Bless Me, Father
By Pete McArdle
It was guilt, more than anything, that finally made Joey go to confession.
Financially, things were really looking up, Joey had paid the mortgage, the utility companies, and the goddamn fucking lawyers, and for
once managed to put a halfway-decent Sunday dinner on his family's table. He'd bought expensive perfume for the wife and lots of toys for
his kids. Hell, he'd even put money in the bank. After decades of being a nobody and having nothing — except a family he couldn't
feed — Joey had finally become a big man around town.
But he'd had to kill someone to do it.
Of course the guy richly deserved it, at least that's what the intermediary had told him. "The guy's a total scumbag," said the swarthy
stranger, glancing around. ''The world — and particularly you, my friend — would be better off without him. Much better off."
So he'd done it.
It wasn't hard, really, in-and-out fast and not a drop of blood on his shoes. It was the easiest money Joey had ever made — except
now he couldn't sleep. He couldn't smell his food, he couldn't taste his beer, and worst of all, he couldn't get it up for his grateful wife. Or
It was like he'd killed himself.
So early one Saturday morning, with no destination in mind and a tank full of gas, Joey took off to find redemption, or at the very least, a
little peace of mind. Just enough to eat, sleep, and screw, though not necessarily in that order.
As he drove, Joey made more than a few U-turns and sudden rights, in case he was being followed, but really, who'd ever suspect a
two-bit hustler like him? The guy he'd snuffed was a truly bad apple with a rap sheet as long as his arm. In the papers, the authorities
implied he'd gotten exactly what he deserved and they didn't seem too upset about having no leads. No, Joey wasn't much worried about
getting caught, the problem was his goddamn annoying conscience.
A simple man, Joey's plan was to drive until he was almost on empty, find the nearest Catholic church and go to confession, then gas up
and go home. He needed to ease his troubled mind and hoped that unburdening himself to a priest would do the trick, a priest hundreds of
miles from Joey's neighborhood — in case the guy had loose lips.
As the highway flew by, Joey remembered his last confession, way back in the eighth grade. He'd admitted to cursing, stealing a few
pencils, having a whole bunch of impure thoughts, and eating a double bacon-cheeseburger on a Friday. His Penance was five Our
Fathers and ten Hail Mary's, Joey recalled, and he laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Like words could erase anything.
The whole thing seemed like a joke then, but now, having broken perhaps the most sacred of the commandments, confession seemed
well worth a try. Plus, unlike psychiatry, it was free.
It was early afternoon by the time the gas light came on, and Joey took the very next exit, for a town named Pottersville. He begrudgingly
slowed down to thirty miles-per-hour as he navigated the main drag of the sleepy backwater town. The last thing he needed was to attract
the law. He passed a small supermarket, a post office, the gas station he'd use later on, and a dilapidated feed store for cattle.
What a bunch of hicks, he thought. There wasn't a strip club in sight or even a bowling alley. Joey stared straight ahead as he passed the
little cinder-block police station, and continued past several ramshackle houses, a used-car lot, and a convenience store, the buildings
beginning to thin out and give way to fenced-in pasture land. And there, on the right, just as he was about to leave Pottersville proper,
Joey saw an old, steepled building bearing a cross: The Church of St. Paul.
He pulled into the parking lot, which was deserted — perfect — and after cutting the engine, took a few minutes to review the
liturgy of Confession. Joey chuckled as the words and phrases came tumbling back, it was amazing the crap that sticks in your head. He
decided against warming up with some lesser sins, although he could've easily worked his way through all ten Commandments, and figured
he would get right to the murder. He didn't have all day, after all, he had a date with Sheila, the cocktail waitress, later that night. Sheila
had an incredible set of tits and Joey intended to find out right away whether the Confession had worked.
