“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” I paused, thought back. “It’s been six weeks since my last confession.” Six weeks. Six weeks wasn’t bad. I didn’t know where to begin, so I thought I’d begin with my walk to church. “I got in a fight on my way to Church.”
“What?” Father Fallon asked. “What?” He was in a bad mood.
“I got in a fight on my way to confession.”
I tried to explain, but nothing came out of my mouth. I was sorry. Sorry I’d said anything.
“What?” he said.
“It wasn’t a bad fight,” I said.
“That’s what you all do, don’t you? You’re all animals.”
I didn’t say anything. Nothing. I just knelt there. Maybe this was a kind of fight, too. Only I couldn’t hit back in this one.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I mean, no, sir. No, Father. My friend hit me. I hit him back.”
“Your friend? Friend? Animals. Men turn the other cheek. They have minds. They have hearts. Animals, animals are just instinct.”
“I’m not an animal, Father.” My heart was pounding. I thought my blood was on fire. That’s how it felt. My whole body was tight. Tight, like I didn’t fit inside myself. “I got in a fight. I’m sorry. I’m not proud of what I did. It was wrong. But I’m not an animal.”
“Are you questioning a priest?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you?”
I could feel myself leaving. I took a breath, closed my eyes, then reached for the door—and opened it. I got up to leave. Nothing seemed real. Nothing. Not me, not the door to the confessional I was opening. Not the church I was in.
“Where are you going? You can’t—” I was already walking away. I found myself standing outside the church. I wasn’t ever going to go back. I wasn’t. I walked to the Pic Quck on Solano. I bought a pack of cigarettes. I stepped outside. I smoked a cigarette. That would help. That’s what I thought. Then I walked back into the store and bought a Payday. I ate it. Then I walked back into the store and bought a Pepsi. I went outside and drank. It was good. I lit another cigarette. I noticed Larry and Mike walking toward the store. I waved. They waved back. We pointed our chins at each other.
“Fallon called me an animal,” Larry said. He looked sad. I hated that—the way he looked.
Me too. That’s what I wanted to say. But nothing came out of my mouth.
He sat down next to me.
“You want a cigarette?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I laughed. “It’s not a sin. To smoke.”
Larry put the cigarette in his mouth.
“You want one, too?” I asked Mike. Mike never said anything. He looked at Larry. “Yeah,” he said. So I gave him one.
We sat, the three of us. Smoked.
“I hate him,” Larry said. “I hate him.” He looked at me. He wanted me to say something.
I knew what I had to say. “You’re not an animal,” I said. Then I laughed. “You’re an asshole. But you’re not an animal.” I took a drink from my bottle of Pepsi. “Let’s play a game of basketball.” He was a better player, always beat me. “Let’s play some basketball,” I said.
That night, I had a dream. Father Fallon was standing over me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run. It was dark. I couldn’t see anything. Just him. I could hear his harsh Irish voice. First soft. Then louder. Then louder. “You’ve gone and lost it. You’ve gone and lost heaven.” That’s what he was saying. Over and over and over. “You’ve gone and lost heaven.” And then there was nothing but fire.
I woke up shaking.
The next day I went to mass. But only because my father made me. I told him I wasn’t feeling well. “No me siento bien. Go without me.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You’re fine.” He looked at my eye. It wasn’t bad. “I want you to wash my car after mass. Will you do that?”
I nodded. My punishment for fighting with Larry.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“You’ve always liked going to mass.”
I hadn’t. When my mom was alive, I’d liked it. When she died, it was something I just did. Something I did with my father and Elena. “Okay,” I said. But he knew I didn’t mean it. All okay meant was that I wasn’t going to fight. Not with him. Not on Sunday. “Is Elena dressed?” I went to her room. She was wearing a yellow dress. Pretty. “If I tell Jesus to tell Mom something, do you think he will?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you really think he will?”
“Yes,” I said again. “Yes, yes.” What god could refuse Elena?
