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Absolution

Robert Hynes

        The door bolt echoed throughout the crossing, alerting Father Dorian to the presence of a visitor. The aged priest writhed in his seat, leaning toward the access to the confessional. His hand, flush and thickset, brushed the curtain aside just enough for its owner to peer out into the church. The offering candles flickered in the air stirred by the creaking door. A pause. Then the same door closing. Soon the candles resumed their lifeless vigil in the red candle glasses.
    Footsteps followed one by one, the candles stirring again not quite dying, as though each step sent a gust of wind throughout the empty church. The priest could see her now. It was a woman, slender in a dark suit. Stiletto heels marked each of the resounding steps in perfect time, chipping at the granite tiles of the floor. She wore a hat with a veil which under the dim lighting obscured her face. The only exception was the ruby lips which he could see clear across the church. The footsteps came closer. Forceful steps. Deliberate steps. Father Dorian pulled the curtain shut and waited in the shadow.
    The footsteps stopped outside the confessional. Silence. Then the sound of the curtain moving and the woman stepping into the booth. Father Dorian shifted in his seat again leaning forward. He could see her outline through the screen. She stood for a moment. Her face and neck just out of sight. But he could see her body. Angelic and nubile, her body was. Her skirt ended just below the knee like a Catholic school uniform. She was lithe and wide of hip with breasts supple but diminutive. Unblemished by earthly temptations-or so she seemed. The priest drew a breath and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
    He judged this woman to be about 25, though in the darkness it was difficult to say. And the tight fitting suit on such a thin body made her look ten years younger. Trembling with excitement, the old priest wetted his lips. What delightful secrets would she reveal him tonight? Impure thoughts? Yes, please tell them to me, my child. Sins of the flesh? Oh, this was too wonderful to be true.
    The woman made the sign of the cross and then knelt, her face hidden beneath the veil except for those shining ruby lips. So innocent. Disturbingly innocent, as though that heavy luster of red had been applied to the lips of a child. If anything, her lips seemed to belong to another soul entirely, one far less...experienced. All the better, Father Dorian thought scarcely able to avert his gaze from them.
    The woman drew a breath, which startled the priest. He fumbled with his rosary beads and strained to see through the confessional screen between them. Then he cleared his throat and prompted, 'Bless me, Father.'
    Silence. There was the sound of sniffling. The glint of a tear ran across the edge of her lips.
    'Bless me, Father,' he said again.
    More silence. More sniffling. Then she answered.
    'Bless me, Father. For I have sinned. I seek absolution. It has been a long time since my last confession. More than ten years...' Her voice trailed off into a whisper. And there was a fullness about it. Deep and alluring. Seductive even. But those lips...innocent as the snow and then painted over with blaring gloss. A mask of womanhood deliberately obscuring the innocence beneath. Even more so with the crying. Father Dorian clenched at the curtain to steady himself. The contrast was so jarring, he felt dizzy. It made him giddy in a way he had not felt for years.
    'Have you attended mass in that time?' he said leaning almost into the screen.
    'No...well, yes. When I was younger. But I stopped when I got older.' Her perfume wafted through the screen, replacing the lingering amalgam of incense and his own unbathed sweat.
    'You've missed mass,' he said. He was fixated on those lips. As though there were nothing else to her. Such perfect lips. So perfect for...he smiled silently. So childlike. Father Dorian shifted his corpulent frame restlessly in his seat.
    'Yes,' she answered with a clearing of her throat.
    'My child, there is no need to be sorrowful. You have been given this chance to reconcile. God forgives. God welcomes you back into his arms.'
    She did not answer at first. Just the sound of her breathing. 'Father, there's something else. I cannot have children. It's my punishment. From God.' He could see another tear now. It ran just past those alluring lips of hers. Only then did he realize that he had not seen a glint of teeth, only the inviting darkness within her soft, wavering lips. What exquisite sins were they capable of?
