Paul Theroux - My Secret History

The brother saw a dog he recognized and chased it down to the water, and seeing Magoo alone I went up to her, swinging the key on my finger.

“Want to go for a walk in the woods?”

She said, “I thought you’re supposed to be working.”

“After work,” I said, but already I felt discouraged. She was fattish and pale, her fangy teeth gave her the look of someone who doesn’t believe anything, she had a rubber band twisted around a bunch of her hair. I did not dislike her; I pitied her for being so ugly and was irritated by Tina, who was making me go through this.

“Just you and me,” I said. “We’ll walk around the pond.”

She looked very bored and then opened her mouth slightly and let her teeth protrude. Then she said, “I have to mind my brother.”

“He can stay here. He’ll be all right.”

She made a face. I hated her for forcing me to ask her these questions.

“Come on,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

I was thinking of Chicky saying three fingers .

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to, that’s why.”

I hated her deeply for a minute and wanted to say Then why did you make out with Chicky? She walked away and I hated Tina, and finally I hated myself. Then I was glad — saved: I hadn’t sinned. I had come so close to committing a mortal sin.

The next day was Saturday — confession. As always, I went alone in the late afternoon, after worrying the whole day. I waited in the cool darkness at the back of the church behind a pillar, and watched closely, then chose the confessional with the shortest lines — the fewest people in the pews nearby — because that meant the priest was fast: if he was fast he was easy — he listened, asked one or two questions, and then gave absolution. The hard priests gave severe lectures and sometimes sent you away without absolution. “You don’t sound sorry enough — come back some other time when you really mean it.” The Pastor had once said that to me, and I had avoided him after that — I learned to spot his shoes showing beneath the curtain.

I had been rehearsing, mumbling to myself, all day: I was more than apprehensive — I was afraid. It was the strangest day of the week; I lost my body and became a soul — a stained soul. I had no name or identity, I was merely the sum of my sins. I felt close to Hell before confession, and afterwards not close to Heaven but happy, unafraid and oddly a little thinner and lighter.

The confessional in the corner behind the Seventh Station had only a few people waiting to go in, so I walked over and slid into the pew. I rehearsed my confession, pretending to pray.

A hoarse small-boy’s voice came out of the confession box. “And I yelled at my brother.” I had never heard that sin before.

He left; another person entered and left; then it was my turn. I pulled the curtain tight behind me and knelt with my forehead against the plastic partition. It was a square hatch with riblike corrugations and was strung like a tennis racket. Late afternoon light shone through it, coloring it orange. I heard murmurs from the other side, and then my hatch opened and I saw a priest’s bowed head behind the tennis strings. I had started whispering very fast as soon as I heard the slap of the hatch.

“Bless me, Father. I confess to Almighty God, and to you, Father, that I have sinned. My last confession was one week ago. My sins are — lied, three times, disobeyed my parents, two times, impure thoughts, seven times, committed acts of impurity alone, three times, committed acts of impurity with other people, once, and yelled at my brother four times. That is all, Father. For these sins and other sins I cannot remember I am very sorry.”

I stopped, breathless, with a hot neck and burning eyes my mouth so dry my tongue had turned into a dead mouse, and I trembled, fearing what was to come. I could only see the priest’s face as a shadow. His head remained bowed, as if sorrowing for me, praying for my soul.

He went straight to the sin that mattered. They always did, no matter where I inserted it.

“This act of impurity with other people,” the priest said softly. “Was it one person or several?”

“It was a girl, Father.”

“A Catholic girl?”

“Her parents have a mixed marriage.”

“What exactly did you do?”

“Touched her,” I said and the mouse in my mouth became dustier.

“Where did you touch her?”

“Up the Sandpits, Father.”

“On her body or her clothes?”

“Clothes, Father.”

“Pannies?”

I paused on that word before answering.

“No,” I said hoarsely. “On the chest.” This did not seem as sinful as on her breast .

There was a short silence. I listened for a sigh, or any indication of what was coming — I dreaded more questions. But there were no more questions.

“You knew you were doing wrong,” the priest said. “Somehow you were tempted by the devil. Remember, you can fool the devil by avoiding occasions of sin. If you sense an impure thought coming into your head, say a prayer to Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. For your penance, say three Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Now make a good Act of Contrition, son.”

Eagerly, and grateful that it had gone so well, I said the Act of Contrition, while the priest prayed with me in Latin.

“Oh, my God,” I said, “I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell — but most of all, because they offend Thee, my God—”

The priest was moving his right hand behind the shadowy panel in blessing. Already I was feeling lighter, happier, cleaner, thinner. I had stopped noticing the rock-hard kneeler and the smell of the plastic hatch on the partition.

“—who art all good,” I went on, “and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”

“Amen,” the priest said, drawing it out a bit, making me linger.

I waited for him to slide the hatch shut. He seemed to be hesitating.

“God bless you,” the priest said, and I bent closer to the tennis strings. He wasn’t blessing me — he was scratching his ear. “Is that you, Andy?”

For a moment I could not speak. Then I managed to say, “Yes, Father.”

I felt trapped. I had never heard my name spoken in a confessional.

“Thanks very much for guiding me back to the house the other day.”

So it was Father Furty.

I never knew what to reply when someone thanked me. And in a confessional!

“That’s okay, Father.”

“Want to go for a boat ride next week? Say, Thursday?”

“If I’m not working.”

“Swell. Stop by the house around noon. I’ll provide lunch. Some of the Sodality will be there.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“It’ll just be, oh, baloney sandwiches, potato salad, that kind of thing.”

“Yes, Father.” I wondered whether anyone in the pews outside could hear this.

“Now go do your penance.”

When I left the confessional I tucked my head down and hurried to the communion rail, so that the people waiting to go into the box wouldn’t recognize me. Even if they had not heard they knew that I had been in for a fairly long time, and that always indicated a sinner.

Father Furty was in shirtsleeves, a Hawaiian shirt, with his black priest’s trousers and his squeaky loafers. He was loading his car in the parking lot of Holy Name House when I arrived—“I’m kind of glad you didn’t bring your gun,” he said — and then we set off for Boston Harbor.

“Did I mention that some of the Sodality are coming along?” he said. “They’re a great crew.”