Sleepers

Father Bobby introduced me and my friends to such authors as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo and Stephen Crane, further instilling in us a passion for written words. He chose stories and novels by authors he felt we could identify with, and who could, for a brief time, help us escape the wars waged nightly inside our apartments.

It was through him that we learned of such books as Les Miserable!, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and A Bell for Adano and how they could provide a night-light to keep away the family terror. It was easy for him to do so, because he had been raised in the same ma

Sacred Heart Church was quiet, its overhead lights shining down across long rows of wooden pews. Seven women and three men sat in the rear, hands folded in prayer, waiting to talk to a priest.

My friends and I spent a lot of time inside that small, compact church with the large marble altar at its center. We each served as altar boys, working a regular schedule of Sunday and occasional weekday masses. We were also expected to handle funerals, spreading dark clouds of incense above the coffins of the neighborhood dead. Everyone wanted to work funeral masses, since the service included a three dollar fee and a chance to pocket more if you looked sufficiently somber.

In addition, we went to mass once a week and sometimes more, especially if Father Bobby needed someone to escort the elderly of the parish to weeknight services. Other times, I would just stop inside the church and sit for hours, alone or with one of my friends. I liked the feel and smell of the empty church, surrounded by statues of saints and stained glass windows. I didn't go so much to pray, but to relax and pull away from outside events. John and I went more than the others. We were the only two of the group to give any thought to entering the priesthood, an idea we found appealing because of its guaranteed ticket out of the neighborhood. A Catholic version of the lottery. We were much too young to dissect the issue of celibacy and spent most of our time fretting over how we would look wearing a Roman collar.

John and I were intrigued by the powers a priest was given. The ability to serve mass, say last rites, baptize babies, perform weddings and, best of all, sit in a dark booth and listen to others confess their sins. To us, the sacrament of confession was like being allowed inside a secret world of betrayal and deceit, where people openly admitted dark misdeeds and vile indiscretions. All of it covered by an umbrella of piety and privacy. Confession was better than any book we could get our hands on or any movie we could see because the sins were real, committed by people we actually knew. The temptation to be a part of that was too great to resist.

There were two confessional booths on both sides of Sacred Heart lining the walls closest to the back pews, each shrouded with heavy purple curtains. The thick wood door at the center of the confessional locked from the inside. Two small mesh screens, covered by sliding wood panels, allowed the priest, if he could stay awake, to sit and listen to the sins of his parish. Every Saturday afternoon, from three to five p.m., a handful of parishioners would head into those booths. There, every affair, every curse, every transgression they made during the week would be revealed. On those days, there was no better place to be in Hell's Kitchen.

John and I sat in that church every Saturday afternoon. We knew Father Tim McAndrew, old, weary and with a hearing disorder, always worked the first hour in one of the booths closest to the altar. Father McAndrew had a penchant for handing out stiff penalties for the slightest trespass, whether he heard it confessed or only thought he did. He was especially rough on children and married women. Self-abuse was worth a dozen Hail Marys and a half-dozen Our Fathers.

On a few occasions and always at my urging, John and I would sneak into the booth alongside McAndrew's, shut the door and hear the sins we had only read about. We couldn't imagine what the penalty would be for getting caught, but whatever it was it couldn't possibly surpass the joy of hearing about a neighbor's fall from grace.

I was inside the second booth, squeezed onto the small wooden bench, my back against the cool wall. The Count, John Reilly, sat next to me.

'Man, if we get caught, they'll burn us,' he whispered.

'What if our mothers are out there?' I asked. 'What if we end up hearing their confessions?'

'What if we hear somethin' worse?' John said.

'Like what?' I couldn't imagine anything worse.

'Like a murder,' John said. 'What if somebody cops to a murder?'

'Relax,' I said, as convincingly as I could. 'All we gotta do is sit back, listen and remember not to laugh.'

At ten minutes past three, two women from the back pew stood and headed for the first confessional, ready to tell their sins to a man who couldn't hear them. They moved one to each side, parted the curtains, knelt down and waited for the small wood doors to slide open.

Seconds later, the sides of our booth came to life.

'Here we go,' I said. 'Get ready.'

'God help us,' John said, making the Sign of The Cross. 'God help us.'

We heard a man's low cough on our right, as he shuffled his way to a kneeling position and leaned his elbow on the small ledge facing him. He chewed gum and sniffed in deep breaths as he waited for the door to open.

'We know him?' John asked.

'Quiet!'

There was a woman's sneeze from the other side of the booth as she searched through an open purse for a tissue. She blew her nose, straightened her dress and waited.

'Which one?' John asked.

'The guy,' I said and moved the small door to my right. The man's thick lips, nose and stubble faced us, separated only by the mesh screen, his heavy breath warming our side of the booth.

'Bless me Father, for I have si

John grabbed onto my shoulder and I tried to keep my legs from shaking. Neither of us spoke.

'I done bad things, Father,' the man said. 'And I'm sorry for all of them. I gamble, lose all my rent money to the horses. Lie to my wife, hit her sometimes, the kids too. It's bad, Father. Gotta get myself outta this hole. What can I do?'

'Pray,' I said in my deepest voice.

'I been prayin',' the man said. 'Ain't helped. I owe money to loan sharks. A lot of it. Father, you gotta help me. This the place you go for help, right? I got nowhere else to go. This is it.'

John and I held our breath and stayed silent.

'Father, you there?' the man said.

'Yes,' I said.

'So,' the man said. 'What's it go

'Three Hail Marys,' I said. 'One Our Father. And may the Lord bless you.'

'Three Hail Marys!' the man said. 'What the hell's that go

'It's for your soul,' I said.

'Fuck my soul!' the man said in a loud voice. 'And fuck you too, you freeloadin' bastard.'

The man stood up, pulled aside the purple drapes hanging to his right and stormed out of the booth, his outburst catching the attention of those who waited their turn.

'That went well,' I said to John, who finally loosened his grip on my shoulder.

'Don't do the woman,' John said. 'I'm beggin' you. Let's just get outta here.'

'How?' I asked.

'Don't take anymore,' John said. 'Let 'em all go over to the other booth. Have 'em think no one's in here.'

'Let's do one more,' I said.

'No,' John said. 'I'm too scared.'

'Just one more,' I pleaded.

'No.'

'Only one more.'

'One,' John said. 'Then we're outta here.'