A Private Trinity
by Darlene Cah
This was an old fashioned church of polished wood and high vaulted ceilings. Angels graced the beams. Statues loomed in beatific ecstasy. The girl shuffled from foot to foot, shifting the awkward weight of her bag to relieve her aching arms. Her head downcast, she watched the confessional from the corner of her eye. An old man drew back the heavy black curtain of Father Michael's booth, his soul a clean slate, free to sin again.
The girl slipped in, leaving her duffel bag on a facing pew. She could be open here. She kneeled, letting the sweet darkness envelop her, breathing in the scent of oiled wood and melting wax. The church had been her refuge, her sanctuary when the screams at home made her tremble. Armor against all the nights she would lie in bed, curled in a ball. Her stepfather's slurred voice accusing her mother of terrible things. Her mother crying and pleading. The slaps, the crash of glass, a thud and the bed springs squeaking in timeless rhythm. The girl would pull a pillow over her head; squeeze her eyes tight and repeat Hail Marys until God granted her sleep. She had felt wanted at the church, a family member, special.
The partition of the confessional slid open and the girl bowed her head, but stole a glimpse at Father Michael's face. The screen made his features look soft and gentle, just the way a priest should look, she thought. She pictured his kind blue eyes.
She dropped her voice low and whispered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been almost a year since my last confession."
Silence. A trickle of sweat slid down her face. She tugged at her plaid school uniform. Her Sweet Sixteen charm caught a thread.
"Go on," said the priest. His voice was smooth and comforting.
The girl could smell his tangy cologne. "I've done a terrible thing, Father." She trembled. "I did it."
"It?" asked Father Michael.
"You know. I never even kissed any of the boys at school...And then I..."
She could hear Father Michael swallow hard, the kind of pasty swallow that needed a drink.
"Are you pregnant?" His voice hardened.
"Not any more."
"You know the church's teachings on ab—"
"I know," she said, her voice shaky. Then she stood up, pulled back the curtain and ran out.
Father Michael flung open the confessional door as the front door of the church eased shut. On the pew lay a blue school duffel bag. It wriggled, then moved in spastic jabs. Slowly, gently he parted the opening and peered into familiar blue eyes.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2014 by its authors.
Darlene Cah is a freelance writer and comedy improviser living in New York. Her fiction has appeared in Song of the Siren, Cenotaph PE and Green Tricycle. When not writing, you can find her acting silly on the stage of Gotham City Improv.
Read the interview.
|Issue One (September 15, 2003): Pressing Hard by Marcia Mascolini «» A Cautionary Measure by Peggy Duffy «» I Watch by Stephanie Dial «» Rest in Peace by Charlotte Jones «» Mrs. Mitts by Beverly C. Lucey «» Speak of the Dead by Ann Zimmerman «» A Private Trinity by Darlene Cah «» The Chair Affair by Jade Walker «» A Trip To The Grocer's by Beverly Jackson «» I Shall Not Wear Purple by Margaret A. Frey «» Generations by Catherine Talley «» Dinner's Ready! by Linda Pierce «» How Pusch Came To Shovel by Gary Glauber «» Gerontophile: An Imposition by S.H. Gall «» Walking the Plank by Sheila Killian «» Neighborhood Watch by Nance Knauer «» Scent and Sensibility by Jeff Lindsey «» Interviews: Marcia Mascolini «» Peggy Duffy «» Stephanie Dial «» Charlotte Jones «» Beverly C. Lucey «» Ann Zimmerman «» Darlene Cah «» Jade Walker «» Beverly Jackson «» Margaret A. Frey «» Catherine Talley «» Linda Pierce «» Gary Glauber «» S.H. Gall «» Sheila Killian «» Nance Knauer «» Jeff Lindsey «» Cover Art "Purpleless" by Rebecca Gullickson, inspired by "I Shall Not Wear Purple" by Margaret A. Frey «» Letter From the Editor|