“Hello, Father James?” Cohen says into his phone, still sitting in the hospital cafeteria, staring at the doors Ava left through. An employee turns off a row of lights, throwing the back section of the large cafeteria into darkness.
The man on the other end of the telephone line clears his throat and replies with only one word, but even that one word emerges slow and thick with sleep, like gravel ground together. “Yes?”
“Father James, I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
Another empty moment. Another clearing of the throat. The words emerge in reluctant scratches. “Is this Cohen Marah?”
“Yes, Father. Yes. It’s Cohen.”
For a moment neither one of them says anything.
When Father James still doesn’t speak, Cohen stumbles on. “I know it’s late. I know. I’m sorry. I need to talk. To you.”
Another pause. A sigh. Words spoken barely above a whisper, words that wish they didn’t have to be said. “Cohen, you do remember that I retired in January? That I am no longer the rector at Saint Thomas Episcopal Church?”
“Yes, Father,” Cohen says reluctantly, as if the priest has mentioned something completely irrelevant to their conversation. The score of a minor league baseball game. The current temperature. The price of cotton in Australia. “I know. I know. I . . . I need to talk, that’s all. My father is dying.”
He tacks that last sentence on in hopes that it will turn the tide in his favor. He had wanted to keep that information back for a bit longer like a trump card, but it slips out before he knows what he’s saying.
Father James clears his throat again. “I am very sorry to hear about your father,” he says, moving ahead tenderly. “Father Richard or Reverend Laura would be more than happy to visit your family in the hospital. Even now, in the middle of the night. I can call them for you if you would like. Priests are used to this kind of thing.”
Cohen sighs. “It’s not only my father. I need . . .” Here he pauses for such a long time that Father James finally speaks.
“Cohen?”
“Yes, well, I need to confess, Father James. I need to confess. And I miss you, and I’m not comfortable confessing to Father Richard or Reverend Laura. They are both very kind. But they’re also both very young. I’m not sure they have much life experience, as far as that goes.”
“Cohen,” the priest says in a kind voice. He seems to have regained his composure. “I am honored that you still see me in that role. I am thankful to have served as your rector for so many years. Truly, I am. But Father Richard and Reverend Laura are your spiritual leaders now. Either one of them is quite capable of receiving your confession. Of that I am sure. Quite sure. In fact, I regularly confess to Father Richard, and I find him both gracious and understanding.”
“But Father, you know me.”
“Cohen . . .”
“I never practiced confession until I came to Saint Thomas. Did I ever tell you that? I’m sure I have. You’re the only person I have ever confessed to. Not often, I know. But still. You are the only one.”
Cohen looks away from the cafeteria doors and stares out through the glass at the quiet city, the occasional late-night car drifting past, its headlights glaring against the tinted windows. In the halo of the streetlights, he can see the snow drifting down, lazy, out of place. It’s March, Cohen thinks. None of this should be happening.
“Please, Father,” he says, and in those two words is everything in the world he cannot say.
Father James sighs for what feels like the tenth time. Their conversation is like a war fought in small skirmishes, battles made up of sighs and long pauses and heavy silence. Cohen can picture the priest scratching the white hair on top of his head, the way he always did when Cohen would ask him a difficult question or come back around to the same old subjects, the same old doubts and confusions and hesitations.
“Okay, Cohen. Yes. I can meet you in the chapel in thirty minutes. But you need to consider conferring this practice from me to the new leadership at the parish. Perhaps we should sit down together with them and talk through your . . . what shall we say? Hesitations?”
“Yes, Father, I will. I think that’s a very good idea. Thank you, Father. I will see you in thirty minutes. Thank you.”
Cohen hangs up quickly, before Father James can change his mind. He stands and pushes his chair under the table. The employee turns off another row of lights, and the approaching darkness follows him across the room. His footsteps make a lonely sound on the hard tile. The church is five blocks away. He’ll walk.
When he leaves, pushing his way through the doors, the employee turns off the last row of lights behind him.