“Father Laroche says he confesses every week,” Joseph murmured, “and that we should too.” What a Priest had to confess, Joseph still didn’t understand.
He heard Papa draw in a breath to respond; but then, from the other side of the room, came the familiar, insistent-yet-polite finger-snap Mama used to attract their attention. Cathy must have been translating for her. Mama made Papa’s sign name, and the expression on her face turned it into a plea. ‘Let him go,’ she said with her hands.
Papa turned to her. ‘In the three years since he began, our son—ourperfectson—has made more Confessions than most people do their entirelives.’
Mama frowned. Papa was criticizing her too: she took Joseph every Saturday. Cathy would go with them only once a month. None of her friends confessed more often than that, she said. At thechurch, Mama always went first, clutching her little notebook till she passed it to Father Laroche. He would read her transgressions and then write down her Penance. Afterward, as Joseph watched Mama burning the pages, he would wonder what she had to confess every week. Apart from her deafness, Mama was perfect, as sinless as a Priest.
Unlike him.
‘None of us is perfect yet,’ Mama argued with her hands and expression. ‘It is only through union with Our Lord—through the Sacraments—that we can become perfect. We areblessedto receive Absolution every week. Have you forgotten Bastien already?’
‘Of course not,’ Papa signed impatiently.
‘He is lucky if he sees a Priest once a year.’ Joseph knew his mother’s brother lived somewhere in North Carolina, surrounded by Protestants. ‘Here, we even have a Priest who knows our language!’
‘Father Laroche doesnotknow your language,’ Papa insisted, emphasizing the sign. ‘He knowsFrench. Your English is just as good, Anne. It’s certainly better than his. I wish you’d confess to one of the Irishmen instead.’
Mama tensed. ‘Father Laroche?—’
‘Father Laroche makes you do Penance for’—Papa’s hands hesitated—‘for being a woman!’
Mama drew in a sharp breath, and crimson flooded her cheeks. Her eyes darted nervously to Joseph and his sisters. They were still watching, though Joseph didn’t understand what Papa had meant or why it should make Mama blush. ‘We were talking about Joseph. Please don’t discourage him.’
Papa sighed, glanced away, then finally signed his consent. But he added aloud: “If it’s Father Laroche, son—promise me you won’t believeeverythingthat French bull-dog says.”
Joseph worried about Papa’s soul, too. At Mass, he always looked bored or angry. Now, Papa was acting as though a Priest could be wrong. That was like saying God could be wrong.
Illuminated by September sunlight,two fine churches stood directly across Archdale Street from their house. Joseph turned away from them. They were Protestant. He hurried past the shops and houses on Beaufain till he reached Hasell Street and the Catholic church, which had no steeple.
Joseph climbed the steps, pulled open the heavy door, and genuflected to the Body of Christ in the Tabernacle. He peered into the sacristy, but he saw only Mr. Doré polishing the sacred vessels. “Is Father Laroche or Father Gallagher here?”
“I think Father Laroche is saying his breviary in the cemetery. Do you need him?”
Joseph nodded. “For Confession.”
The sacristan frowned. “On a Wednesday?” But he agreed to fetch the Priest.
Joseph knelt in the stifling darkness of the confessional. This was the first time he’d truly dreaded putting his sins into words. Till now, his most serious faults had involved his great-grandmother Marguerite. So many times, he’d felt anger toward her and broken the Fourth Commandment, which included adults beyond your parents. Joseph knew it was wrong to blame Great-Grandmother Marguerite for his own sins; but with her buried, he’d thought the narrow path of righteousness would be easier.
Now he had no excuse, and he understood how wicked he was. Surely no one had ever stared at the Blessed Virgin as he had. Was Absolution possible for such a sin? Even if it was, how could Joseph ever face Father Laroche again?
At last, the Priest entered the other side of the confessional.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Joseph could scarcely breathe. He knew how this would begin, but he was terrified about how it would end. “I confess to almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin”—the words felt sharp in his throat—“to all the saints, and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly…through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.”Hisfault, no one else’s, Joseph reminded himself each time he struck his chest. “Since my last Confession, which was four days ago, I accuse myself of impure thoughts. For this and all my other sins which I cannot nowremember, I am heartily sorry and humbly ask pardon of God, and Penance and Absolution of you, Father.”
The Priest sighed. “How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Did you entertain impure thoughts about women generally, or about someone specific?Don’tgive me a name.”
“I-Ihaveto, Father.”
“Now you’re being disobedient!” Father Laroche barked.
Joseph started. He hoped no one else had entered the sanctuary, or at least that they didn’t understand French.
“I don’t need the foul details, boy; I just need to determine the gravity of your sin.”
