was
sure Father could hear it even without his hearing aid.
She thought: I know what you’re expecting, Father. The usual stuff kids tell you — I lied about
finishing my homework, I ate a hot dog on Friday, I cursed my sister. Oh, if only that were all ...
What she had done was a million times worse. A mortal sin.
Rose clenched her fist tightly about her rosary, the beads biting into her palm. She felt flushed
and hot, as if she were coming down with the flu. But she knew she wasn’t sick. This felt so
much worse. What were cramps and a sore throat compared to being doomed forever?
She remembered Sister Gabrielle in first grade telling her that confession was like washing
your soul. Rose had seen herself stretched out on a table while a priest stood over her, sleeves
rolled up and hands soapy, scrubbing away, and then giving her Penance, a few Hail Marys and
Our Fathers sprinkled on to get out her extra spots.
But today her soul had to be so black no amount of scrubbing would get it clean. The best she
could hope for was a dingy gray, like on those TV commercials where they used the wrong
detergent.
“... it’s been two weeks since my last confession,” she continued in a small whisper.
[36] Rose stared at the screen before her. She could just make out the shadowy profile of the
priest on the other side. She thought of how, when she was younger, she’d believed it was God
Himself in there ... well, almost ... more like God speaking through His messenger, sort of like a
long-distance telephone call, only a lot farther away than Topeka or Minneapolis.
Now, of course, she knew it was only old Father Donahue, who wheezed his way through
Sunday Mass and whose hand smelled of cigarettes when he pressed the Host onto her out-thrust
tongue. But knowing it was creaky old Father still didn’t take away the tight feeling in her
stomach. Because somewhere it was God who was passing judgment on her. He might cripple her
in a car wreck, or wipe her out entirely with cancer. Look at that poor girl Sister Perpetua had told
them about, the one who lapsed in her faith and thought she was pregnant, only to be cut open at
the end and found to be carrying not a child, but a hideous tumor (it even had teeth and hair,
Sister said) the size of a watermelon.
And at the very least, there’d be purgatory. She imagined God recording her sins in a thick
black ledger with pale lined green pages, like the book where Sister Agnes marked tardies and
demerits. Purgatory had to be like school—everyone went. It was just a question of who passed
and who failed.
Rose recited in a rush, “Oh, Lord, I heartily detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishment,
but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of my love.”
She took a deep breath.
Father Donahue muttered something in Latin, then fell silent, waiting for her to continue.
Rose shifted her weight from one knee to another, and the wood let out a loud creak. In the
unbearable stillness it sounded like a pistol shot. This might kill him, she thought. Give him a
heart attack. PRIEST SHOCKED TO DEATH BY TEENAGER’S CONFESSION.
A pulse throbbed on the side of her neck. Her mouth felt very dry, and she thought longingly of
the half-finished roll of Lifesavers in her purse. Butter Rum, her favorite. But that was a
sacrilege, too, thinking about candy at a time like this.
She tried to think of a soul-cleansing thought instead. Thick heat clamped about her like a
sweaty fist, and an ooze began at her [37] armpits, working its way into the pinched flesh around
her bra, an old one Marie had given her that was at least two sizes too small. She thought of Saint
Joan, roasting at the stake.
Martyrdom. Rose remembered the day Sister Perpetua had first told them about it. Fifth grade,
and they’d been half-listening to Sister droning on, as they nodded over their dog-eared copies of
Lives of the Saints.
“Girls—” Her
sure Father could hear it even without his hearing aid.
She thought: I know what you’re expecting, Father. The usual stuff kids tell you — I lied about
finishing my homework, I ate a hot dog on Friday, I cursed my sister. Oh, if only that were all ...
What she had done was a million times worse. A mortal sin.
Rose clenched her fist tightly about her rosary, the beads biting into her palm. She felt flushed
and hot, as if she were coming down with the flu. But she knew she wasn’t sick. This felt so
much worse. What were cramps and a sore throat compared to being doomed forever?
She remembered Sister Gabrielle in first grade telling her that confession was like washing
your soul. Rose had seen herself stretched out on a table while a priest stood over her, sleeves
rolled up and hands soapy, scrubbing away, and then giving her Penance, a few Hail Marys and
Our Fathers sprinkled on to get out her extra spots.
But today her soul had to be so black no amount of scrubbing would get it clean. The best she
could hope for was a dingy gray, like on those TV commercials where they used the wrong
detergent.
“... it’s been two weeks since my last confession,” she continued in a small whisper.
[36] Rose stared at the screen before her. She could just make out the shadowy profile of the
priest on the other side. She thought of how, when she was younger, she’d believed it was God
Himself in there ... well, almost ... more like God speaking through His messenger, sort of like a
long-distance telephone call, only a lot farther away than Topeka or Minneapolis.
Now, of course, she knew it was only old Father Donahue, who wheezed his way through
Sunday Mass and whose hand smelled of cigarettes when he pressed the Host onto her out-thrust
tongue. But knowing it was creaky old Father still didn’t take away the tight feeling in her
stomach. Because somewhere it was God who was passing judgment on her. He might cripple her
in a car wreck, or wipe her out entirely with cancer. Look at that poor girl Sister Perpetua had told
them about, the one who lapsed in her faith and thought she was pregnant, only to be cut open at
the end and found to be carrying not a child, but a hideous tumor (it even had teeth and hair,
Sister said) the size of a watermelon.
And at the very least, there’d be purgatory. She imagined God recording her sins in a thick
black ledger with pale lined green pages, like the book where Sister Agnes marked tardies and
demerits. Purgatory had to be like school—everyone went. It was just a question of who passed
and who failed.
Rose recited in a rush, “Oh, Lord, I heartily detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishment,
but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of my love.”
She took a deep breath.
Father Donahue muttered something in Latin, then fell silent, waiting for her to continue.
Rose shifted her weight from one knee to another, and the wood let out a loud creak. In the
unbearable stillness it sounded like a pistol shot. This might kill him, she thought. Give him a
heart attack. PRIEST SHOCKED TO DEATH BY TEENAGER’S CONFESSION.
A pulse throbbed on the side of her neck. Her mouth felt very dry, and she thought longingly of
the half-finished roll of Lifesavers in her purse. Butter Rum, her favorite. But that was a
sacrilege, too, thinking about candy at a time like this.
She tried to think of a soul-cleansing thought instead. Thick heat clamped about her like a
sweaty fist, and an ooze began at her [37] armpits, working its way into the pinched flesh around
her bra, an old one Marie had given her that was at least two sizes too small. She thought of Saint
Joan, roasting at the stake.
Martyrdom. Rose remembered the day Sister Perpetua had first told them about it. Fifth grade,
and they’d been half-listening to Sister droning on, as they nodded over their dog-eared copies of
Lives of the Saints.
“Girls—” Her
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