White sheets and yellow light, smooth green floors and the smell of antiseptic, tears dripping onto black cloth and rust-colored bandages . . .
“I’m sorry, my friend. Please, Peter. Peter, listen to me. This is all my fault. This was not what I wanted. I am so very sorry. Forgive me . . .”
The figure in the hospital bed smiles up at him, all jowls and sweat. There is a waxiness to his skin that puts Father Whelan in mind of church candles.
“I had to remove temptation,” says Peter Molony. “You told me we could atone through pain. This is my penance.”
There are tears in Father Whelan’s eyes. He had not meant for any of this to happen, but knows that the road beneath his feet is chiseled with the best of intentions. It was just a chat between friends, a drink between priest and parishioner. They had history. They had known each other for some time. Something existed between them that was not friendship, but meant they enjoyed each other’s company and each understood a little of the other. Perhaps each saw in the other what they themselves could have been.
“I forgave you,” says Father Whelan. “God forgave you your transgressions. This was not necessary.”
“The pain cleanses me. I learned that long ago.”
Father Whelan wipes the heel of his hand across his eyes.
“You nearly died,” he says. “Blood loss. They said you had been hurting yourself for some time.”
“That was for everyday sin. Something greater was needed to demonstrate my repentance for my baser nature.”
“We were getting somewhere,” says Father Whelan, anger in his voice and tears in his eyes. “You were doing so much better. You didn’t have to do this. They will send you away. I will do what I can to set you free but you could end up in places so much worse than the hell you thought you were living.”
“I couldn’t risk sinning again, Father.”
“You would have been a good priest five hundred years ago,” mutters Father Whelan angrily. “Your Bible and mine are different books. You wanted human contact, Peter. That I can forgive. That the devil leads you in the direction of young men . . . you are to be pitied and prayed for, not shunned and scorned. You would not have given in to temptation. You have me. You have my prayers. I told you to read your Bible. You pushed and pushed until I spoke of penance leading to absolution. How good deeds and sincere repentance could wipe away the past. Your mind is ill. You have already missed out on that which you truly desired . . .”
“I would have been a poor priest,” says Molony. He looks different without his glasses. “You know that. My mind is different. My needs are different.”
“I had made arrangements,” says Father Whelan, voice full of frustration. “A future. A use for a man with your skills. Please, Peter, do not give up hope. When you are well, there is so much to look forward to.”
The man in the bed smiles up, serene and perfect. He does not look like a man who nearly died.
“I have faith in you,” says Father Whelan, kneeling by the bed and taking the man’s hand in his own. “I know you will live the right life. I absolve you of all sin, my son.”
“I could yet sin again.”
“You will not. And even if temptation struck, your sacrifice absolves you. You cannot sin again. The gates of heaven will never be closed to you. Please, just try and get well.”
Father Whelan finds himself too overcome to remain by the bedside. He pulls himself up, tears dripping onto his black sweater. He leaves without looking further at the man who castrated himself to atone for his desires.
He does not see the look of perfect happiness that passes over the man’s face as he feels the fires of hell cool at his back, and the glory of paradise welcome him inside.
Peter Molony suddenly feels the grace of God.
He has a true chance to repent.
A true chance to atone.
A chance to save sinners like himself.