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Authors: Eileen Goudge
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would have made her humiliation
unbearable. So, on her hands and knees, she had crawled to the bathroom, locked the door, and
cried her heart out, masking her sobs with the water rushing from the bathtub spigot.
“In nomine patris et filu ...” Father Donahue launched into the final blessing, gently reminding
her that there were others waiting their turn to confess.
Rose panicked. Her mortal sin, she hadn’t spoken one word of it. Now God would be sure to
punish her!
She took a deep breath, struggling to subdue her panic. The confessional’s mingled odors—
sweat and incense and the Sen-Sens Father chewed—felt stifling, suffocating.
“Father, I fornicated,” she blurted in a hot rush. Father Donahue’s silhouette shifted, loomed.
Now would he have his heart attack? Would that be her punishment, God smiting the priest ...
just as he had her mother?
He coughed, explosively, the sound reverberating in the confined space like thunder.
[43] “My child ... ,” he wheezed. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
Thank heaven, he was still alive. Rose imagined the expression on his pink aged cherub’s face,
the horror he must be feeling. She so wanted to snatch back her words, erase, blot out her sin.
But it was too late now for that.
“Yes, Father,” she made herself murmur through the clenched knuckles covering her mouth.
Shame flooded through her, but it was an oddly cold shame, making her feel cleansed at the
same time, like the hateful icy showers she had to take when Marie had used up all the hot water,
when Rose would shiver and gasp for breath, but afterwards glow and tingle. Her heart lifted. She
had done it. She had asked God’s forgiveness. Now perhaps the Holy Father would select a mild
punishment—a sprained ankle instead of crippling her in a car wreck, two days of awful flu but
not leukemia.
“Are you absolutely certain ?” His whispered voice rose to a strained, trembling pitch.
“Yes, Father.”
“Did you commit this ... ,” cough, “... act more than once?”
“Only once, Father.” Rose trembled. The sweat pouring off her now felt as if it might swamp
the whole confessional. She had never felt so vulnerable, naked, as if one more shrill word from
Father would stab her to death.
But then Father Donahue began muttering his usual litany in what sounded like a low keening
moan.
Wasn’t he going to ask her any more questions? Scold her at least?
His silhouette through the screen blurred as he made the sign of the cross.
Oh, Lord, thank you, everything was going to be ... well, not so dreadful. She had to lean
forward to hear the Penance he was giving her. Fifteen Hail Marys and thirty Our Fathers. By far,
the most she’d ever gotten. But she wouldn’t mind, not a bit, no matter how long it took her, or
how bruised her knees were at the end.
“Go and sin no more,” he pronounced wearily.
It was over. She’d done it. And she was still alive. Father too.
Rose slipped from the confessional into the cool, incense-fragrant dimness of the sanctuary.
The old plank flooring squeaked softly in protest as she followed the scuffed-white path up the
center [44] aisle. Genuflecting, she slid into an empty pew, sinking to her knees, and dropping her
forehead onto her clenched hands. She knew she should be thinking of God, but she couldn’t
seem to get her mind off Brian.
She struggled to shut him away, and concentrate on the rugged miles of Penance that lay ahead.
“Hail, Mary, Mother of God, the Lord is with Thee, blessed art Thou, and blessed is the fruit of
Thy womb, Jesus. ...”
But, no, she wasn’t getting that penitent feeling, that good hating-what-she-was-doing-but-
loving-herself-for-doing-it feeling she got when she put a whole dollar of her baby-sitting money
in the collection basket on Sunday, or stuck to her promise and gave up sweets for all of Lent.
She half-expected to look up and find Bri standing before the Communion rail in his old
unbearable. So, on her hands and knees, she had crawled to the bathroom, locked the door, and
cried her heart out, masking her sobs with the water rushing from the bathtub spigot.
“In nomine patris et filu ...” Father Donahue launched into the final blessing, gently reminding
her that there were others waiting their turn to confess.
Rose panicked. Her mortal sin, she hadn’t spoken one word of it. Now God would be sure to
punish her!
She took a deep breath, struggling to subdue her panic. The confessional’s mingled odors—
sweat and incense and the Sen-Sens Father chewed—felt stifling, suffocating.
“Father, I fornicated,” she blurted in a hot rush. Father Donahue’s silhouette shifted, loomed.
Now would he have his heart attack? Would that be her punishment, God smiting the priest ...
just as he had her mother?
He coughed, explosively, the sound reverberating in the confined space like thunder.
[43] “My child ... ,” he wheezed. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
Thank heaven, he was still alive. Rose imagined the expression on his pink aged cherub’s face,
the horror he must be feeling. She so wanted to snatch back her words, erase, blot out her sin.
But it was too late now for that.
“Yes, Father,” she made herself murmur through the clenched knuckles covering her mouth.
Shame flooded through her, but it was an oddly cold shame, making her feel cleansed at the
same time, like the hateful icy showers she had to take when Marie had used up all the hot water,
when Rose would shiver and gasp for breath, but afterwards glow and tingle. Her heart lifted. She
had done it. She had asked God’s forgiveness. Now perhaps the Holy Father would select a mild
punishment—a sprained ankle instead of crippling her in a car wreck, two days of awful flu but
not leukemia.
“Are you absolutely certain ?” His whispered voice rose to a strained, trembling pitch.
“Yes, Father.”
“Did you commit this ... ,” cough, “... act more than once?”
“Only once, Father.” Rose trembled. The sweat pouring off her now felt as if it might swamp
the whole confessional. She had never felt so vulnerable, naked, as if one more shrill word from
Father would stab her to death.
But then Father Donahue began muttering his usual litany in what sounded like a low keening
moan.
Wasn’t he going to ask her any more questions? Scold her at least?
His silhouette through the screen blurred as he made the sign of the cross.
Oh, Lord, thank you, everything was going to be ... well, not so dreadful. She had to lean
forward to hear the Penance he was giving her. Fifteen Hail Marys and thirty Our Fathers. By far,
the most she’d ever gotten. But she wouldn’t mind, not a bit, no matter how long it took her, or
how bruised her knees were at the end.
“Go and sin no more,” he pronounced wearily.
It was over. She’d done it. And she was still alive. Father too.
Rose slipped from the confessional into the cool, incense-fragrant dimness of the sanctuary.
The old plank flooring squeaked softly in protest as she followed the scuffed-white path up the
center [44] aisle. Genuflecting, she slid into an empty pew, sinking to her knees, and dropping her
forehead onto her clenched hands. She knew she should be thinking of God, but she couldn’t
seem to get her mind off Brian.
She struggled to shut him away, and concentrate on the rugged miles of Penance that lay ahead.
“Hail, Mary, Mother of God, the Lord is with Thee, blessed art Thou, and blessed is the fruit of
Thy womb, Jesus. ...”
But, no, she wasn’t getting that penitent feeling, that good hating-what-she-was-doing-but-
loving-herself-for-doing-it feeling she got when she put a whole dollar of her baby-sitting money
in the collection basket on Sunday, or stuck to her promise and gave up sweets for all of Lent.
She half-expected to look up and find Bri standing before the Communion rail in his old
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