On the way to mass, my dad didn’t let me smoke. “You want to pray with cigarette on your breath? Es falta de respeto. That’s what you should’ve given up for Lent.” Maybe he was right. But smoking was a new thing anyway, too new to give up. As I sat in the back seat, it occurred to me that we’d gotten a new priest at Immaculate Heart of Mary. Maybe the new priest, Father Francis, maybe he would have the 10:30 mass. I had hope. It made me feel better. Not much. But better. We were a little late. My heart sank. He was there, Fallon, up there on the altar. Mass began In the name of the Father, and of the Son and I left somewhere. I don’t remember where I went. Just somewhere else. I could feel myself shaking when it was time to go to communion. If I didn’t go, my father would want to know why. I was a bad liar. It’s not that I never lied to him. I did. But he always knew when I lied. Just because he didn’t say anything didn’t mean he didn’t know. So I went to communion.
As I reached the altar, I could feel myself trembling. I looked at Father Fallon’s eyes. “The Body of Christ.”
“Amen,” I said. I closed my eyes and took the host on my tongue. Like a true penitent. He hadn’t known it was me, the guy who’d walked out of confession. He hadn’t known. I was just another young man, another communicant, another face. Another animal.
All that Lent, I avoided going to confession. I lied to my father, told him I was going. But I didn’t. But I didn’t eat any more Paydays or drink any more Pepsis. I’d stop in at church on my way home. I prayed. Mostly I just sat there. My heart didn’t feel any more alive than the wood pews I was sitting on. I thought maybe I was losing my faith or whatever was left of it. Maybe it had left when Juliana was killed. I don’t know. I don’t. I’d heard people talk about that, about people who’d lost their faith. I thought about my dream. When you lost your faith, you lost heaven. I didn’t want to lose heaven. My mom was there. And Juliana, too.
I thought about all the lost souls I knew. That’s how Mrs. Apodaca put it. And she wasn’t wrong. “They just wander about. Almas perdidas. Es una tristeza.” I hated to agree with her, but she was right. So many people walking around the world, lost. And it was sad. And I was becoming one of them. I didn’t want that. But I didn’t know what to do about myself. If I thought about what Father Fallon had said, I would get angry. I’d have to smoke a cigarette or two before I calmed down. But I’d turned my back on a sacrament. My mom had told me that a man never turned his back on a sacrament. Maybe she was watching. Maybe she knew. Or maybe she had better things to do than watch me.
That day, after I’d tried to pray at the church, I stopped by to see Larry on the way home. He was watching television. The house was loud and crowded with all his older brothers. Everyone fighting. They liked to fight in that family. “Let’s go buy a Coke,” he said.
“A Pepsi,” I said.
“A Coke,” he said.
We just had to fight. About everything.
On the way back from the store, I asked him. “Did you ever go to confession again?” I asked. “After that day?”
“Hell no,” he said. “And I’m never going back.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“Of what?”
I nodded. I realized that I’d never been afraid of anything. And now I was afraid of everything. I was afraid something would happen to my Dad or that something would happen to my sister. Hadn’t something happened to Juliana? Didn’t bad things happen to the people of Hollywood all the time? And I was afraid of Father Fallon. Afraid he had the power to take heaven away from me. Maybe he had the power. Maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure. But I was afraid. I wasn’t so fearless anymore.
“Of what?” Larry asked again. “Afraid of fucking what?”
“Nada,” I said, “never mind.”
“You’re too serious, ¿sabes? Pifas says you have to learn how to relax. ¿Entiendes, Méndez?”
“Yeah, yeah. Como chingan.”
“God doesn’t give a rat’s ass about confession, anyway.” This from the theologian who thought that masturbation was the same thing as having an abortion.
“What if he does?”
“Then we’re completely screwed. ¿Sabes?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I said. Talking to Larry never made me feel any better.
It was a sad Lent. I was sad about everything. On Holy Saturday, my dad thought it would be a good idea if we all went to confession together. Me and him and Elena. Shit. Shit. “Okay,” I said.
There were two confessional lines that Saturday. One line for Father Francis and one line for Father Fallon. Father Francis definitely had the longest line. Dad got in the shorter line. He didn’t seem to care if he was in Father Fallon’s line or not. What sins did he have, anyway? Me, I got in Father Francis’ line. Maybe it would all work out. Why do we always hope? I saw Father Fallon’s line get shorter and shorter. And then there was no one left on his side of the church. He came out of the confessional. He walked up to the row where I was sitting. “Over here,” he whispered. All of us in that row looked at each other. He waited. We nodded. It was over for all of us. We who’d had such hope.
