“Nope.”
“Then you’re lying.”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “I’m going to tell Father Fallon that I killed someone. And then I’m going to tell him that I lied.” Reyes had it all figured it out.
I rolled my eyes.
Reyes caught me in the act. Rolling my eyes. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” he whispered. He had no respect. We were in church. And there he was threatening me. He was a real cabrón. He didn’t have a contrite heart. I knew that. I was right about that.
I rolled my eyes again. Reyes Espinoza never scared me. If scary teachers didn’t scare me, why would Reyes Espinoza? “Go ahead,” I said real soft. “I need something to tell the priest. I can tell him that I beat you up. Right here. Right in front of God and all the angels. Maybe that’s good enough to count as a mortal sin.”
“You’re a joto,” he said.
I hated when people called me that. That was the worst. “I hate you,” I said. Now I really did have something to tell the priest. I wondered if hating someone was mortal or venial. I hated Reyes enough for it to count as mortal. One mortal, I thought, and about eight or nine venials. That was my list.
Larry wanted to know exactly what I was going to tell the priest. I shook my head. I told him it was a sin to tell.
“It isn’t,” he said.
“It is,” I said. “You can only tell a priest.”
“Shhh,” Sister Joseph said. She gave us that look. That nun look. Even nice nuns could give you that look. They learned it in the monastery. They had to pass a test before they could take final vows. The look was on the test. “Shhhh,” she said. She stood there a while.
I wasn’t afraid. Not then. I had my sins in order, including my newly acquired one regarding Reyes Espinoza. I had a contrite heart. I was ready. It went okay. Nothing special. My sins weren’t that special. I knew that. The confessional wasn’t as dark as people said it was. I remember that. And I remember reciting the Act of Contrition perfectly. I was proud. I thought about reciting it in Spanish, too. So Father Fallon would know that I knew how to talk to God in two languages. I didn’t, though. When I walked out of there, I felt clean. Real clean. That’s the way it was supposed to be. I liked that. It was better than taking a bath. Clean. I liked that.
At first, I went to confession almost every week. Father Fallon wasn’t nice. He wasn’t mean. But he wasn’t nice. Sometimes he mumbled. But I never got the feeling he actually cared very much. I figured it was me. My sins were pretty dull. Venial was dull. That was okay.
When I got to high school, things began to change. That’s when I began to be afraid. Maybe not afraid of confession. Maybe just afraid of Father Fallon.
For Lent, I’d given up eating Payday candy bars—and I’d given up drinking Pepsis. Loved that drink, loved it like anything. Giving up something was supposed to hurt. If it didn’t hurt, then what was the point? I missed my Paydays. I’d also made a promise to do something nice once a day. Maybe I’d make an effort to do more than grunt at my teachers, not that I grunted on the outside. I did most of my grunting on the inside. But Mrs. Apodaca said God saw the words you said—even the ones you said to yourself.
The first Saturday after Ash Wednesday, I decided to go to confession. Actually, Mrs. Apodaca felt God had personally appointed her for overseeing my salvation. She’s the one who actually decided for me. She knocked at the door and reminded me that it was Lent, and Lent was a time for humbling yourself before God. And what better way of humbling yourself than partaking of the sacrament of confession. “Yes, yes,” I told her. I already had plans. Mil gracias, Señora for the reminder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. “And don’t forget,” she said, “to tell the priest you missed mass last Sunday.”
“I was sick,” I said.
“Yes, but tell him. It’s up to him to decide if it’s excused.”
I nodded. Mil gracias, Señora. Thank you, thank you. I felt like handing her a piece of paper and pen. You wanna write down my sins, Señora?
When she left, I shook my head and looked at my dad. “How can you be friends with that woman? Híjole.”
“Tiene su gracia,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s a good woman.”
I smiled. He was right. Of course he was. I knew that. Still, she was pushy as hell. I smiled. Let them think you were a good sport. Crap. Confession. It wasn’t so much that I objected to the sacrament—it was just that I was lazy. And I was in the middle of reading a novel. And it was a Saturday. And I’d gotten up at four in the morning—again—to clean those pinche bars for my pinche boss who I fucking hated and I was being nice to. I was getting mad. I just wanted to stay home. Sloth was a sin. Rage must have been a sin, too. Okay, okay, I was going.
