Mallen looked up at the small, stained-glass window in the confessional, his gaze lingering on the image of Christ hanging on the cross. Jesus was pierced, too, he thought as he stabbed the glinting hypodermic needle into a thin vein in his arm. He released the rubber tube from between his teeth as he unclenched his fist, and felt the golden liquid melt into his veins, a cold fire. He leaned back against the hard, dark wood as the silky warmth flowed over him and a sigh escaped his lips, almost a moan. The scent of candles and incense were thick in the air, wrapping around him, threatening to carry him away.

He nodded, sleepy and dreamy. He liked it in here, in the womb-like enclosure where people came to speak their secrets. It was one of his favorite places to shoot up, especially this time of day when the priest wasn't around to find you and everyone else was at work.

As he shoved his rig back into the inner pocket of his overcoat, he thought how funny it was how shit works out sometimes. If the nuns back in school hadn't gone on and on about the dangers and sin of doing drugs, he was sure he would never have given dope a second thought.

It hadn't always been like this, had it? There was a time, way back in the now dim past, dim like viewing the road through a dusty, yellowed wind shied, when his mind had not floated on a raft of C21H23NO5. How long now, since that first, irrevocable pinprick? A feeling very much like regret welled up inside, below the skinny, sunken chest, but he fought it, pushing it back down, packing it away neater than sweaters in summer going into the lowest dresser drawer. Better just to be numb. He looked up once more at the image of Christ. Ol' J.C. had been an addict, too. Addicted to the attention... the rush of the whole passion thing. An addict can always spot another. It was like having a druggie radar. Dopedar! Ha! He grew more and more tired, and his lids slid slowly down over his red-rimmed eyes.

Dreams opened up before him, beckoning...

The scrape of a nearby door opening and closing woke him. Shit, he hadn't meant to fuckin' fall asleep! He sat there frozen with fear as he listened to the soft rustle of cloth from the other side of the partition as someone settled into the confessional. There was a sharp creak from the wooden bench as they sat down, then after a moment of silence he heard a tired, female voice.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been four years since my last confession."

He should just get up and run, but he found that he couldn't. There had been something in her voice that made him pause. It was the note of despair he had heard in those two, short sentences. The note came from somewhere past tired and beyond sadness. It was a familiar note, because he had heard it in his mother's voice as a kid, and inside his sister's when they were growing up.

And yeah, he had heard it inside his own.

He felt words coursing up from deep inside of him, pushing through as if they had a life of their own, and he knew he couldn't stop them from coming. "Why has it been so long since you've been to confession?" he said, cringing that he had spoken.

"I thought I had lost my faith," she answered.

"And you didn't?"

"No, I did. But I think it has returned."

"What happened to bring it back?"

"I'm not sure. I needed it again, and there it was." "Why did you need it again," he continued, restraining the "my child" at the end of the sentence. Asshole! Leave!

"My mother is dying. Of cancer."

"That sucks," he blurted out, then coughed harshly, trying to cover it up. "I mean, I'm sorry to hear that. That's very hard to go through." Damn fucking straight it was: months or perhaps years of a slow, lingering death, wasting away to bones as your life ebbed out of you like the last, faint clouds passing over a horizon. His mother's face was suddenly there, in his mind's eye. Her smile. Her eyes that were the color of light through a jagged piece of amber. He could feel the touch of her soft, dry hands as she petted his head, like she had done when he was a little kid.

"She'll be dead soon, Father. Maybe very soon."

"Is she getting good help? You know, at a good hospital, or something?"

There was a momentary silence, and he wondered if he had slipped up again, but then she was continuing.

"No, she's at home. We don't have a lot of money, or any insurance." 

"But then how are you...?"

"Managing?" she replied with more than a hint of bitterness. "I do the best I can, Father. I always have, you know?"

He did know. Sure as shit, he sure did. "But these aren't sins."

"I know. My sin is that I feel, feel relief... at the thought of her dying." There were tears in her voice now. He remembered his sister saying something very much like this to him once, followed up with: "And what the fuck do you do for her anyway, huh, Tommy? What? She don't need junk! She needs a working heater. A fridge filled with more than empty space."

"I think it's normal to feel those feelings," he said. "It's hard to deal with someone dying like that, especially when it's your mom."

"Would you come back with me, Father? She would like to see a priest."

Jesus... "I'm sure that you have a regular priest, right? Maybe one... closer to home?"

"What? You won't come?"

"No. I mean, yes... just a moment..." A bead of sweat tumbled down his forehead and into his eye. He glanced up at the stained glass Jesus. He sparkled and glowed, everything he was supposed to be, and never had been.

He pushed out of the confessional and ducked through the nearest doorway he could find, knocking into a pew on his way, wanting to put as much distance between him and the woman as possible.

