To enter a church! Unexpectedly, the thought was anything but repulsive. She climbed the cracked and displaced front steps and walked into the outer vestibule of the chapel. To the right was a marble bowl sparingly filled with holy water; above was a statue of the Virgin Mary.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," she murmured, staring at the Holy Mother. The words were strange, yet rapturous. "The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." She was surprised that she remembered the words after such long disuse. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
Trembling, she dipped her hand into the holy water, crossed herself, and walked through the chapel door.
Michael hurried down the sterile corridor and located the editor's office.
"Could you help me?" he asked as he closed the scalloped glass door behind him.
"Perhaps," the editor said. He reached over his cluttered desk and adjusted the desk lamp.
Michael sat. Glad to be off his feet. He was tired. He had been walking the streets for the last hour, thinking. "I need some information," he declared. He removed a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the desk.
The editor put on his glasses and regarded the ten spot appreciatively. "About what?" he asked curiously.
"An apartment ad that appeared in your Sunday section three weeks ago. I want to know who placed it. How long it ran. And any information you might have on a J. Logan, a renting agent."
The man tossed Michael a pad. "I'll need the address."
Michael smiled, pleased with the expectation of additional information. He scrawled the address and tossed the pad back on the desk.
The editor glanced at the paper, paused to shift his glasses to his forehead, then lifted the desk phone and asked for Real Estate.
The chapel was empty. The silence unbroken. The darkness absolute, except for the light expelled by the myriad tiny candles that burned on the small altars on either side of the room.
Allison walked down the aisle, genuflected, crossed herself and moved to a kneeling position in a pew. The crucifix that hung from her neck lay securely in her hand. She looked around. Now what? What should she do? And why was she here? This place was alien. A world she had deserted. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. Could she remember the words? "Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name." That was it. She had said them a million times as a child. "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done . . ." The darkness. The headache. The nausea. But the words felt so good. "On earth, as it is in heaven." Michael or no Michael, she was going to pray. She had come back. First the room. Then the crucifix. Now this. "Give us this day our daily bread." It had taken so long. "And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." It was almost as if nothing bad had ever happened. "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen." She said the prayer three times.
Grasping the crucifix in a damp hand, she pulled herself to her feet and stepped from the pew. The soft light of the wicks illuminated her presence. She fumbled in her pocket and removed a dime. It was cold; the silver had retained the chill of the frigid night air. She dropped the money in a box, pulled a taper from a container and, crying, lit a candle for her father. Yet she could not pray for him. Instead, she stood immobilized, staring at the flickering lights.
A cold chill ran down her back as if a draft had blown through the church from a hastily opened window. She looked at the candles. They burned erect; the air was still.
But she had sensed something, perhaps the manifestation of the subconscious dread of the coming self-revelation. Her skin tingled as her perception of the circumscribing darkness intensified; she could feel it pressing against her. If this had been any place other than a church, she would have cracked under the horror of the absolute emptiness. Yet it was precisely this feeling of isolation that pushed her toward the confessional.
She carefully measured her steps. "Hello," she cried. "Father." Her voice reverberated among the walls. "Hello, Father, Father."
But there was no reply.
Another step. She listened to the echo of the footsteps, mixed with the lingering vibrations of her calls.
Another step. The chill again. She had to take confession.
"Father." No answer. "Father . . . Father . . . Father . . ."
She stood silently before the booth. Pulling the drape aside, she stared at the bleak interior, the worn oak paneling and the small velvet stool. She eased into a kneeling position, bowed her head, folded her hands and whispered dolefully, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
"When's the last time you were to confession, my child?"
She gasped.
"When was the last time you were to confession?" The voice was deep and authoritative.
Her heart pounded from the sudden, unexpected intrusion. The voice came from the other side of the tiny grating, the side where the priest should have been during the time for confession-or when summoned-but not at this late hour in a darkened church with no sign of life anywhere.
And he hadn't answered her calls.
She panicked, gripping the grating and moving closer.
"Are you all right, my child?"
She stammered, "Father?"
"Yes, my child, go on."
She grabbed the curtain and held it aside, ready to spring from the booth. "Father, you are a priest?"
"Of course, my child," he said benignly. "Go on."
"I . . . uh . . . how . . ."
"I'm here to listen to you."
"But you didn't answer my calls!"
"I'm here to listen to you. Don't be frightened."
"I am, Father. Very!"
"That's why I'm here-because you are frightened. I am here to rid you of your terror by hearing your confession."
She leaned her head against the wall over the grating. Was he a priest? Could she trust him? She had to. She had to reveal herself, accept penance and receive his absolution.
But why hadn't he answered when she had called?
"It's been eight years since I've been to confession, Father!" She stopped.
"Yes?" he prodded.
"I can't believe it's been so long." There was a nervous pause. "Why am I here?" she gasped.
"You are here to be heard!" replied the voice. "I am here to listen."
She whimpered, then quickly caught her breath. "I have committed the following sins: I have not been in church in eight years! I've rejected everything. But most of all Jesus Christ. I want to come back to the church and to him." She stammered unsurely. "I need to tell all that's been kept inside me for so long!"
She fell silent and wept.
"Why did you desert the church, my child?"
"Why?" she mumbled as if the question had been incomprehensible. There was another long silence, after which, fighting back tears, she began to tell him of her adolescence, her early devotion to Jesus and the beginnings of her doubts and denials. She told him of the degeneration of her father. The adultery. The drunkenness. The beatings. The virtual destruction of her family. And she told him of that night!
Then she laid her head in her hands and coughed spasmodically.
"Is that all, my child?" he asked in a hollow-toned voice.