Like usual, I walked to confession. My dad wouldn’t lend me the car. He looked at me. “¿Tienes polio?”
Do I have polio? Ha, ha, ha. Don’t quit your day job, Dad. So I walked. Anyway, back then, everyone walked everywhere.
I was walking through Chiva Town. That’s the way you got to Immaculate Heart of Mary Church—by walking through Chiva Town. As I was passing Larry and Mike Torres’ house, I heard a whistle. Larry. He whistled for everything. I stuck out my chin at him, the Aztec greeting thing. He gave it back to me. “Where you goin’, Sam?” I didn’t like being called Sam. I wasn’t a Sam.
“Confession,” I said. I gave him a look. Don’t start. Just don’t fucking start.
He smiled. I knew that smile. Sucker. Pendejo. Good luck, keep warm and well fed. Wish I were goin’, too. Yeah, I knew that smile.
His mother happened to be overhearing.
“Ándale pues, vete con él,” she said as she came to the door. Larry got this really sick look on his face. Mrs. Torres smiled at me—then looked back at Larry. “He’s from Hollywood, and he’s going. You go, too. Vete.” She did that thing with her arms Go! Go! I tried not to be insulted by her comment. “How are you, Sammy?” she said. “How’s your dad?”
“Fine,” I said.
“I bet he doesn’t have to drag you to church like I do mine,” she said.
I wanted to tell her I lived across the street from Mrs. Apodaca. One of God’s sentinels. Always on alert, always on duty, always sniffing out sin like a dog sniffing out an old bone. I grinned. “No ma’am,” I said. I felt like pinche Eddie Haskel on Leave it to Beaver.
“Wait up,” Larry said. “Let me get Mike.” If he had to go, he was gonna drag his younger brother down with him. I would’ve done the same thing.
I waited. Nobody invited me in. I was from Hollywood. Then, Larry and Mike came out.
“Puto,” he said. “Just cuz of you I have to go to confession.”
“You’re the one that whistled when I was walking by.” I grinned. He hated my grin. He always had. Just like I’d always hated his attitude. If we walked to confession together, both of us would have plenty to confess. I remembered the discussion we’d had before our first confession. Things hadn’t changed very much. Larry was still an exhibitionist. He liked to wear his sins on his sleeve.
“So, what are you gonna tell the priest? Órale, dime, ¿qué le vas a decir?” No, things hadn’t changed one damn bit.
I shook my head. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Are you gonna tell him you masturbate?”
“Not everybody masturbates, Larry. Not everybody’s fixated on their own dick.”
“Fixated? Ay, ay, ya te crees muy psychologist. You don’t know shit. And if you don’t masturbate, how do you know what it is?”
“You know what, Lencho—” He hated to be called Lencho. So what? I hated to be called Sam. “Not everybody goes around announcing that they masturbate. It’s not cool.”
“You don’t know shit about cool.”
Mike was staying out of it. He was just along for the ride.
“Well, it’s a mortal sin to masturbate,” he said finally. “Because we’re committing abortion.”
“W
hat?” He was more of a pendejo than I’d ever thought. “What are you talking about?”
“We carry the babies. And when we make love, we deposit the babies in the woman’s womb. And the woman, well, she provides the place where the baby can grow.” He made that masturbating motion with his hand. “Casqueta,” he said. “Puñeta. Every time we do that, we commit an abortion. That’s mortal,” he said.
I swear Larry Torres had a medieval mind. “You’re full of shit,” I said.
“¿Y qué? What do you have to worry about? You don’t do it, ¿verdad, cabrón?”
“¿Qué te importa? Sins are between God, the priest, and the sinner.”
“You talk like a gringo book, sometimes, you know that?”
“You talk like a really brainless bofo,” I said.
Mike laughed. Larry shot his brother a look. The I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass-when-I-get-home look. That look.