Beyond the door was a long hallway, the blood-colored carpet a thick, plush pile that cushioned his black sneakers. On the dark, wood paneled walls hung paintings depicting scenes from the bible. The images filled him with a sudden, diamond-hard shame.

"Father!" The tone was that of an abandoned child. He stopped cold, not wanting to turn around. Not wanting to face her.

"Where are you going?"

Mallen stood there, suddenly aware of how silent it was. Outside, the world was exploding in a hail of bullets, blood, and pop culture. But here in this church, it was serene and quiet. Almost soothing. In his mind's eye, there was the image of Jesus up on the cross, the spikes no longer hypos but heavy nails, heavy enough to hold up people's hope. In a flashing moment, he felt like his whole life suddenly opened before him and he was hanging by a thread, a thread that was as fine as a strand of spider's web, connecting him by his soul to something larger than himself, larger than the whole universe.

He took a deep breath, trying for the first time in his miserable joke of a life to actually force the high of the heroin away from him. He slowly buttoned up his black coat to the collar, to better hide the dirt and stains on his white, turtleneck shirt. He combed his hair with his fingers and rubbed his face to get some color into it, then turned to face her. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow...

The first thing he noticed was the quizzical expression in her large, dark eyes. Her threadbare overcoat was at least two sizes too large for her, and in fact, it was a man's coat. She clutched a faded gold lame' purse in her small, brown hands.

And he could tell that she realized he was not a priest. Not even close. He saw the light go out of her eyes, as if his actions had extinguished her last embers of hope.

He took a step forward, his palms outward, beseeching. "I want to help you, okay? There's no priest here, I'm sorry."

"But," she faltered, "but you... listened!"

"I know, I'm sorry. You caught me in there. I didn't know what to do, then you began and I could tell you needed to talk, so I just... went with it," he ended lamely, embarrassed.

For an answer, she strode over to him and before he knew what she was doing, he felt the hard bite of her slap across his cheek. "¡Mentiroso!" Liar!

He nodded, refraining from reaching up and rubbing his cheek. He thought it might make an impact on her somehow.

"There's no priest that you'll be able to find tonight," he said quietly. "I'll go with you, and be with her until... until the end, if that's what it takes. Who cares what title I have, or even if this is my church? I don't know much, lady, but I do know what I was taught as a kid, and that was that God is supposed to live in each person's heart, and my heart right now is telling me to go and be with your mother, even to hear her confession if that's what she wants." He added in a quiet voice, "I'm telling you I want to go, and help you."

The realization hit him as he was speaking that these weren't just words anymore like they would've been earlier today. No, as he spoke, he felt each word as if he were carving them into a piece of stone, making them eternal in some way, never to be forgotten.

He stood there regarding her, trying to appear resolute, or how he thought resolute would look. Her eyes bore into his for a moment, as if she could see all the way down into him, perhaps see that fine, silver thread and what it was attached to.

"Alright," she said, "let's go."

*   *   *

The night was bitter cold. Mother Nature had turned her back on man again. They trudged through the slush and trash. He had been born in this neighborhood, had lived in it, and now he knew that he didn't want to die in it. It felt like every building held a memory; every abandoned structure came complete with a dark doorway where he had shot up, or vomited when strung out.

He glanced at the woman out of the corner of his eye, to try and read what was going on with her, but he couldn't. He didn't have skills of that kind, only the kind to dig out a few dollars here or there, or sniff out a good connection. that would have to change, he thought. "What's your name?" he said.

"Maria."

"And your mother's?"

"Esperanza."

"You got a job, Maria? Go to school? Something?"

She shook her head. "Only work. At a restaurant over on Seventh Street." Her tone made him quit with the questions.

They walked on for another seven blocks. Cramps started in his stomach. It had been over a day since he had last eaten. Even though the freezing cold had wormed its way under his clothes, he could feel his armpits were damp with sweat. The beginning of the cleaning out. It would be at least three days before he would see life again as it was meant to be lived.

They stopped at the front of a tall tenement. It seemed to loom above him, waiting to pronounce a judgment.

Maria was about to put her foot on the steps that led up to the plywood repaired lobby door when she hesitated and turned to him, her eyes fierce pinpoints of emotion.

"I don't care what you did earlier, okay? I appreciate what you are doing now, but do whatever you are going to do well, okay? Make her believe, please?"

He was stuck in her gaze, unable to look away. He nodded, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. "I will," he replied, "Don't worry, I won't let you down. I promise."

"Let's go up then," she said, and led him inside. 

 
 

 


Robert Lewis lives in Berkeley, CA. When not playing guitar, he's dancing with his regrets on the head of a pin. His short fiction has been published in various literary journals, and he is currently at work finishing up his first novel, Lost Wings. He's a produced screenwriter with another script, Tuition, currently under option with Red Baron Pictures.