    Father Dorian struggled to maintain his composure. He breathed slowly before he spoke to hide his exhilaration. 'My child, your affliction is not punishment for any sin of yours. It is most likely a medical condition that requires the attention of a doctor. It is simply your lot in life. The cross you bear. One of the trials God has chosen for you. But it is not His punishment.'
    'I've been to a doctor. Many doctors. I already know the answer.' A delicate hand wiped the tear from her cheek with a handkerchief. And upon witnessing it, the old priest was compelled to mop the pig sweat from his brow with his own handkerchief.
    'Why don't we talk about your confession?'
    'I murdered my baby. I... I had an abortion. I was very young at the time. There was some serious scarring. Even in the remote chance that I can conceive, it would be virtually impossible for me to carry full term. And it would be life threatening, even if I did. That's why I can't have children. That's why God is punishing me. That's why I need absolution.'
    Father Dorian sighed heavily and stroked the flabby skin under his chin. 'I see. This sin has come between you and God.'
    'Yes,' she said. She was weeping. 'I think about it every day. Can you help me, Father?'
    'I'm afraid it is not as simple as that. The Church regards abortion as a mortal sin. It brings the automatic penalty of excommunication. You may continue to attend mass, but full reconciliation will take some time. We will have to refer your case to the diocese.' Still mesmerized by the lips, Father Dorian eased out of his seat onto the kneeler. If he could reach through that very screen and touch those lips, he would do it. Awaiting her reply, his hand moved underneath his brocaded robe and groped toward his belt buckle.
    'But I came to get absolution tonight.'
    Oh, yes. What is the price of absolution for a sinner such as this? Perhaps there was way for absolution, if she were willing. Perhaps even if she were unwilling...he could show her. He began to unfasten the belt buckle. 'These things take time. I applaud you for coming here, because it demonstrates your willingness to reunite with God. There may be something I can do. We can start by discussing your case in greater detail, my child.' Yes, greater detail. Tell me everything you did. I must hear it!
    Silence. Then the voice that replied was suddenly older, more confident and certain. 'Stop calling me that.' It was biting, chiding almost. Not the sobbing voice of a forsaken teen. It possessed purpose. It was frightening. This was not right.
    Father Dorian scrambled away from the screen, his back pressing into the antimacassar, his hands now gripping the armrests of his chair. 'Very well,' he replied, his voice doddering. 'What would you have me call you?'
    'Mary.' Her answer came in one forceful word. Not my name is Mary. Not I want to be called Mary. Just Mary.
    'Mary,' he repeated.
    'Yes, like the Virgin Mary.' There was a mocking quality in her tone. 'Oh, but I'm not a virgin. Not now. I mean I was.' The ruby lips smiled for an instant as though acknowledging a private joke. There was a familiar quality about them now. What did it mean? Father did not answer. 'Doesn't that name mean anything to you, Father?'
    'Other than Saint Mary, the Blessed Mother?'
    'That's not what I'm talking about!' Her voice was loud and forceful. No trace of that childlike innocence any longer. Her head turned toward the access, and he could no longer see her lips. She stood up and rushed past the curtain, her footsteps echoing on the floor.
    Father made the sign of the cross and rose from his seat. He grasped for the curtain, but it was torn aside before he could reach it. Startled, Father Dorian backed against the wall of the confessional, the crucifix above his right shoulder and the rosary dangling in his hand. She was standing in front of him. The woman. Mary. She threw off the hat, her face contorted with rage. Beaming eyes above lines where her tears had run. And the beautiful but yet innocent lips were twisted into a sneer of disgust.
    'M-m-my word, Miss...Mary. What in heaven's name are you doing? This is a place of worship.'
    'Don't you remember? Look at my face.' She was shouting now. What did he remember? It was the lips. Familiar. When had he seen them before? 'You still don't remember, do you?' Which one was she? Her name was Mary. How long had it been? More than ten years, she said before. But it was not possible...or was it? There was one named Mary. His eyes widened in horror.
    It happened so long ago. Yes, the same lips but without the ruby gloss. A child's lips. She was still a child at the time, too young to wear makeup. The same angelic body. He had taken her. Not once but many times.

