Page 49 of Heathens
“I was looking for something all those years ago. I might’ve gotten close, but...” he trails off, lowering his hand from my mouth and gently caressing the back of my neck. “I think I finally found it in you. I was so focused on God. But then I looked up—and I saw you—because He told me to. He knew. He said,you finally found her.”
“Salem,” I utter, feeling my voice crack. “I won’t let you give up on your dreams, okay? I’m... I’m screwed up, and messy, and I don’t have my shit togetherat all. I’m not worth the risk. So, why? Why do you want me? Am I really worth losing all of it? Losing...” I gesture to the church we stand on, “all of this?”
He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t react in any way. The only indication that he heard me is the way his lips move to one side and tilt up slightly.
“You were never a risk. You were never a mystery to me. I had you figured out from day one. And I loved the fucking hell out of it. You were the most certain thing I’d ever known.”
I press my lips together as a tear slips down my cheek. “How long were you watching me before we met?“ I tease, wiping my stray tear away and letting myself smile.
“I was there that very first week, that very first day.”
I shake my head. “I was in the confessional the whole time. I didn’t—I wasn’t in the pews that first day.”
He grins. “I know. You confessed to me.”
You Sin, You Repent
Salem
Sixteen Weeks Ago
I doze off several times before giving up and standing from the desk. It's a drizzly, gray Wednesday afternoon, and Paris is experiencing a strange late-winter cold front, so the maintenance man is blasting the heat, effectively turning Notre Dame into purgatory and causing me to nod off every few minutes. I walk to the door just as Father Monsignor walks in.
“Ah, Salem. I was hoping to catch you before your break.”
“I was just going to step outside for a cigarette.” Smiling, I pull the pack from my pocket and offer one to him. He declines.
“You’re brave. It’s almost zero outside.”
I shrug. “I’m used to it.”
“Well, an emergency came up and I need someone to sit in the confessional until Father Dormier comes for evening mass.” Father Dormier works at Sainte Chapelle but fills in here when necessary.
I put my pack and lighter away. I should quit smoking anyway. “No problem. Everything okay?”
He nods, but he looks distracted. Like he’s not wholly here. “Fine, fine. Just a personal issue.”
“Okay.” I grab my worn bible. As popular as Notre Dame is, the confessional remains mostly unused. Except for the occasional fetish romp. I suppose reconciliation isn’t as popular as the films make it out to be. Who would want to confess every sinful thought, every blasphemous action? Humans are a prideful lot. “May as well study. It’s been slow all day thanks to the weather.”
“Of course. Here,” he says, handing me the stole from around his neck. “No one will notice that you’re not me in there.” He grins. It’s not the first time I’ve stepped into his shoes. “Think of it as practice.”
I laugh. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Salem.” He takes my hand and grips it firmly. I think he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t, only dropping my hand, nodding once, and leaving.
I grab my white robe from where it hangs in my office. I only wear it for mass—most of the time, I’m in my usual garb of black trousers and a black shirt with a clerical collar. Throwing the robe over my shoulders, I wrap the maroon stole around my neck so that it hangs down—just like I’ll wear it when I’m ordained a priest. I’ll receive my own when I become a deacon. Only a little over a year now... Grabbing my keys and my bible, I make my way to the confessional booth. We hear confessions twice a day, Monday through Saturday. Two and a half hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon—three to six, to be exact. Mass starts shortly after that. Sighing, I unlock the section I’m supposed to sit in, and I have the fleeting thought that it would make a good place for a quick nap.
Making the sign of the cross, I apologize to God for that thought.
Once I close myself in the archaic, lumbering booth, I open my bible and try to concentrate on Romans 12:21.Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.It’s one of my favorite passages. Not two minutes later, I hear the confessional door swing open. Before the other person even closes it, I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and lilac. Closing my bible quietly, I look through the small, decorative holes. I can’t see the person very clearly—though I think it’s a woman. It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point of receiving the sacrament of forgiveness. Shaking my head, I clear my throat so they know I’m listening. I make the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...” I say automatically in French. I could hear—her—murmuring the words along with me in English, so I switch over. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
“I haven’t done this in a long time.” Her voice is raspy, rough—like she’s been crying. At least she’s familiar with the reconciliation process. Most of the time, I get either a couple trying to fornicate, or giggling, teenage boys who love to make up the raunchiest stories their little brains can think of. It might’ve offended me if it weren’t so amusing.
“Okay, go on.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
