Do you know what I believe in? Myself.” (A frustrated sigh.) “But there are some things that we believe as kids that we just can’t move past. I’m sure you understand that. Why else would you become a priest? I bet it had something to do with your childhood. Anyway, I’m here to confess some….things. Just in case there’s a heaven and…well, the other place. Wait." (A pause.) "This is between me and you, right? You can’t tell anyone? As in, maybe, the police?” (Another acknowledgement that the penitent is correct.) “Good.”

The priest wipes more sweat off his forehead. Last night, he had sat down to eat leftover chicken cacciatore and watch the news. It’s part of his evening routine. He doesn’t bother with apps or news alerts or anything that can be spat at you from the screen of a device. He prefers his routine of watching the day’s happenings for only an hour each night. It keeps his thoughts organized. Yesterday, the lead story was the capture of a man law enforcement believed to be a serial rapist. At first, the priest had not paid much attention: it was Friday, after all, and he had been thinking of the approaching Sunday. Then, the news story had started to sound like it had been constructed from the ink scrawls in his black notebook.

“The bodies of two teenage girls were found beside a pond…”

“One of the victims who has come forward claimed that she was paid to recruit…”

“Another victim describes being held down in a church…”

Now, he looks down at the black notebook on his lap. He has come to dread Tuesday nights, the night the monster comes to confession. It isn’t every Tuesday, but that is the day the monster chooses when he does visit the priest. Lately, the Tuesday night confessions have been closer together. Each one starts with the creek of the confessional hinges and three words.

“Hello, Good Father.”

Just thinking of the words now make the priest’s throat expand with a gag. There has been a war in his head, a battle of ethics and altruism. The church demands that he not share the words in the black notebook.

But the girls.

After every one of the Tuesday confessions, he sprints to his office, desperate to regurgitate the words on paper that are hemorrhaging in his brain. There have been tales of violence from sadistic men in hotel rooms. There have been stories of girls bleeding on kitchen floors. There have been accounts of pills dissolving into foaming liquid and knives being pressed into the veins of inner thighs.

The black notebook begins to tremble as the priest’s leg shakes. Stories have a way of being changed, being erased. Will the stories confined to the notebook reveal themselves in another way? Will the world see the truth in the victims’ words? Will the church see his reasoning for giving the notebook as a gift, instead of keeping the confession between him and his Father?

Who will believe mortal girls when the men in the stories are gods?

The priest shifts on the pew below him, his body tired and uncomfortable. He looks up at the figure hanging so miserably from the crude crucifix. There had been a brief moment, earlier today, when he considered the gravest of sins, of seeking out a gun and just…being done. It had been a brief option right after the envelope had appeared on his desk, as if from nowhere. The envelope, which has become another motivation for hiding the black notebook. The envelope, with the unconscionable words hastily written across the front.

“The Good Father: For Your Troubles”

Yes, he had thought of being done with everything then, of leaving humankind to their sins and embarking on a new journey after this life. But, the dark consequences of that particular sin are too bleak.

The notebook is trembling more violently now as the shaking increases. He opens the pages in distraction and finds himself rereading some of the most gruesome of words.

…confessed to the assault of two teenage girls. This time, it was only him. He did not have any of his friends or “recruits” with him. The girls, he said, were maybe twelve and thirteen. He laughed when he told me their ages…

The priest snaps the notebook shut again, causing the cursed envelope he has shoved inside to fall heavily to the floor. His eyes skim the words on the front once again.

“The Good Father: For Your Troubles”

The fact that it appeared on his desk today, the morning after the police apprehended the (allegedly) guilty party means that there is more than one monster. The fact that it arrived under a cloak of invisibility means they are watching him. His mouth fills with saliva and bile threatens to spill onto the aging red carpet covering the sanctuary floors.

The priest had known, as soon as he had seen his unwanted pseudonym, the origin of the envelope. He had suspected what might be inside, but had checked nonetheless.

The crisp bills amount to $20,000.

The notebook sitting on his lap is the key to the remaining girls’ justice. With these stories in the right hands, they can have their day. They will know someone is looking out for them and that, though the information has arrived late, they have a guardian angel. They can still be avenged.

And yet.

Yet.

There is a leak in the roof of the worship center.

There is the children’s ministry, and school is starting soon. The children really need school supplies and their parents have such meager incomes.

There is the soup kitchen every Wednesday night and the utensils are dwindling. They desperately need to order more plates and bowls.

There is a crack in the foundation that has been there for two years.

There is the ministry for young parents. They have five women and two men enrolled in the parenting class.

The priest sighs and begins to rise from the pew, his knees creaking as he bends over to retrieve the envelope. It is time to head to his office and begin his preparations for Sunday. He smiles at his recent choice to purchase a paper shredder rather than a new printer. It will come in handy today. In his mind, he composes lists of school supplies and different things babies and new parents might need.

As he walks purposefully down the aisle of the sanctuary, the smell of the old church is, once again, sweet and inviting.