My heart was pounding. God. It was really pounding.
I took a breath. I went first. What good would it do to sit there and listen to my heart thumping against my chest. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. . . “I stopped. “The last time I came to confession, I walked out.” There. I’d said it.
“You?” he said. “You turned your back on a sacrament.”
“Yes,” I said. “I am heartily sorry. I am, Father.” I wasn’t sorry. Why was I lying? And my dumb heart just kept pounding as if my body was a locked door and my heart was a fist. Pounding and pounding. And I thought maybe the wings had come back. Those wings, they came and went, came alive, then went dead. I couldn’t think. I don’t remember anything else. I know I was in there for a long time. I kept saying, “Yes, sir, yes, Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Sometimes, you find yourself in the middle of a storm and you don’t know anything, you’re just scared and confused and everything around you is chaos and turmoil and you don’t know what to do, so you don’t do anything, just close your eyes, and when you finally open them, you don’t know how it is that you’re still standing there. The storm gone—and you’re standing there. In all that calmness. I heard myself reciting the Act of Contrition. Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I offended thee my God who art all good and deserving of all my love . . . Fallon gave me a severe penance, an entire rosary. He lectured me. I didn’t listen. Then I heard the words of absolution. And his final words “Go and sin no more.” When I walked out of the confessional, I didn’t feel clean. Not clean, dirtier than before. Dirtier than I’d ever been. Even after praying the rosary. Even after completing my penance. I wasn’t clean.
I watched Elena as she looked for eggs on Easter Sunday. My dad had bought her a new dress. Blue and pink. And new shoes. White. She was clean. My dad had bought me a new shirt, too. I didn’t feel any better, any cleaner, any purer because I was wearing something new.
I kept watching Elena. She laughed every time she found an egg. “Look!” she yelled. “Look, Sammy!” I wanted to be her voice. I wanted to be her laughter. She was eight, almost nine, and yet she seemed to be younger than that. I wondered if I had ever been like her. I didn’t think so. I had never been that pure.
I didn’t go to confession for a long time after that. When I thought about going, I remembered I’d never confessed that Juliana and I had had sex. But what was the point? What was the point in telling the priest you had sex with a girl who was dead?
One afternoon, I was walking to the store to get a Pepsi. The sun was setting, and the light was beautiful, like there was a halo around the earth. I saw Father Fallon walking down the street, walking toward me. Maybe it was just a dream. But he kept walking. He was real. He was there. Walking. I guess he was just enjoying the evening. Who knows? I didn’t know anything about what priests did when they weren’t on duty. As he came nearer and nearer, I could hear my heart pounding again. I took a breath. And then he was four feet away. “Hello, Father,” I said.
He looked at me. He didn’t say anything. He just kept walking. I turned around and watched him. “Hey!” I said. Then ran after him. “Father. Father.”
He turned around. I caught up to him. “Yes?” He looked at me. He wanted to know why I was bothering him. I wasn’t anything to him, a fly on a plate.
“Father.” I looked at him. “Why do you hate us?” The question just came out. Like it had been there on my tongue all this time, just waiting for a chance to escape.
“What?” he said. I could see it in his eyes. He did hate us.
“Why do you hate us?”
He was going to say something. But he saw something in my eyes. My heart had stopped pounding. I wasn’t afraid. I don’t know why. I just wasn’t. I think it was him—he was afraid. Of me. Of Sammy Santos. I could see that. He turned. And started to walk away. Then he turned back and looked at me. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t.” But there was no conviction in his voice. No hope of being believed. He turned away again. I watched him until he disappeared. I just stood there.
As I walked back home, I got to thinking. And then I knew what I’d been afraid of all those months. I hadn’t been afraid of confession. I hadn’t been afraid of Father Fallon. I was afraid of what I had inside. That I was bad. But I wasn’t. What I had in there, it wasn’t all bad. There was some good there. I knew that.
A part of me had believed Father Fallon when he’d called me animal. I’d believed him. Why had I believed him? And then I kept thinking and thinking and then it occurred to me that I should run after him. Because I’d said the wrong thing. Why do you hate us? That wasn’t it. I should’ve called him what he was. You’re a damned liar. And then I shook my head and thought. Hell, Sammy, let the poor man alone. Let him alone.
I whistled as I walked back home. Lent was over.