True Confessions (34 page)

Desmond Spellacy checked his watch. No one had come into
the confessional in ten minutes, but he was in no hurry to leave. The cubicle was like a cocoon. His own private cloister. He considered the advantages of a life of monastic contemplation. It was a private indulgence at times like this. How peaceful a vow of silence would be. Giving him time to work out his relationship with God.

Or with his life in general.

Which perhaps was another way of saying the same thing.

The primacy of self, he thought. The heresy of self, Seamus Fargo would call it.

Self.

Another thought. He wondered if he had been a better man six months ago.

No.

More efficient perhaps. More useful certainly. Useful and efficient to the Cardinal, that is. But not better.

Not that he was better now. It was just that all the skeins of his life had come together. Suddenly and without reason. Bisecting and trisecting.

The past.

The Cardinal and all His Eminence entailed. Label that the present.

Tommy. Who was the past, present and future.

And then it started to unravel. The girl, the unfortuitously dead one. It was as if she were reaching from the grave and untying all the knots and pulling all the loose threads. There was a certain theological irony that appealed to him. It was not every monsignor who was undone by a dead Christian Scientist.

There were no more moves to make, he told himself.

Or there was the other possibility.

He had just grown tired of making moves. Making moves had become an end in itself. A paralysis of the will, psychic metal fatigue. Desmond Spellacy was willing to consider all the labels. Looking at himself with detachment was one thing he had not lost the ability to do the last six months.

Hubris again, Seamus would say. Congratulating yourself on the accuracy of your self-analysis. The final act of pride.

The heresy of self.

Ahhhh.

He half-expected Tommy to tap on the mesh screen of the confessional. Tommy always did have perfect timing. They always seemed to make their peace in the confessional. Once a year, twice, Tommy came to confession. Christmas, Easter, Tommy sought him out. There was the unmistakable voice on the other side of the screen. And the predictable Irish assumption that carnal sins were the only important ones. There was the predictable adultery. With the predictable euphemism, “impure actions.” And the predictable charade of nonrecognition. At least until after the penance was given. And then, “That’s a little steep, don’t you think, Des?”

It was not so much a confession as an exorcism. A pagan rite. To Tommy, the confessional was a fraternal battleground, a mine field to reconnoiter for advantage. His forum. The place where he could be most expansive.

Tommy.

The girl from Holy Resurrection.

It seemed appropriate to think about them in confession.

In the distance he could hear a dog barking. A pedigreed dog, he was sure. Saint Vibiana’s was not a parish for mongrels.

Time to leave.

Too late. He opened the screen.

“You alone in there?”

“Of course.”

“Turn off the goddamn light.”

Desmond Spellacy turned off the light and closed his breviary. He knew the voice. Too well. He remembered the first time he had heard it. The Turf Club at Hollywood Park. “Bay of Naples in the fifth, Father, it’s a sure thing.” Bay of Naples, 14-to-l. A sure thing. That was a laugh. He had put five on Ethan’s Song. Bay of Naples won by six lengths. “Did you win, Father?” That raspy voice. “Thank you, Mr. Amsterdam.” Who knew he had not bet Bay of Naples. And thought that knowing gave him a little advantage. If Jack gives you a tip, Des, you can put the Sistine Chapel on it, Dan T. Campion had said. He hears things.

Oh, God, how many years ago.

What now, Desmond Spellacy thought. What tip does he have to offer this time. And what does he expect in return.

Jack Amsterdam coughed.

The full force of the cough hit Desmond Spellacy squarely in the face. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, a minute it lasted. He wondered if he should call a doctor. Then gradually the cough subsided.

“Jesus,” the shadowy figure on the other side of the screen said. “Son of a bitch.” The voice grasped for breath. “That fucker will kill me yet.”

Fourteen years I’ve been hearing confessions. I thought I’d heard everything. But this was a new way to ask the forgiveness of God. Maybe God thinks we deserve each other, Jack and me.

“Are you all right?”

“I want to go to confession.”

“It’s a strange way to begin.”

“Cut the crap, will you. And listen, I don’t have all day. I don’t know the words. I forgot them. It’s been thirty-one years since my last confession.”

“Thirty-one years?” It occurred to him suddenly that with all the Church functions they had attended together, he never had seen Jack receive communion.

“I had things to do.”

“Obviously.”

Silence. Desmond Spellacy waited for the voice to continue.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“The way it goes, you’re supposed to tell me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a married man, but I got to admit, I know a few girls in my time. Five, six hundred maybe, and I’m sorry I did, it was bad . . .”

Desmond Spellacy cleared his throat.

“. . . Anyone ever try to fuck my daughter, I’ll cut his nuts off . . .”

“Please.”

“It’s been thirty-one years, it’s not so bad, you remember that.”

Some quick figuring. Twenty a year. And then: Almighty God, forgive my trying to pro-rate adultery.

“Is that all?”

“What’s the matter, you want me to draw you a picture?”

“I mean, do you have anything else to confess?”

A cough started and failed.

“Oh, yeah, I get you. Let me think about it.” The sound of heavy breathing. “I told some lies. And I missed mass. I missed mass a lot. And listen, I stole some, too, when I was a kid.”

Another silence.

“Nothing else?”

“I swore.”

“And that’s all?”

“I got into some arguments with some guys.”

“Arguments?”

“Yeah.”

Desmond Spellacy waited.

’That’s all I can think of. I think of anything else, I’ll come back to see you, though.”

Desmond Spellacy cleared his throat. He wanted to pursue the subject of arguments. He was sure the man in the laundry dryer was the end result of an argument. And Ferdie Coppola’s cranes.