He got out of his car, stretched, and peered around for potential witnesses. But there were none, unless you counted the cows who were
busy swatting flies with their tails and seemed disinterested. As he stepped inside into a dimly-lit vestibule, Joey was hit with the
unmistakable smell of church: an aroma composed of candle wax, wood polish, and lingering farts. He dipped his fingers in the Holy Water
and was about to make the Sign of the Cross before he broke out of his nostalgic trance. Jesus, he thought, I feel like a kid again except
this time I've done something a little worse than eating a cheeseburger on a Friday.
There was no sign of a priest anywhere, Joey could have lit up a cigarette or talked on his cell if he wanted to, but the ambiance of the
place, with its flickering candles, stained-glass windows, and high vaulted ceiling demanded a certain decorum. He found himself walking
slowly and quietly down the main aisle, the raised altar and an angry-looking Christ on the Cross straight ahead, the confessional booths
over on the right. The middle door, the priest's, was flanked by two penitents' doors with their green lights glowing overhead.
"Good," Joey whispered to himself, "the place is open for business. Now I just gotta find a fuckin' priest."
Joey jumped when a hand touched his shoulder and whirled around to see a tall, gray-haired priest smiling down at him.
"You must really need God's help, son," said the priest. "You just about had a heart attack there."
"You got that right," said Joey, referring to the heart attack part. Not only was his ticker beating wildly, he was also starting to sweat,
probably because of the warm, stale air in the place.
"Well you've come to the right place," said the priest, still smiling benignly, "How may I help you, um..."
"Frankie," Joey blurted.
"Yes," said the priest, his gray eyes narrowing, "Frankie."
"Well, I was just passing through, Father," said Joey, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "and I said, what the hell,
why don't I stop in and get Confession. You know, so I can receive Holy Communion tomorrow?"
"Y-e-s, I know," said the priest, the smile dying on his face. He turned and pointed to the confessionals. "Let's get right to it then, shall
we? Please use the booth on the left, we're having a bit of an electrical problem with the other one." Joey stared down at his shoes as the
two of them walked to the back of the church and then up the side aisle to the confessionals.
The door to the confessional booth was surprisingly heavy and swung closed with a loud bang, leaving Joey in total darkness. "Why
dontcha break the fuckin' thing?" he mumbled to himself. It was even hotter inside the cramped booth and Joey loosened his tie as the
sweat began to pour down his face. A panel in the wall slid open, revealing an ornate metal grill and a vague silhouette of the priest's
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen," said the priest, Joey seconding the "Amen."
"Um, bless me, Father," he stammered, "for I have sinned. It has been three, er, maybe four — five years, tops — since my last
Confession, and, uh...these are my sins."
"You're in the Lord's House, Frankie," said the priest. "Try to relax a little. There is no sin too big for God to forgive as long as you're truly
"Oh, I'm sorry, Father!" said Joey, thinking of his dismal performance with the Antonucci twins last Friday. The cross-eyed one, Angela,
had told him to go get some Viagra, the bitch.
"Go on, Frankie," said the priest kindly. "And just use your own words."
"Well, I done a lot of things, Father, you know, a little of this, a little of that, and, um, I'm really sorry for all of it." Joey took off his jacket,
he was sweating so much he'd have to get the damn thing dry-cleaned before he could wear it again.
"But there's, like, one really big thing that's driving me nuts, that I gotta get off my chest." He swallowed hard.
"Yes?" the priest prompted.
"Um...I, like, killed a guy, Father," said Joey, almost whispering. "It was self-defense, of course, no charges was brought. But I feel really
bad about it."
There was a heavy, lingering silence, a silence so profound Joey wondered if maybe the priest had fallen asleep.
"Frankie," said the priest evenly, "When you say self-defense, are you telling me you had no choice but to kill this man?"
"Uh...no, I can't totally say that," said Joey, starting to really regret this whole idea. "I guess I could have...run away, yeah, that's what's
bothering me. I could have run away, Father, but I didn't and now a guy's dead. And I feel just awful about it. I can't eat, I can't sleep, and
worst of all, I can't have conjoined, no — conjured relations with the missus, you know?"