I didn’t say anything. Finally I said. “Well, even if you do masturbate,” I told him, “I’m sure it’s a small sin. In your case, anyway, ¿sabes? Small pecker. Small sin. Know what I’m sayin’?” I got him right where it hurts.
That’s when he reached over and took a swipe at me. He got me right on the side of my cheek. It didn’t hurt much—he’d just kind of grazed me. I didn’t like to fight. I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t. But I just had to hit him back. Those were the rules in Hollywood. And right then, right there, we went at it. We punched the hell out of each other. All of a sudden we were on the ground punching at each other. Rolling around on somebody’s front lawn. Then I hear this man’s voice. “If y’all don’t stop that right now, A’hm gonna call the po-lice.” I don’t know what made me look up. Maybe it was the drawl. Larry looked up, too. Big man. Really big man. We both nodded. “Now, y’all shake hands,” he said.
Larry and I looked at each other.
“Go on. Go on. Won’t hurtcha.”
We shrugged. Shook hands. Kept on walking down the street. “Pinche Texan,” Larry said.
“He seemed okay,” I said.
“He’s a mean bastard,” Larry said. “Sonofabitch hits his wife. He married some woman from Jalisco. She doesn’t even speak English. He hits her. We can hear. Every night.” He looked at Mike. “We hear them, don’t we, Mike?”
Mike nodded. “It’s bad,” he said.
I looked at Larry. “You’re gonna have a black eye.”
He looked at me. “So are you.”
“You stupid s.o.b.,” I said.
“Screw you,” he said.
We just kept walking toward the church. When we were a couple of blocks away, Larry starts in again. “So what are you gonna tell the priest?”
“Órale, Lencho. I’m not gonna tell you.”
“That’s a gringo thing,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Being private about things—that’s something real gringo.”
I shook my head. “Well, maybe I’m a gringo.”
“Well maybe you’re just a fucking Tío Taco.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Just shut up.” I saw the church up ahead. “When you tell the priest you masturbate, tell him your dick is so small that really you’re only committing a venial.”
I thought he was gonna take another swipe at me. He would’ve too, except that Sister Joseph was waving at us. “Hi, boys! Coming to confession, are you?”
We smiled. Yes, Sister. Yes, Sister. Larry was glancing at me, sideways. “I fucking hate your ass,” he whispered.
“Tell the priest,” I said. “Tell him that you’re sorry you hate me.”
“I’m not sorry.”
Nope. Things hadn’t changed. He still didn’t have a contrite heart.
Chapter Thirteen
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” I paused, thought back. “It’s been six weeks since my last confession.” Six weeks. Six weeks wasn’t bad. I didn’t know where to begin, so I thought I’d begin with my walk to church. “I got in a fight on my way to Church.”
“What?” Father Fallon asked. “What?” He was in a bad mood.
“I got in a fight on my way to confession.”
I tried to explain, but nothing came out of my mouth. I was sorry. Sorry I’d said anything.
“What?” he said.
“It wasn’t a bad fight,” I said.
“That’s what you all do, don’t you? You’re all animals.”
I didn’t say anything. Nothing. I just knelt there. Maybe this was a kind of fight, too. Only I couldn’t hit back in this one.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I mean, no, sir. No, Father. My friend hit me. I hit him back.”
“Your friend? Friend? Animals. Men turn the other cheek. They have minds. They have hearts. Animals, animals are just instinct.”
“I’m not an animal, Father.” My heart was pounding. I thought my blood was on fire. That’s how it felt. My whole body was tight. Tight, like I didn’t fit inside myself. “I got in a fight. I’m sorry. I’m not proud of what I did. It was wrong. But I’m not an animal.”
“Are you questioning a priest?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you?”
I could feel myself leaving. I took a breath, closed my eyes, then reached for the door—and opened it. I got up to leave. Nothing seemed real. Nothing. Not me, not the door to the confessional I was opening. Not the church I was in.
