Friday, March 30, 2007

• Confessions of Six Year Old Sinner

  Currently Reading Heart-Shaped Box: A Novel By Joe Hill see related

  Let me first tell you, that as a child, I was a ‘bad girl’. I did terrible things, things that would make St. Mavis weep, and pull her hair and gnash her teeth and worry her Rosary constantly between her trembling hands. Now, this is not to say I ever did anything intentionally, but was always assured after the fact that I had committed the most heinous atrocities known to littlegirldom in the universe.

  Thus it was, when Sister Margarite trundled my first grade class of sinners off to the church for Wednesday morning confessions, I always took longer than anyone else. I was the only one in my glass that went to confessions with a written list. St. Mavis always wanted me to be certain I didn’t miss any of my sins. She was worried for my soul and wanted to be sure I had everything covered just in case the nightly prayer I had to recite became reality: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, and if I die before I wake. . . "

  If I die. What a way to teach a kid to pray. And she made sure I said it every night, too. My father, who was not Catholic, had always objected to her insistence that I be made to say that. "What the hell you wanna scare the kid for?"

  "Why should it scare her?"

  "Because every night she goes to bed thinking she’s gonna die!"

  "Well, what if she did? Wouldn’t you be glad to know she’d said her prayer that night?"

  My father would give up by then and leave the room. Although on some nights, he’d come in at prayer time to ‘help’.

  "I gotta say my prayer, Daddy."

  "Ok, I’ll say it with you. You start."

  "Now I lay me down to sleep . . ."

  "A bag of peanuts at my feet. . ."

  She’d lean in. "For Christ’s sake Stanley!"

  "Mommy you sweared!"

  "I did not!"

  "You did too, Mavis, I heard you, go clean something in penance." My father would gleefully take my side.

  "Well don’t go crying to me when you send your daughter to hell in a handbasket!" She’d storm off.

  We would finish with a chorus of "My Wild Polish Nose." Hey, we weren’t Irish, and we didn’t have any roses, but we were Polish.

  So, anyway, on Wednesday mornings, I would wait my turn outside the little shower stall at the back of the church, (I was convinced that’s where the priests took showers in between confessions) until it was my turn. Sister Margarite would tap your shoulder when it was time, and you had to go in the little black box, kneel on the wooden kneeler–the kneelers in the pews had cushion but the confessional didn’t I always figured that was part of the penance.

  We were taught that confession was a special sort of ‘privilege’ that we Catholics had, that would get us all squeaky clean before the eyes of God and all we had to do was tell the priest. And the priest could never ever ever tell anyone anything that we said, or his hair would catch fire and he’d explode right there in the little shower! At least that’s how I understood it. And no one could ever make you tell what you told the priest either, because that was a mortal sin too. I was fuzzy on that second part, but I never took any chanses. Sister Margarite would always stand just outside the box, though. She wasn’t supposed to be listening, but she did. She never caught fire, though, and I figured nuns must have had a some sort of immunity.

  The little sliding door would open. A deep voice would greet me, and tell me to proceed. This is where things always went wrong. I knew I was supposed to stick to the script and begin "Forgive me Father, I have sinned. . . " but as soon as I heard that sliding door, I’d forget everything. So I would begin, "Father Leo is that you?"

  "Yes, it’s me."

  I exhaled in profound relief. Father Leo was the nice one. He was only in his twenties, fresh out of priest school and hadn’t learned how to get scary yet. "Go on, you remember how?"

  "Um. Oh, uh . . ."

  "Forgive me father. . . ." Sister Margarite would whisper through the curtain.

  "Why, what have you done?" I asked.

  "Say it right! Forgive me Father. . ."

  "OH! Yes, sir.. uh sister. . . Forgive me Father I have sinned. . . wait a minute I dropped my list."

  "List?"

  "Uh huh. . . I got a list, here it is."

  A moment would pass.

  Father Leo would cough politely, and ask, "Is everything ok?"

  "Um. It’s too dark, I can’t read this."

  "Read what?"

  "The list my mother made of all my sins."

  I swore at that moment I heard that nun stifle a snort. She was laughing, I knew it, probably delighted that I was sealing my fate to a fiery eternity.

  "Your mother made a list?" he asked.

  "Uh huh. She didn’t want me to forget nuthin. Can you read it?" I pushed it through the little grate.

  "Uh, oh. Ok." I heard the paper un crumble, then a pause. "You did all this, did you?"

  I sighed pitifully. "Uh huh."

  "Are you sorry?"

  "Uh huh. I won’t do it again, I promise. Am I damned for all time?"

  A quiet chuckle. "No, honey, some how I think the Lord will forgive you forgetting to put the cap back on the toothpaste, and for leaving a water glass in the kitchen unwashed before bedtime."

  "He will?"

  "I have it on good authority. Go say, one Hail Mary, and we’ll call it square ok?"

  I sighed.

  Father Leo knew me well, "And light a candle."

  "Really?"

  "Go on."

  I trotted out of the little booth all smiles, and skipped toward my beloved bank of candles and lit me up a good one.

  When I got home that day, my mom asked how confession had gone.

  "I can’t tell you."

  "What? Why not?"

  "Because it’s a sin, and I don’t want you to catch fire."

  She would leave it at that, but the following week, there was a new item on my list: Argumentative.

  That’s the first one I ever agreed with.

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