Authors: Chuck Stepanek
The St. Marks church council had approached the subject a few times, but Father Milliken had stood up to them, and justifiably so. “I’m a one man operation. There’s only so much I can do. Now if the council would entertain putting out a call for a second priest, then yes, by all means.” The council was in no condition to put out a call to compete for the rapidly depleting pool of men
entering the priesthood. This F
ather Milliken knew. But eventually the pressures became too great. Sunday attendance was dropping because neighboring St.
Olaf's
in Winona
did
have a Saturday service. And every sport fisherman in the summer,
deer
hunter in the winter, and day-tripper in the spring and fall who wanted their Sundays free, merely made the 15 minute drive on Saturday night and were good with the lord for the next seven.
The effect was felt not only in the pews, but also in the collection plates. They agreed on a compromise. Father Milliken would be relieved of his responsibility to teach the Wednesday night adult CCD class, it would now be taught by the director of lay ministries. Also, Wednesday night confession would be moved to Saturday. We could have church at 6 and confession at 7.
Gus thought about it. He was inwardly tickled to be out of the adult CCD role.
It
was
the equivalent of
creating an independent sermon in itself each week. A Saturday night service, not so bad. Besides, any altar boy willing to give up his Saturday night would be more likely to give up… “Let’s do it.” He agreed.
The Saturday evening service also became a nice little dress rehearsal for his Sunday sermons. He could try new material with the smaller ‘contemporary crowd’ and if it worked, use it on Sunday. Gambits that did not go over well, were scratched out of his sermon notes.
Over time, Gus grew to tolerate the Saturday night routine. The mass was not laid back by any means, but it was a little less stuffy. And confession? Confession (regardless of the day of the week) was nothing less than monotony.
So on this November evening he paraded down the main aisle to the confessional. It was a signal to the sinners that the sacrament was ready to begin, and an opportunity for Gus to do a quick headcount and estimate how long he would be locked in the hotbox.
It was a three-room chamber. Gus entered the middle one, closed the door, and turned on a little switch. A red light came on outside of the room. The priest was on duty, let the absolution begin.
Sinners then took their turns in the rooms to the left or to the right. As the kneeler took the weight of their bodies, a pressure mechanism triggered a light outside of their own chamber. ‘Occupied’ it declared. Sinner at work.
Gus swiveled in his chair, alternating between the two rooms. A sliding wooden privacy panel, no bigger than a number 10 envelope, was installed on each side. Slide one open, listen to sins, slide it closed, and repeat on the other side.
He kept a tally sheet as he worked. He estimated there had been 30 people in the church, and he had made 26 tic marks. ‘Almost done.’ He ruminated. Below the tic marks he also had scribbled notations. ‘Crystal Fowler – Adultery – Who?’ ‘Unknown – Old Spice – Slander.’ His note
taking was purely unethical; but it sure helped to pass the time.
Confessional 1 was empty; had been for some time. From number 2 he was enduring the long-winded oration of lonely Mr. Fitzgivens. The man didn’t share a single sin, but prattled on and on about household duties he neglected or parking his car in front of his neighbor
’
s house. Father Milliken bullied forward with his penance: “Say five
O
ur
F
ather
’
s and five
H
ail
M
ary
’
s. Your sins are for
given. Go in peace, serve the L
ord.”
The priest allowed the courtesy time to elapse for Mr. Fitzgivens to return anonymously to the pew. He was about to switch off his ‘on duty’ light when the creaks and rumbling from number 1 informed him that he had yet one more customer. At first he sighed, then brightened at the thought that maybe old man Fitzgivens would be done with his 10 prayers and gone by the time he exited the confessional.
A set of knees hit the wooden plank in number 1. The light illuminated, the security panel slid. Father Milliken put a 27
th
tic mark on his tally sheet and the penitent began, slowly, deliberately.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been 18 months since my last confession. I am guilty of the sins of lust, adultery and coveting of my neighbor.” Father Milliken perked up, this could be a nice cap to his evening. He leaned in to try and detect: a body odor, a cologne, even a whiff of Juicy Fruit gum. Nothing. He would have to focus on the voice. “Yes my son, continue.” He wanted details.
“I have sinned by lusting after little boys.” The priest felt a tinge of alarm, then intrigue. Pedophile confessions were exquisitely
rare. “I took advantage of a family; put them in my confidence, for the purpose of exploiting and molesting their boy.”