“Where are you going? You can’t—” I was already walking away. I found myself standing outside the church. I wasn’t ever going to go back. I wasn’t. I walked to the Pic Quck on Solano. I bought a pack of cigarettes. I stepped outside. I smoked a cigarette. That would help. That’s what I thought. Then I walked back into the store and bought a Payday. I ate it. Then I walked back into the store and bought a Pepsi. I went outside and drank. It was good. I lit another cigarette. I noticed Larry and Mike walking toward the store. I waved. They waved back. We pointed our chins at each other.
“Fallon called me an animal,” Larry said. He looked sad. I hated that—the way he looked.
Me too. That’s what I wanted to say. But nothing came out of my mouth.
He sat down next to me.
“You want a cigarette?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I laughed. “It’s not a sin. To smoke.”
Larry put the cigarette in his mouth.
“You want one, too?” I asked Mike. Mike never said anything. He looked at Larry. “Yeah,” he said. So I gave him one.
We sat, the three of us. Smoked.
“I hate him,” Larry said. “I hate him.” He looked at me. He wanted me to say something.
I knew what I had to say. “You’re not an animal,” I said. Then I laughed. “You’re an asshole. But you’re not an animal.” I took a drink from my bottle of Pepsi. “Let’s play a game of basketball.” He was a better player, always beat me. “Let’s play some basketball,” I said.
That night, I had a dream. Father Fallon was standing over me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run. It was dark. I couldn’t see anything. Just him. I could hear his harsh Irish voice. First soft. Then louder. Then louder. “You’ve gone and lost it. You’ve gone and lost heaven.” That’s what he was saying. Over and over and over. “You’ve gone and lost heaven.” And then there was nothing but fire.
I woke up shaking.
The next day I went to mass. But only because my father made me. I told him I wasn’t feeling well. “No me siento bien. Go without me.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You’re fine.” He looked at my eye. It wasn’t bad. “I want you to wash my car after mass. Will you do that?”
I nodded. My punishment for fighting with Larry.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“You’ve always liked going to mass.”
I hadn’t. When my mom was alive, I’d liked it. When she died, it was something I just did. Something I did with my father and Elena. “Okay,” I said. But he knew I didn’t mean it. All okay meant
was that I wasn’t going to fight. Not with him. Not on Sunday. “Is Elena dressed?” I went to her room. She was wearing a yellow dress. Pretty. “If I tell Jesus to tell Mom something, do you think he will?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you really think he will?”
“Yes,” I said again. “Yes, yes.” What god could refuse Elena?
On the way to mass, my dad didn’t let me smoke. “You want to pray with cigarette on your breath? Es falta de respeto. That’s what you should’ve given up for Lent.” Maybe he was right. But smoking was a new thing anyway, too new to give up. As I sat in the back seat, it occurred to me that we’d gotten a new priest at Immaculate Heart of Mary. Maybe the new priest, Father Francis, maybe he would have the 10:30 mass. I had hope. It made me feel better. Not much. But better. We were a little late. My heart sank. He was there, Fallon, up there on the altar. Mass began In the name of the Father, and of the Son and I left somewhere. I don’t remember where I went. Just somewhere else. I could feel myself shaking when it was time to go to communion. If I didn’t go, my father would want to know why. I was a bad liar. It’s not that I never lied to him. I did. But he always knew when I lied. Just because he didn’t say anything didn’t mean he didn’t know. So I went to communion.
As I reached the altar, I could feel myself trembling. I looked at Father Fallon’s eyes. “The Body of Christ.”
“Amen,” I said. I closed my eyes and took the host on my tongue. Like a true penitent. He hadn’t known it was me, the guy who’d walked out of confession. He hadn’t known. I was just another young man, another communicant, another face. Another animal.
All that Lent, I avoided going to confession. I lied to my father, told him I was going. But I didn’t. But I didn’t eat any more Paydays or drink any more Pepsis. I’d stop in at church on my way home. I prayed. Mostly I just sat there. My heart didn’t feel any more alive than the wood pews I was sitting on. I thought maybe I was losing my faith or whatever was left of it. Maybe it had left when Juliana was killed. I don’t know. I don’t. I’d heard people talk about that, about people who’d lost their faith. I thought about my dream. When you lost your faith, you lost heaven. I didn’t want to lose heaven. My mom was there. And Juliana, too.