Mark Rogers - The Dead

“Yes.”

“You’re born again, washed in the blood?”

“Yes.”

“What was the verdict in your dream?”

MacAleer was silent.

“Well?”

“You’re trying to trip me up.”

“Oh?”

“To stop me from preaching the good news to your uncle.”

“What was the verdict, Mr. MacAleer?” Max asked.

MacAleer looked away. “I woke up too,” he said. Suddenly his eyes swept back to Max, vehement, defiant. “That doesn’t mean that what I told your uncle is false. And it doesn’t mean I’m not justified. All it might mean is that I woke up, that’s all-”

Max laughed.

“Max,” Dennis said, “has it occurred to you that I might really be interested in what he has to say? Regardless of whether or not he’s in the same boat with the rest of us?”

“That doesn’t make any difference to you?” Max asked. “Doesn’t it suggest his little formula doesn’t work as well as he says?”

“I notice you seem to have accepted my explanation ,” MacAleer said.

“Not quite yet,” Max said. “But let’s say that I do. Fine and dandy. Seems to fit a lot of facts. But your ideas on how we should extricate ourselves don’t seem so impressive. You’re still here to explain them.”

“But maybe they’re right anyway, Max,” Dennis said. “Maybe he just doesn’t have enough faith.”

Max grinned, impressed by Dennis’s logic; he was having some effect on his uncle.

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” MacAleer demanded.

“It follows from what you’ve been saying,” Max said. “If your theories are correct, of course. “

“Well, what do you want your uncle to believe?” MacAleer demanded.

“That’s it, change the subject.” Max said.

“A lot of superstitions?”

“What superstitions are those?”

“Worshipping the Virgin Mary? Bowing down before relics?”

Max went through his pockets. “Well, I do have this bone-fragment from St. Severa here somewhere…”

MacAleer’s eyes bulged, as though Max were really about to produce the abominable object.

Max snapped his fingers. “Left it back at the shelter.”

“Thank God,” MacAleer said.

“Us Papists have better alternatives in any case.”

“Like what? Confessing to a mere man in a stuffy little black booth?”

“The stuffier the better,” Max said. “Booth’s optional, though. Icing on the cake.”

“Then why don’t you just go over to Father Chuck and have him confess you both right now?”

Max mulled it over. “Haven’t had time up till now-thought we were going to be in the shelter longer. Should’ve spoken to him about it before I dozed off last night.” He looked at Dennis. “Want to join me?”

“You don’t have to be Catholic?” Dennis asked.

“Nope. You just have to be sorry.”

“So that’s your formula for salvation?” MacAleer demanded.

“What the hell,” Dennis said, and handed his shotgun to MacAleer. “Watch the window for me, will you?”

“Sure,” MacAleer said, obviously agitated. “But I’m telling you, that witch doctor won’t do you any good.”

“Probably won’t hurt either.”

Dennis and Max walked off toward the priest.

“Don’t I have to know some kind of prayers or something?” Dennis asked.

“Father Chuck’ll tell you what to say,” Max said. “And remember, we’re not promising instant deliverance here. Even if your sins are forgiven, that’s not enough. You do have to believe. MacAleer’s right about that. He’s not as big an idiot as he seems. But faith without works is dead, as Saint James used to say. And unforgiven sins are a big obstacle to belief.”

Making their way round a big green Oldsmobile, they reached Father Chuck, who had temporary custody of MacAleer’s Beretta. The priest looked briefly over his shoulder as they came up, then back through the bay-door windows.

“Father?” Max asked.

“Yes?”

Max hesitated; he had some difficulty asking. “I was…well, wondering if you might hear our confessions.”

“You want me to hear yours ?” Father Chuck asked sarcastically.

“Yes, Father,” Max answered, trying to ignore Father Chuck’s tone.

“I’m flattered,” Father Chuck said. “But I don’t do confessions.”

“Come on, Father. I know I’ve rubbed you the wrong way, but…”

“I don’t do confessions,” the priest insisted, apparently in earnest.

“I thought administering the sacraments was supposed to be one of your jobs.”

“Some sacraments. The ones I approve of.”

“ You approve of-?”

“Well, not just me. The vast majority of Catholics don’t feel any need to be confessed. And I have no wish to encourage them in something so degrading.”

“Degrading to who?”

“The person who comes crawling in to confess, to be contrite for things that no one needs to be contrite for. All that guilt and self-loathing-the most damaging of emotions. I’m not going to cater to such negative feelings. I prefer trying to lift people up, to make them realize that the glass is half-full, not half empty…”

“What about when the glass is busted, Father?” Max asked.

“Even then, the contents are still on the counter or the floor,” Father Chuck replied.

“Did you learn that in seminary?”

“Yes,” Father Chuck answered stoutly. “Do you really think your hellfire-and-brimstone version of Catholicism is still being taught?”

“So what is it now? Theology of cliches?”

“For some people, the Sermon on the Mount is nothing but a collection of cliches.”

“One man’s beatitude is another man’s banality?”

“The Church must learn to express itself in the modern world. And cliches are an indispensible tool.”

Max laughed, thunderstruck. “You mean they really did teach you theology of cliches? It’s a real subject ?”

“I wrote a paper on it.”

“On always seeing the silver lining? Or letting a smile be your umbrella?”

“On how it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive.”

“ Is it better?”

“Why do you think it’s become a cliche?”

“Do you also think it’s better to starve hopefully than to eat? Better to lust hopefully than to screw?”

Father Chuck shrugged.” Perhaps it is-my sexual experiences are never that fulfilling. But my mind’s still open.”

“Just like it is about your vows, I take it?”

“Better to let off steam than hold it in.”

“Wouldn’t it be better just to think hopefully about letting off steam? That way you could live up to your vows and your cliches.”

“How medieval.”

Medieval? Max thought. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what Father Chuck meant.

“Besides,” the priest went on, “most American Catholics think priests should be allowed to marry, or would if they thought about it.”

“Father, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I’m sorry I’m not to your tastes.”

“Look, I’m sorry too,” Max said, exasperated. “But all this is beside the point.”

“And what’s the point?”

“Confession. Would you at least go through the motions for us?”

“Will that work?” Dennis asked anxiously. “Doesn’t he have to believe?”

“No,” Max said. “Once he’s been ordained, he has the powers for the rest of his life, no matter what he does. He could become a Marxist, and still absolve us.”

“Some of my best friends are Marxists,” Father Chuck said. “And they don’t do confessions either.”

“I believe it,” Max said.