THEO
THE SAINT MARY’S confession booth was no more than four feet by four feet on each side. The solid walnut walls were adorned with carvings of saints, the Bible, and Jesus on the cross. I ran my finger along the deep curved etchings. The church outside my thick red drape had been silent for over an hour.
Although these hour-and-a-half confession times were often boring, I sometimes took solace in the contrived anonymity. But this day was different. I sat on pins and needles listening to every sound. When I suggested to Bud that I sit guard with him, he said no, that if Hansel showed up anywhere it may be at the church. It was the first time I ever came into the church with a gun in my belt and a knife in my boot. I didn’t feel very priestly, armed.
Soon Permelia opened the downstairs door and came in to set up for choir practice. The smell of her thick walnut brownies and coffee filled my hungry senses. It was only three-thirty. I had an hour to go.
The rectory’s front door opened. I leaned forward and listened. Footsteps on the hardwood floor slowly moved to the altar, and sounds of a candle being lit reflected off the quietude. Who was it? The smell of beeswax filled the chapel. Footsteps again, but they were of a small person, not a six-foot-five monster. I relaxed as the curtain on the other side of the booth was pulled back, then closed. Through the thick mesh window I saw an unusually quiet Pearl.
I’m sorry to say I rolled my eyes, waiting for her to confess about killing slugs and spiders, or her bad thoughts about Mrs. Gandel, whom she didn’t like. But today she sat quiet for a few minutes. I listened to her abnormally heavy breathing and rubbed my fingers along the scene of Christ carrying the cross on his back.
“Our world is far from the moon,” she finally said, her voice low and lackluster. “My father say dat to me. I love him much . . . He say moon is friend who watch over me.”
I recalled what Imogene said about Tula questioning Pearl about her father. Her round jade bracelet clinked as she ran her fingers along the white rosary beads on her lap. She took a deep breath and said, “Forgive me Father, I have sinned.”
I leaned back against the cushioned wall and waited for her confession.
“I still see father . . . see face of smiling Japanese soldier who shot him like he communist criminal. My father was school teacher.” She sat silent again.
I waited, not allowed to speak until she made a confession.
“Then soldier turn to brother. He shoot him, then mother . . . grandmother. I not so lucky. When finished with me, he throw me like garbage on pile of family’s dead bodies. They burn our huts and destroy our village . . . I want to die . . . go with them.” She took another long pause.
The only proper reaction was to reach out and give her a hug, but the consecrated wall that divided us dictated I sit still and listen.
“I stare into open eyes of my dead father. I pray, like he teach me. Nobody come. The full moon hide behind dark clouds . . . night come. No stars. The sky, full of sadness. I want to die. The moon not look at me. It pull clouds over eyes, ashamed to see me.
“Next morning American soldier, my James, lift me from pile of bodies.” She wiped her tears. “He say I alive. My given name, Sook, mean innocent and pure. My father bless me this name. When James say I am alive, not in hell of ghosts and pain, I want to kill myself. James tell me I am reborn, like pearl from jagged shell, he say. He call me Pearl and soon he ask me be his wife. I move to America: Pearl, new woman, reborn August ten, 1946.”
She wiped her tears and asked, “Is it sin to throw away Christian name? Because dat girl, Sook, died under moon of shame. Pearl was born. Was I wrong to let Sook go?”
“There’s no sin here,” I said unable to remain quiet any longer. “No sin of yours.”
“Sook is dead,” she continued, “but still in Pearl’s heart is to murder animals who stole my purity and slaughter family. This is the sin in my heart. I want be in grace of God . . . but I cannot with ugliness inside.”
“Listen to me,” I said finally clearing my throat. “You are a devoted child of God. You are forgiven these thoughts. You are the victim here, let revenge be God’s. Be at peace that he has already exacted what was due.”
Pearl wiped her tears and exited her side of the confessional. It struck me how we were both victims of a war that never officially started and now wouldn’t end. How we both wanted retribution but clung to what we’d been taught: Forgive, let vengeance be mine, sayeth the Lord.
She lit another candle at the altar, then the clatter of her footsteps and the closing of the heavy rectory door echoed through the chapel. My hollow words of forgiveness were an insult to her wound. Forgive? In truth, I didn’t, couldn’t grasp that kind of grace.
I stared at the saints carved in wood and felt ashamed. I once thought of the confessional as a sacred place to take one’s most intimate thoughts. Now that I knew what kind of man may be sitting on the other side, I thought differently.