Welding with Children by Tim Gautreaux Page B

down the hall toward the patio, longing for the openness. “I can’t discuss specific matters of confession.”
    â€œI know. That’s why I gave you all the details again.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll call. Is he awake now?”
    â€œHe’s here at home. We got him a crank-up bed and a oxygen machine, and a nurse sits with him at night. I’ll put him on.”
    Father Ledet leaned against the wall and stared at a crucifix, wondering what Christ had done to deserve his punishment. When he heard the hiss of Clyde Arceneaux’s mask come out of the phone, he began to tell him what he should hear, that he was forgiven in God’s eyes, that if he wanted to make restitution, he could give something to the poor, or figure out how to leave his brother-in-law something. He hung up and sniffed the waxed smell of the rectory, thinking of the sweet, musky brandy in the kitchen cupboard, and immediately he went to find the young priest upstairs to discuss the new Mass schedule.
    *   *   *
    On Saturday afternoon, Father Ledet was nodding off in the confessional when a woman entered and began to make her confession. After she’d mentioned one or two venial sins, she addressed him through the screen. “Father, it’s Doris Arceneaux, Clyde’s wife.”
    The priest yawned. “How is Clyde?”
    â€œYou remember the car business? Well, something new has come up,” she whispered. “Clyde always told me he and the Scadlock kid towed the car off with a rope, and when they got it downtown behind the seawall, they pushed it overboard into the bay.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThere’s a new wrinkle.”
    He put down his missal and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. “What do you mean?”
    â€œClyde just told me he stored the car. Been paying thirty-five dollars a month to keep it in a little closed bin down at the U-Haul place for the past ten years.” She whispered louder: “I don’t know how he kept that from me. Makes me wonder about a few other things.”
    The priest’s eyebrows went up. “Now he can give it back, or you can give it back when your husband passes away.” As soon as he’d said this, he knew it wouldn’t work. It was too logical. If nothing else, his years in the confessional had taught him that people did not run their lives by reason much of the time, but by some little inferior motion of the spirit, some pride, some desire that defied the simple beauty of doing the sensible thing.
    Mrs. Arceneaux protested that the secret had to be kept. “There’s only one way to get Nelson his car back like Clyde wants.”
    The priest sighed. “How is that?”
    Mrs. Arceneaux began to fidget in the dark box. “Well, you the only one besides me who knows what happened. Clyde says the car will still run. He cranks it up once every three weeks so it keeps its battery hot.”
    The priest put his head down. “And?”
    â€œAnd you could get up early and drive it back to Nelson’s and park it where it was the night Clyde stole it.”
    â€œNot no,” the priest said, “but hell no!”
    â€œFather!”
    â€œWhat if I were caught driving that thing? The secret would get out then.”
    â€œFather, this is part of a confession. You can’t tell.”
    The priest now sensed a plot. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, Mrs. Arceneaux. Now I’m going to give you a penance of twenty Our Fathers.”
    â€œFor telling one fib to my daughter-in-law?”
    â€œYou want a cut rate for dishonesty?”
    â€œAll right,” she said in an unrepentant voice. “And I’ll pray for you while I’m at it.”
    *   *   *
    After five o’clock Saturday Mass, Father Ledet felt his soul bang around inside him like a golf ball in a shoe box, something hard and compacted. He yearned for a hot, inflating swallow