“How do you define arguments?”

“Shouting.”

“I see.” He tried to pursue it from another course. “Have you ever lied?”

“I said I did,” the voice rumbled irritably.

Desmond Spellacy realized that he was damp with perspiration. He wondered what to say next. There seemed nothing left now but curiosity.

“May I ask why you’re here? I mean, after all these years.”

“You hear the cough?”

“Yes.”

“Cancer of the throat.”

No wonder he was looking for a plot in Sonny McDonough’s Celebrity Circle. Jack had had the cough for as long as he had known him, and now it was going to kill him. With luck before Sonny could approach the Cardinal about giving him a sash. “I’m sorry.”

“Three months,” Jack Amsterdam said. “At the outside.”

Desmond Spellacy repeated, “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am, Monsignor, and that’s no shit, if you’ll excuse my French.”

Monsignor. So he knows who I am. He must’ve come looking for me in particular. Then he does want something.

“Are you sorry for your sins?”

A rumble of phlegm. “Sure.”

“For your penance ...” What kind of penance do you give to someone who has not been to confession in thirty-one years? Not one good deed. The irony would escape him. He would give fifty thousand dollars to the building fund and expect a gymnasium to be named after him.

Along with absolution for his arguments.

The cough exploded again. Desmond Spellacy waited. He was sweating. That racking sound. The confessional shook. He thought, He’s going to die right here. The screen sieved particles of mucous and blood. Quickly: “
Ego te absolvo
. . .”

He made the sign of the cross as the coughing once more subsided. Too late now to ask about those “arguments.” Absolution had already been given, the arguments absolved. Jack had beaten the rap again. Using a terminal cough this time. An unworthy thought. Even for Jack Amsterdam an unworthy thought.

Desmond Spellacy thought, I don’t really care.

“For your penance,” he said quickly, “say a rosary. And try to make amends to all those you may have injured the past thirty-one years.”

Words. Empty words.

He listened to the heavy breathing on the other side of the screen. It would be extreme unction soon. Maybe Jack wasn’t getting off so cheaply after all.

“Thanks, Monsignor. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

Jack Amsterdam fought for breath. “Your brother . . ."he said finally.

So here it was. What it was all about.

“Keep your brother off my fucking back. He’s trying to drop that girl on me. That whore ...” The words came tumbling out in one long breath. “I had nothing to do with her. I can’t help it if he was on the take, your brother. Nobody twisted his arm. But you tell him . . .” Jack Amsterdam inhaled deeply. “You tell him if he grabs me, it’s your ass going to be in a sling. Not mine, I’m clean. Not his. Yours. You’re a priest and you knew that whore and you never told anyone. You ask your brother how that’s going to look in the newspapers . . .”

Desmond Spellacy said nothing.

“I got a family. There’s a scholarship named after me . . .”

Then he was gone.

No act of contrition.

Thank God for that, Desmond Spellacy thought. Contrition from Jack was more than he could bear. For the first time since he was ordained, he felt defeated by the priesthood. The heresy of self left him ill-equipped to deal with the likes of Jack.

Amends.

Amends for arguments.

I am irrelevant.

There was a tap on the other screen. One redeeming feature about Saint Vibiana’s. There would not be two confessions in a row like the last one. Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Wife. Misdemeanors. Malfeasances. No amends necessary. He made the sign of the cross and opened the screen.

“Go ahead, my son.”

Thou Shalt Not Steal. Thou Shalt Not Take the Name of the Lord, Thy God, in Vain.

“Listen, Des, what are you doing giving absolution to that greaseball?”

Tommy. He could always count on Tommy.

“He tell you about the green cards?”

“What do you want, Tommy?”

“How does he put it to you, he tells you he had somebody whacked out? That’d do for a start.”

“Impure actions.” Desmond Spellacy blurted the phrase out and he was immediately sorry. He could hear Tommy catch his breath.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa
.

“You’re quick, Des.” A thin laugh from the other side of the screen. “A little weak on the seal of the confessional, but quick.”

That was one I deserved, Desmond Spellacy thought. Six months ago I wouldn’t have made that mistake. When I was useful and efficient.

“He’s only got three months left, Jack, is what I hear. Tops.” Another laugh. “You’re going to have to start paying for your own lunches at the Turf Club.”

He wondered when Tommy began to accept venality as a constant of the human condition. And suddenly thought, About the same time I did.

“I’ve got confessions to hear.”

“Shit, Des, who goes in this parish anyway? Some kid, he thinks he’s going to be a midget, he doesn’t stop doing it.”

Saint Vibiana’s in a nutshell.

“You want me to hear your confession, Tommy?”

“I got nothing to tell.”

“It’s a bad place to lie.”

“Des, let me tell you something. People don’t lie in confession. You know why?”

It’s always “Listen” or “Let me tell you something,” Desmond Spellacy thought. Snippets of wisdom from the lower depths.

“I’d like to know that, yes. Get the benefit of your knowledge.”

“Because there’s no percentage in lying to you, is why. They tell you the truth, what’s the most you’re going to hang on them. A rosary? You mumble fast enough, you can get rid of a rosary in ten minutes. For ten minutes, you’re not going to lie. Not if it’s going to put you in the shithouse downstairs. That greaseball was just in here, I bet he didn’t lie to you. He might’ve jerked your chain a little, but that’s your problem, you didn’t understand it. He didn’t lie, though. He goes into a courtroom and the judge is talking twenty years, then he lies . . .”