The Confession

Father Leonard Spencer slumped into the fatigued oak chair in the center compartment of the confessional at St. Rita’s. Sliding the parched, wooden panel to his right revealed the carved, ancient face of a twisted cripple, leaning forward on the wall. No telling how long he’d been there.

Spencer nodded, signed himself, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…welcome my son. What is your confession…?”

“Up yours, Lenny!” the old man seethed in a thick Boston accent.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you heard me. Father Spencer my ass!”

“Sir, I – “

“Shut up, Lenny!” he growled, brandishing a thirty-eight, “…what I gotta say to you is comin’ outta da’ business end of this.”

Father Spencer stared at the revolver, looked into the man’s eyes and deliberately began, “What is it you want…?”

“Stand up, like a man, walk outta here with me, back to your rectory. Open that safe in the closet, take out all the money, put it in that blue velvet bag you keep. You hand that bag to me…then sit your ass down.

Silently, Spencer turned off the lights over the confessional stalls, exiting his own as the stranger emerged. He motioned toward the front of the sanctuary, and the two men walked in lockstep up the side aisle, exiting out the door to the left of the altar. Spencer ambled down the staircase, toward the side door of the rectory – the stranger hobbling close behind, pointing the gun in his jacket pocket at Spencer.

When they reached the rectory door, Spencer stopped, turned and looked at the man limping toward him.

“Go on,” he snarled, “open it...or I’ll put one in your kidney.”

Spencer slowly extracted the keys from his pants pocket, turned the lock, and pushed open the inside door, stepping in.

“Far ‘nuff, you weasel!” the stranger barked. Steadying himself with left hand on the door jamb, he lowered the revolver – out of breath, wheezing. Hunched over, he wagged the gun at Spencer, “Get me a glass of water.”

Both shocked and stricken by the sight of an old man threatening violence, yet so frail, Father Spencer nodded, “I’ll be right back,” walking toward the kitchen.

“Hey!” the old man barked, “…don’t you try callin’ the cops or some other bullshit!”

Stopped cold, Father recognized who’d come calling. He remembered the last time he’d heard that phrase, don’t you try callin’ the cops or some other bullshit.

“I’m just getting you a glass of water…that’s all.” Spencer walked deliberately into the kitchen, drew some water into a tumbler, returning seconds later to find the man standing more erect, more composed than before.

Spencer motioned, “Shall we?”

“After you!”

Single file, they proceeded into the rectory office, Father Spencer calm, in perfect posture; the older man limping in obvious pain to keep up.

“The key,” Spencer said, pointing, “…is in my side drawer. I’m just going to –”

“Go on!” the old man interrupted, “I know…get the key outta the cigar box, and unlock the closet door.”

Obviously, Spencer realized, he had been casing and observing behaviors for some time. He’s patient, calculated, knows what he wants. Does he know the rest…?”

Spencer inserted the key into the deadbolt, twisted it to the right and opened the door. Smells of ancient papers, dried fountain ink, and cleaning solution greeted the old man as Father Spencer stepped aside.

“Gee-zus!” the old man coiled his nose and lips, “what da’ fok do you keep in there...?”

“There are birth, baptism and marriage documents dating to 1882,” Spencer answered.

“Naw! I mean, that – that chemical?! Smells like the morgue!”

“Morgue?”

“Yeah, my job in da’ joint, asshole!”

“It’s just a cleaning fluid.”

“Disgusting! Now…fill that blue bag.”

“Well, I have to open the safe first.”

“So…? Open it!”

Nodding, Spencer turned and began twisting the combination dial left, then right. Finally, on the third number, an audible “click.”

Turning toward the old man, he said, “Well, Willy – would you prefer to do the honors? Or, shall I open it…?”

“So…you do remember me?”

Spencer turned toward him, “Willy Baxter. Yeah, I remember you. You’re the last.”

“Of a dying breed! No shit! You left Vinny, Thomas, Randy and me…holding the bag – literally!”

“Willy, before you—”

“Shut up and fill the bag, ya’ little prick!”

Father Spencer withdrew the bag from the safe, held it up in his right hand and said, “Willy…there’s no money here. One of the knights takes all the cash from the weekend Masses on Monday afternoon to the bank. Thought you’d know that, given other details of which you’re obviously aware…?”

“What?!”

“Willy…it’s Tuesday.”

“Gee-zus!” he shuddered, “This Alzheimer's gonna kill me yet!”

“What?!”

“You’re bullshittin’ me…right?”

“No, Willy. The Sunday collections go to the bank on Monday. It’s Tuesday. I think it’s time we just…talk.”

The old man wheezed, trying to right himself. Mercifully, gravity brought him to the cushioned chair in front of Spencer’s desk, where he slumped, reached into his jacket, extracting a silver pill box, laying it on the desk. With shaky hand, he lifted a nitroglycerin tablet, placed it on his tongue…the thirty-eight still trained on Spencer.

Moments later, he wheezed a sigh, shook his head and chuckled, “Lenny Shienowitz…gotta hand it to ya’, you found one helluva gig to hide behind all these years. Never figured a Brooklyn Jew for a Catholic priest!”

“Well,” Spencer nodded, “…this wasn’t exactly something I planned on.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean,” Spencer paused, “I didn’t bargain on God…intervening.”

“All ya’ had to do was drive the car – straight shot – over the damn bridge. We split up, five directions. Vinny takes the money to da’ Jew on fifty-second, he launders it, and three months later, we meet in the Caymans. What’s so hard ‘bout that plan, huh?! But, ohh, no!! You gotta get some twitch in your short-hairs, take off and leave us – holdin’ our dicks with bags o’ money!

