Cohen drifts slowly to the church, giving the retired priest extra time to make his way there. He marvels, as he always does when out in the middle of the night, how quiet the city is, how dark, how full of shadows and passages and steaming alleys. The snow stops falling for a moment.
Cohen can see the Saint Thomas steeple rising, a tall black tower against the night sky. He remembers the stars from his childhood, when his family lived outside the light-polluted city. It was a marvel to him when he learned how far away they were, how long it took the light to reach him. He thinks of Johnny and remembers when he was the one in awe that the light he was seeing was thousands upon thousands of years old.
But there are no stars tonight, at least none that he can see. Small, upward-facing lights illuminate the red-brown brick of Saint Thomas, and interior evening lights push the stained-glass colors onto the street. He turns before he gets to the main entrance of the church and walks up the long, covered walkway to the chapel. Off to his right, the fountain sends its endless supply of water up to where it gathers before running over the edge of one pool, then another, and finally back into the ground from where it came. Time does not stop. He arrives at the large glass doors that go into the side of the old church. He tugs on the handle, and the door reluctantly budges.
Inside the door, he cleans his shoes off on the mat before turning directly into the small chapel. It’s warm inside. A large red oriental rug stretches the length of the room. Chairs skirt the outside. There are small bookshelves holding rows of Bibles and copies of The Book of Common Prayer. A low altar runs along the front, and behind that a podium, and behind the podium, hanging on the blue wall, is a painting of the crucified Christ. Cohen stares at it for some time, taking in the mournful face, the crown of thorns drawing ruby-red beads of blood, the golden flecks in the background. The face has been painted with the expression of forlorn abandonment, eyes turned down.
Cohen remembers the verse from his childhood Sunday school days. These things rise unexpectedly, like debris shaken loose from the floor of a lake during a storm. He never knows what will surface.
Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
He is brought up out of his reverie by the sound of Father James clearing his throat from behind the temporary confession screen standing at the front right of the small chapel. The priest has already situated a chair for the confessor. Cohen stares for a moment at the shadowy outline of the priest, the only thing he can see of him through the screen.
More old memories surface. Cohen sees the Beast crawling out from under the car, nearly shapeless, its shadowy limbs somehow present but also formless. He feels again the terror when he realizes it is coming across the street. The fear rises in his throat. He coughs.
The voice of the priest pushes back those nightmares, his voice gentle and kind. “Come,” he says, clearing his throat. “Have a seat, Cohen.”
Cohen, without thinking about it, removes his shoes and walks to the front, sits quietly in the chair, and feels an unexpected surge of emotion. Tears, or the beginnings of tears, form in his throat and his eyes. He swallows hard, and he can only say two words. “Father James.”
“First,” the priest begins, “allow me to read this from The Book of Common Prayer.”
He pauses and Cohen can hear the rustling of thin pages. There is something there in the air, something quiet and holy. Something he has forgotten or left behind. Again he remembers the stars.
“Reconciliation of a Penitent,” the priest reads, “or Penance, is the rite in which those who repent of their sins may confess them to God in the presence of a priest, and receive the assurance of pardon and the grace of absolution.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Through the screen, Cohen can see Father James nod his head. “Confession is a holy sacrament, a physical sign of the unseen sacred. You may begin when you are ready, Cohen.”
Cohen nods. He feels the presence of so many things—the gentle patience of the priest, the knowledge that only a few blocks away his father is dying, the memory of things from his past. The lingering doubt in God that has followed him his whole life. Night pressing in around the church.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
When Father James speaks, Cohen still can’t see his face clearly through the screen, even though they are close together, but he can picture the priest speaking with his eyes closed as he often does. Every word he speaks is genuine, as if he’s making up the confession script for the very first time, as if no one has ever spoken these words before.
“The Lord be in your heart and mind, Cohen, and upon your lips, that you may truly and humbly confess your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Cohen crosses himself clumsily and licks his lips, wondering what that would be like, the Lord upon his lips. He remembers Isaiah’s burning coal, Miss Flynne telling them the story with flannel Isaiah on the board alongside a golden-haired angel reaching down, touching his lips with a live ember. He closes his eyes and repeats the words he has come to memorize since joining Father James’s parish a decade ago.
“I confess to the Almighty God, to his Church, and to you, that I have sinned by my own fault in thought, word, and deed, in things done and left undone, but especially . . .”
Cohen pauses, unsure of how to continue.
“But especially,” he says, and again he stops. He opens his eyes, staring at the warm rug beneath his feet and then up at the painting of the Christ. The downturned face. The disappointed eyes. The ruby red. The gold flecks. The wall behind the painting is a soft, baby blue, like the sky on a spring day.
“Go ahead, Cohen,” Father James whispers.
“But especially,” Cohen says in a voice so quiet it gets lost in the room, “especially in regards to the death of my father.”