The voice was deliberate, the words well practiced, it suggested that the penitent had been thinking a long time just how to make his peace. But could he place the voice? No. Identification would have to come through detail. He prompted: “There is forgiveness in sharing. Tell me what happened.”
“The boy was
four
, maybe f
ive
years old.” The sound of another straggling sinner climbing into number 2 startled both of the pedophiles, priest and penitent. “It’s alright, you may continue.” Father Milliken assured. The man on the other side of the black mesh wavered, unsure; then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I had asked his father to come help with a project outdoors, and offered to watch the boy in my room. While the man was outside, I showed the boy around. He was especially interested in my telescope.”
Father Milliken’s brain nearly imploded. ‘Coincidence!’ he chided himself. The penitent was continuing. “I put the boy up on a stool so he could see in the scope. I saw his body and I lusted. I pulled his pants down and inserted my---“
“Stop!” The priest hissed. He was now flat out scared. “Must you be so…. so graphic!” The words were intended to be a demand but came out as a plea.
“Yes, father, I must tell my full sin. I inserted my penis into his rectum and brutalized him. I threatened him to hell if he told. And then his father, who had been shoveling snow, walked in and caught me in the act.”
Gus Milliken, no longer F
ather Milliken, had gone catatonic.
“The memory torments me. But I know that by confessing my sin, I will again see heaven. And when I see heaven, it will stop.”
The man in the other room shared one last thing. “My final confession…is that everything I just told you is a lie.”
Gus tried to process it. The young man had described a scene from long ago so vividly, and yet he said it was a lie? Was this some kind of game? He put his hands on either side of his head and pressed hard. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion.
“Yes, everything I just told you is a lie.” The penitent repeated. He then leaned in and pressed his face against the mesh; raised his voice to street level and declared: “I didn’t do those things, but I do know who did.”
Silence saturated the confessional; silence of vindication for a penitent, and the silence of incrimination of a priest.
The man rose and exited the cubicle. Gus Milliken’s mind screamed at him to burst out of the chamber and confront his accuser. But that wasn’t right. The man had not accused him directly. And exploding out at the confessional would suggest that he
was
being accused and would seal his fate.
But he had every detail, and his voice had been so confident. He said he knew! He knew for God’s sake! And if he had the courage to face his tormentor, if even through a black mesh, then he had the courage to talk to others. Police, church council, or any of the two dozen other boys who had been--
Gus leaned forward in his chair, clenched double handfuls of hair, and rocked his body methodically. He was busted, fingered, accused, guilty.
No
!
N
o
…
N
o
…
NO
! His head screamed. It’s just a coincidence! But it’s true, I’m guilty, I have sinned! A man of God!
He tortured himself in the confessional for another 10 minutes before flinging the door open and making tracks for the rectory on a dead run of inspiration. He would make this right. By God he would fix everything once and for good.
7
Half an hour later, Mrs.
Sutz
peeked her nose out of confessional number 2. She had waited as long as she could; showing patience for what must be a very important confession taking place in the other room. But now, she could wait no longer. She had to pee.
The church was empty; the other confessional doors oddly wide open. She scampered her way quickly on tiptoe to the ladies room where she gratefully relieved herself.
It was very unlike Father Milliken she thought. Perhaps the father and penitent had very important matters to attend to.
Important matters indeed.
Chapter 3
1
Whitey left the church
fueled with adrenaline
and with two thoughts in mind: To get totally fucked up stoned, and to forget.
Not bothering to descend the steps or seek out a darkened corner to fire up his works, he fingered the makeshift joint from his pack, cupped his hands to block the wind, and lit up.
The first toke hammered him like a rocket
sled. ‘Wow! I had forgotten how good it was.’ He marveled. He descended the steps, and turned his face skyward.
Mini ice crystals, far too small to qualify as snowflakes, sparkled in the glow of the streetlight. They had a purifying effect. Whitey watched as they danced in the light, and delighted as they touched his face. Little eddies of crystals were forming on the street, their sinuous strings instructed by the breeze.
Whitey took his second hit. This one a subatomic missile that detonated in his brain. “Whoa!” he verbalized while taking three staggering steps backwards. This wasn’t Roberto, and though he had never tried it, he assumed that
this could only be Mr. Robert
’s all day amusement park
ride
.
“Holy fucking shit!” The world became a landscape of ocean waves. Whitey walked forward and up, up, up one side of the wave, and then down, down, down the other.