"No," she rasped through the grating.
"Tell me."
"Father, I have committed adultery! I didn't know he was married when I met him-"
"Yes?" he prompted.
"I began to suspect, but I didn't want to know that I loved a man who was doing to another woman what my father had done to my mother." She swallowed arduously, her saliva creeping down her throat like molten lava. "His wife committed suicide!"
"Did she?" asked the priest suddenly. "Is that what happened?"
"Yes," stammered Allison. Why should he question her admission? Did he doubt her word? Or did he know something to the contrary? No! That was impossible. "After the suicide I knew of Karen Farmer's existence." She stopped again and waited silently.
"Is there anything else, my child?"
"Else?"
"Yes, my child."
"No."
"There is! Tell me!" He was probing as if he were searching for something specific.
She held her breath. "I have tried to kill myself," she declared agonizingly, rushing her words quickly through her lips, as if hoping that they would not be heard. "Twice. Once after I found my father and the two women in bed, the second time after the death of the wife. I felt so guilty, so evil."
"Other than that?" he cried, his voice rising. "There is more! Tell me!"
Other than that? Wouldn't he want to hear more of the suicides? Or did he know everything already? Impossible!
"Tell me what else!" he commanded sternly.
"I'm frightened, scared and alone. I can't take the pain any more." She was stuttering. "Someone is trying to hurt me."
"Who is trying to hurt you, my child?"
"I'm not sure, Father. But it may be the person I thought loved me, Michael." She waited for his response; he said nothing. She continued. "I met these people in my home. I found that they didn't exist, and then one night I-"
She stopped. No, that she couldn't reveal, even though she needed his counsel.
"What happened that night?"
"I was frightened by footsteps and I ran from the house."
"And?"
"I got sick." The image of the hospital momentarily emerged, then dissolved. "Today Michael took me to a museum. There was a statue of a person whom I'd met in the brownstone and who was dead-yes, she was dead. He must have known it was there! I just can't comprehend!" She hesitated, ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, "Then I came here."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"There is more!" he cried angrily. "Tell me!"
She could see the wisps of his breath through the grating.
"What else happened the night you ran from the brown-stone? Tell me!"
The confessional shook from the pounding of his voice.
"Tell me," he repeated loudly.
"No," she pleaded as the sweat dripped from her face.
"Speak, my child. Tell me what you must!"
"I saw my father," she blurted.
"Yes," he prompted. "Yes!" His voice was almost exhilarated.
"I stabbed him! But he was dead already!"
Silence that seemed to creep over the darkened walls like a stalking spider. Then the sound of sobbing.
She wiped her wet cheeks and leaned her head against the screen. She was exhausted, having extirpated the filth and torment. She had felt like a balloon releasing air. Yet, unlike the balloon, she hadn't shriveled.
"Is that all, my child?"
"Yes, Father."
There was nothing. For what seemed an eternity.
"You feel lost, my child," he finally said. "Since you abandoned the church and Jesus Christ, you've been lost and without guidance. And now you must come back for that guidance as you have done tonight. Sin is a dangerous thing, my child. It spawns guilt and that is as it should be. But if the sin is not recognized and absolved and the guilt is allowed to remain, it can breed suspicions and deceptions. It can materialize evils and threats that don't exist, except in the recesses of the mind. And that is why you have conjured these horrors. Because you have lived in sin, continue to do so and have not absolved yourself. You must do penance. Once that is done and you have re-embraced Jesus Christ, the suspicions will fade, the evils will disappear and the pain you talk of will haunt you no more. You must come back to Jesus Christ and believe in him. For he is good and by rejecting him you have embraced evil. You must reclaim your faith in the Holy Father. Open your heart to him. Reject suspicion and self-deception. Receive openly the love of your loved ones, and do not fashion that love into other than it is. Believe. And live your life with Christ.
"You say you were impelled to come here. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and it is difficult to understand. We cannot, and that is why we must have faith and believe that God will guide us on the path to righteousness. Only when you root out the sin, embrace Christ, believe in him and trust again will the fears, horrors and doubts disappear. Forget the past and believe. And he will give you the inner strength to fight the evils around you.
"To start you on your way, I want you, for penance, to say a rosary every day and to start practicing your religion by coming to church again, having communion, and believing in God. If at any time you have doubts or fears, do not hesitate to come back to me for guidance.
"Now say the Act of Contrition and I will absolve and forgive you."
She bowed her head and started to chant.
The priest began his absolution, his back against the wall of the booth. His bushy gray hair and long gray eyebrows stood out in the darkness. He too was sweating. He wiped his forehead with freckled hands that were covered by little tufts of white hair.
"That's impossible!" Michael cried.
The editor sat back, adjusted his spectacles and wiped his brow. "Impossible or not," he began, "no notice was ever ordered. And no payment was ever made." He handed Michael a newspaper section. "And as you will see, no notice appeared."
Allison stepped through the front door of the old church, looked up at the inscription over the doorway, then turned away and started into the darkness.
Twenty minutes later she opened the door to Michael's apartment, removed her coat, hung it in the closet, then walked into the living room and glanced coldly toward the picture window.
Michael was sitting behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. His face was drawn and pale.
She coughed, placed her bag on the coffee table and sat down on the couch.
The room was quiet. He deep in thought, she discreetly observant.
He raised his head and blinked. "Hello," he said unemotionally. He seemed almost petrified, motionless.
"Yes, hello," she replied.
He looked at his watch. "It's been two hours."
"Has it?"
He nodded. I m sorry.
He rested his head in his cupped hands. "I've been worried," he said tensely.