You know, I told Vinny – I told him – ‘don’t trust this kid! There’s somethin’ not right between his ears!’

But, ohhh noo! Vinny jus’ vouched for you, said he knew your father…said, “NO WAY! No way this kid would screw this up!”

Father Spencer just listened, staring at Willy.

“So, ‘Father Spencer,’ Willy snarled, “what’s your story, eh? What!? Jesus come down and show you da’ way?”

For long seconds, Spencer stared into Willy’s eyes – Willy staring back. Finally, Spencer leaned forward and said, “Something like that, yes.”

“What?!”

“While I waited that night for you guys, something happened. Something we never counted on. I – I couldn’t have known what God was about to reveal.”

“What – the – hell – ah you talkin’ about?”

“Willy, I’m talking about the miracle of life…

A young woman staggered out of the alley directly in front of me, and collapsed. I didn’t recognize, in that moment, what was happening…until…until he sprung from his mother’s womb! One minute, I’m idling the engine, posting lookout; the next, I’m dealing with a very pregnant woman, about to give birth!

What was I to do, Willy…? The poor woman needed a caesarean, and was bleeding badly. What was I to do?

I started to take her to the emergency room, but she insisted we use another entrance. Before I knew it, the kid was crowning! There was no way to put off what was happening…she was giving birth!! I had two choices: help her, or get outta the way.”

“But what da’ fok does this have to do with—

“She was dying, Willy!! She needed medical attention and—”

“What da’ FOK does THIS HAVE TO DO WITH—”

“She was your FIANCÉ, Willy!! Mary needed help…and she was your bruised, battered fiancé!! You sunovabitch!”

Willy sat stunned, seemingly comatose. His eyes welled up.

“I assume,” Spencer continued, “Alzheimers hasn’t completely wiped your memory of her…? After all, it was fifty years ago.”

“What – what happened to her?”

“She died, Willy.” Spencer glared at Willy, “Don’t you even want to know…about your son?”

“She – she just disappeared. I thought, ya’ know…she musta ran away.”

“Mary ran for help. For some reason, she hadn’t left you. Though I’ve seen plenty in over forty years of priesthood, I must say – I’ll never understand battered women who stay. That night, our dreams died…but not before delivering you a son. I took her to Langone Emergency. A half-hour later, she was gone.”

“Where’s my son?” Willy sneered. “You didn’t have the decency to bring him to me…?”

“There was no way I would ever let him go to you.”

Willy cocked the thirty-eight, aimed at Spencer’s head, but Spencer was calm.

“He went to a good family, Willy. Believe me…I did you both a favor. He grew into a fine man. Tragically, he met with violence three years ago. All these years, I’ve used most of my savings and stipends from the diocese to help him. First, a college fund. Then, a down payment to help him and his young bride buy a first home.”

Willy’s tears spilled across the crevasses of his cheeks. “What – what was his name?”

“Emanuel. They named him, ‘Emanuel.’”

Willy shook his head, “But...why you, Lenny? Why did she come to you? And waddaya mean, ‘our dreams died’?”

Father Spencer drew a deep breath and spoke slowly, “I loved her, Willy. Mary and I loved each other. We met right after she moved in with you. We were going to be married, soon as I got my share from the job. We were going to marry, go out west…and never come back.”

“What?! You mean, Emanuel was yours?!”

“No, Willy…he was yours! Your responsibility! But you just couldn’t stop smacking her around…could you?

So…when she died, I did three things. The first was telling them I was the father. The second was placing him for adoption. The third was entering a monastery. While there, I – heard the call, so to speak. And after witnessing the miracle of birth – even the birth of another man’s child from the womb of the woman I loved – I knew then that without Mary, I had no place to go…except to God…if He would have me.”

“You piece o’ shit!” Willy stood and leered over Spencer, thirty-eight poised to fire. Rounding the desk, he shoved the barrel against Father Spencer’s right temple, and said, “Are you tellin’ me there’s no money?”

“In fact, Willy, there is money – twenty thousand dollars – in a secure location.”

“Where?”

Spencer nodded, “You’ll find it there,” pointing to a small black notebook on his desk.

“Whaddayew talkin’ about? No more games, you!”

“The matins.”

“The what??!”

“A Book of Matins – morning prayers. My favorite prayers, reflections I’ve written, other notations…insights over the years. I wrote them all in that black notebook.”

Willy grabbed the frayed, weathered notebook and flipped quickly through it.

“What da’ hell!?” he barked, tossing the book on the floor, “I said no more games!”

“Willy…in that book are coordinates. They lead to Mary’s grave. Find her grave and you’ll find the key to unlock a metal box under the base of her tombstone. The coordinates are right there, in the book. Twenty-grand is all that’s left.”

Willy hunched over, growled and moaned as he straightened, holding the book. Glaring at Spencer, he asked, “How do I find these coordinates...?”

“Well, for that, Willy, you need to read the book. Every reflection, every notation I’ve made in the margins. Do that, then decide what you want to do.”

“You sonuvabitch! You think you're gonna get me to read a buncha prayers…? I’d sooner shoot you!”

Spencer paused, a wry smile forming, “Then shoot me, Willy. Shoot me…because there’s no way you’re walking out with easy answers. There are no easy answers to God’s miracles. Your penance is to read the book.

So, Willy…what’s mine?”