There was an odd sound from the other side of the metal grill, as if the priest was choking or stifling a laugh. After a moment, the priest
cleared his throat.
"To take a man's life is a most grievous affront to God," he said, "The worst there is."
The priest paused, a pause that to Joey seemed to last forever.
"Yet our divine Father will forgive you, Frankie, if you fulfill two major requirements. The first is that you must be heartily sorry and vow
never to do such an awful thing again."
"Believe me, Father, I won't," said Joey. He honestly never wanted to feel this way again although he had to admit, killing people was
extremely lucrative: he'd gotten paid like a star quarterback. Perhaps he could take up something less drastic, like cutting off thumbs.
He'd always wanted a house on the Jersey shore.
"The second requirement, Frankie, is that you must perform an appropriate Penance for the terrible pain you've inflicted upon the victim
and his family," said the priest. "Do you know the meaning of 'Penance'?"
"Sure I do," said Joey, his turn to stifle a laugh. "It means saying prayers, as many as you have to to erase the sin."
"No!" the priest thundered, his voice reverberating in the small space. "You cannot erase murder with prayer alone. 'Penance' means a
penalty, a mortification, an act of self-abasement before God so as to atone for your heinous act. If you are not willing to suffer for your
sins, Frankie, they cannot be forgiven."
Joey'd had just about enough of this charade, the old cleric was clearly senile and it was hot as hell in the confessional. Still, Joey wanted
very much to enjoy a big, juicy steak later and follow it up with a mouthful or two of Sheila's spectacular knockers. Picturing them, Joey
felt a mild stirring down below and grinned.
The unburdening was already starting to bear fruit. All he had to do was agree to the crackpot priest's Penance — what could he
possibly come up with, five hundred sit-ups and no watching baseball for a week? — and then get the fuck out of this stupid little
"I'm really sorry for what I done, Father," said Joey, trying to sound contrite, "and I'm willing to pay the price. I'll take whatever Penance
you give me."
"Are you sure?" said the priest.
Joey's stomach gurgled and he realized he was hungry, he hadn't eaten all day. This confession crap actually worked — go figure!
Perhaps before he left, he'd pick up a hero sandwich and some beer at that convenience store. He licked his lips at the thought of an
ice-cold brew and said, "Yeah, Father, I'm sure."
"In that case," said the priest, all the emotion gone out of his voice, "I'll say the Prayer of Absolution and then we're done here.
Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dismissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam eternam. Amen."
"Amen," Joey answered, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
The sliding panel slammed shut, making Joey flinch and leaving the booth in utter blackness.
Joey laughed, long and hard, the first good laugh he'd had since the hit. The crazy old coot had forgotten to tell him his Penance. That's
what happens, he thought, when you drink wine every morning at work.
Still smiling, Joey grabbed the doorknob and then yanked his hand away with a strangled yelp, followed by profanity. The doorknob was as
hot as an engine block after a long summer's drive and as Joey blew frantically on his fingers, it began to glow. Not only was the doorknob
giving off a reddish glow, but now the entire door was also.
The temperature in the booth was rising rapidly, past anything Joey had ever experienced, and he opened his mouth to yell for the
priest — but then everything became clear: the angry Old Testament priest, the heavy confessional door, and the exact nature and
form of his Penance. As the stench of singed hair filled the air and his skin began to blister, Joey hoped with all his heart that his sins had
Because he was about to find out for sure.
Pete McArdle is clinically old, and when a bad ticker recently ended his long but unremarkable athletic career, he decided to wow the
world with his writing. A wecent, er, recent spate of published stories has done nothing to dampen his delusions of literary grandeur. Sadly,
some editors have found his work to be "just not right," eerily echoing the sentiments of Pete's third-grade teacher, re: Pete.
Copyright © 2011 Pete McArdle. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any
medium without express written permission of the author is prohibited. OMDB! and OMDB!
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