“But especially, especially in regards to the death of my father.”
Cohen pauses, and the words are absorbed into the carpet, into the sky-blue wall, into the downturned face of the crucified Christ. Father James says nothing. He waits for Cohen to finish his confession. That has always been something Father James has been good at, something Cohen marvels at: his ability to remain quiet for such a long time, to wait when words are expected. His patience is uncanny.
Cohen looks up again at the painting. It feels precisely as if the disappointment on the downturned face of Christ was painted there for this very moment. Cohen thinks the painting might as well have been titled The Eternal Disappointment of the Christ in Regards to the Life of Cohen Marah. He races through the final words of confession, and even as he’s saying the words he knows at least part of what Father James’s response will be.
“For these and all other sins which I cannot now remember, I am truly sorry. I pray God to have mercy on me. I firmly intend amendment of life, and I humbly beg forgiveness of God and his Church, and ask you for counsel, direction, and absolution.”
“Cohen . . . Cohen,” the priest says in a gentle voice. “Slow down. This is a prayer you are saying from your heart. Your soul! It is an offering to the eternal force that created the universe, the force that created you. Slow down, my son, there is no rush. Think of the words you’re saying.”
Silence.
“Should I say it again?” Cohen asks sheepishly.
Father James lets out a low grunt that is somewhere between a chuckle and a snort.
“For these and all other sins which I cannot now remember,” Cohen says again, slowly, “I am truly sorry.”
Cohen pauses between each phrase, trying to catch the words in his mind before they evaporate.
“I pray God to have mercy on me.”
He takes a breath.
“I firmly intend amendment of life.”
He becomes acutely aware of how late it is.
“I humbly beg forgiveness of God and his Church, and ask you for counsel, direction, and absolution.”
They sit there without saying anything. Cohen glances one more time at the eyes of the crucified Christ, hoping the sense of disappointment has lessened. The heat kicks on, and warm air rushes into the room from the low vents, rustling the pages of a prayer book someone left open on one of the chairs. Exhaustion overcomes all of his defenses. His eyes are heavy. If the priest doesn’t speak soon, he might fall asleep there in the chair.
“Before I absolve you, Cohen, I must encourage you to take anything—anything—the authorities need to know . . . should know . . .” He stops. “Cohen, are you saying you took your father’s life?”
Cohen glances at the screen, looking for the eyes of his confessor, but when all he can see is a shifting shadow, he stares back at the floor. “No, Father. Not physically. But I am concerned that I may have caused his death. Indirectly.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
Father James pauses. “No, not completely.”
Cohen tries to find the priest’s eyes behind the screen. Time passes strangely there in the chapel. He can’t remember what time it was when he left the hospital. When he walks outside, will the sun be rising? Or are there still hours and hours of night remaining?
“We had a . . . conversation. An argument? I told him some things he didn’t want to hear. When I left his house the night before, we were both very angry. I worry he may have . . .”
Again, he’s overwhelmed by this sudden desire for sleep. He considers asking the priest if he can spend the rest of the night right there in the chapel, asleep on the warm rug, curled up beside one of the heating vents.
“I worry he may have taken his own life. Tried to.”
“I see.” Father James peers out at Cohen from behind the confession screen and sighs. “Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he says quietly, and again Cohen can picture him speaking with his eyes closed, “who has left power to his Church to absolve all sinners who truly repent and believe in him, of his great mercy forgive you all your offenses; and by his authority committed to me, I absolve you from all your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Amen,” Cohen whispers.
“The Lord has put away all your sins.”
“Thanks be to God.”
“Go in peace,” the priest replies, “and pray for me, a sinner.”