    'Please, get away.' His voice was pleading as he recoiled beneath the crucifix, as though she were the devil from which it would protect him.
    The woman reached into her jacket and retrieved a silver revolver. 'I said I came seeking absolution tonight. I never said it was my absolution. This is for you, Father.'
    The old priest shook all over now. 'Oh God, please no,' he said.
    'I was only fourteen. You put your hand on my shoulder when I was praying. You were the only one in my life who treated me like an adult. You knew exactly what buttons to push. You told me there would be no sin.'
     'Stop. Please stop,' he blubbered.
    'You told me that the Virgin Mary was even younger than I was when the angel appeared to her. And that I was special, because I she was my namesake. I believed everything you said.'
    'No, I'm so sorry. I don't want to remember. Please.' Spittle ran down his chin, as he cowered in the back of the confessional.
    'You drove me to the clinic, you bastard! You paid for it. You said it had to be secret. You said that no one could ever know. My mother never even knew I was pregnant.'
    'I was ill,' he cried. 'I was very sick. But I'm cured now. You've got to believe me.'
    'How many others were there? Hundreds I'll bet.'
    'Stop, please. Stop.'
    'Were they only girls, or did you fuck boys, too?'
    'No more. I can't bare it.'
    'I already know, Father. I've talked to people. I've done some investigating. There were boys too, weren't there? And only I got pregnant, because I was older than the others. You liked them much younger.'
    'Please. I can't bear it any more.' His shrieking and sobbing resonated throughout the church.
    'You have to bear it, Father. You have to. I bore it, because of what you did to me. I came here for absolution. And I am not leaving without it. I told you I did not come for my absolution. I came for yours. I have one more confession to make, Father. I don't know if it counts, because I have not actually done it yet. But I am about to. It's murder, Father. Tell me is it a greater sin to kill a priest?' She cocked the hammer on the revolver.
    'You can't do this. You can't kill me. Your immortal soul is at stake.'
    'Then you can burn in hell right alongside me, you son of a bitch!'
    'Father Morelia will hear. He'll call the police. Help! Someone help!'
    'I can assure you that Father Morelia is quite tied up at the moment.'
    'It was a sickness. I could not control it.'
    'It's too late, Father. You got away with it for too long. How many other lives did you ruin? You don't have any idea, do you? Put it this way. I'm going to kill you for all of the other lives you ruined. It's ironic, isn't it? Jesus gave his life to save our souls. And me...I'm giving my soul to save other lives. To save the lives of all the other children you'll get your filthy paws on, if I don't.'
    'I was ill! Please.'
    'You took my child, Father. I can't have children because of you. You took my innocence too. It's too late. Goodbye, Father.'
    She pulled the trigger. Blam. The first shot rang out. Father Dorian gripped his chest, where the bullet tore through his flesh. It burned like fire. Like all the fire in hell. The front of his robe turned the color of crimson wine. He tried to take a step forward and then careened backwards into the confessional wall. Blam. Another bullet cut through his shoulder, splattering blood across the crucifix on the wall. Drops of blood on the wounds of Christ.
    Father Dorian's rosary snagged on the shelf as he toppled to the floor. He gripped it to keep his balance, but the cord broke scattering the beads in all directions. Father Dorian looked up at her from where he lay one final time with pleading eyes. She raised the gun to his head such that he could see down the barrel. It was too late to reconcile.
    Father Dorian saw Mary's lips curl into a smile one last time as her finger tightened on the trigger. Blam. The third shot rang out. Like the sound of a hammer. Striking against the nails on the True Cross. He lay slumped in the corner, the stain of blood swallowing up the white of his robe. He saw the smoke curl up from the tip of the barrel. Mingling with the haze of incense. He watched her in his last remaining moments of life. Without a word, she used a handkerchief to wipe off the traces of blood that splattered on her feet and face. After which, she retrieved the discarded hat and returned it to the top of her head. Then she made the sign of the cross and turned toward the door. Each step of her stiletto heels echoed throughout the crossing. Like the ticking of a clock. Until the candlelight faded, and he fell into darkness.

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