Bless Me, Father - 1. Bless, Me Father

"The mass is ended. Go in peace." There was a new priest that Sunday. He pronounced the words loud and clear.

Stanley almost missed the final dismissal. He'd been staring at the altar, at the pulpit, at the sanctuary, in a kind of haze, since the early mass started on the dot of seven thirty. The feeble notes of the last hymn were nearly lost in the sound of the faithful putting on coats and making an exit from Our Lady of the Blessed Sacrament Church. Now parishioners could go home and get breakfast.

Or other things.

"Dad, I'm going over to Mark's house, okay?" His fourteen-year-old turned to him as they stood on the top granite step outside the old East Side parish.

"Isn't it kinda early?"

"Naw, he's up. I texted him during the homily."

He squinted and made a face at his son. How did Jared get to be an altar boy, anyhow? "What time is soccer practice?"

"Not until ten. We'll leave at nine thirty. Don't worry, Dad, we'll make it on time."

"Okay, go on." The boy would have found a way to go, no matter what he said.

He watched his son's retreating form hustle down the steps to the sidewalk. Jared seemed to spend a lot of time at Mark's these days.

He blinked. Almost thirty years earlier, his father had made the same kind of observation. "Geez Stan, you gonna get your own bedroom at the Kowalski house?"

He stood still, gazing out at the narrow city street, the stunted bare trees and old houses huddled close together under the grey winter sky.

Jamie Kowalski. How could he forget? They'd been inseparable. They'd gone to Annunciation School together, sat through Sister Josephine's math classes, survived stern lectures on mortal sin from Monsignor Glownia, had gone through confession, first communion and confirmation together. The two of them had gotten into trouble building fires behind the Walczyk's garage, and again after sampling the cigarettes Jamie's father had left lying around.

They'd nearly lost their lungs from coughing.

It was only natural that Stan had gravitated to the magnetic Jamie. The Kowalski's house was quieter –Stanley was the second oldest of four children, but Jamie was an only child. The boy's parents didn't seem to mind too much if Stan stayed over on a weekend night. The Kowalski home often rang with their laughter and their mischief.

They played Little League baseball and Police Athletic League basketball and street hockey and heaven knew what else together.

The middle aged Stanley shivered as he descended the cold stone steps of the church, one by one. Heaven knew exactly what they'd done together.

It was early August – and brutally hot. Even at eleven o'clock at night, every house had every window thrown open, in hopes of a slight breeze. Only a few homes had window air conditioning units back then. Most everyone else relied on fans – floor fans, window fans, fans on pedestals – anything to move the hot, heavy air. Jamie and Stanley lay sprawled out on Jamie's big bed, stripped down to their skivvies, and letting a column of air from the old, rattling box fan play over their overheated bodies.

"You realize we only have three weeks left." Stanley always looked on the gloomy side of things.

"Three more weeks of freedom. Three more weeks until another year at Archbishop Carroll High."

"You get the list of your teachers yet?"

"Yeah," Jamie sighed. "I got Sherman for Chemistry.."

"What's the matter with that?"

"I hate science – and Sherman's a pain."

"I'll help you. You know I will."

There was silence.

"I'll have Brother Corrigan for religion," Stanley offered. "Again."

"Wasn't once enough?"

"Maybe they don't think I'm damned enough for my sins already."

"What sins?"

"Jesus, Jamie, you want a list? I don't think I'm going to make it through the pearly gates at this rate."

The other boy turned on his side; a hand pulled his chin over so the two stared each other in the face, almost nose to nose in the heat.

"Stanley, there's nothing you've done – nothing you could do – that would damn you. Not to me."

Long moments passed in the darkness. A heart's deepest secrets stirred. "You don't know…"

"What don't I know? We spend almost every minute together. If you've done it, I know about it."

"It's…not what I did. It's what I want."

"You don't get sent to hell for what you want, stupid."

"I will."

Jamie frowned. "What do you want that's so bad?"

Stanley hesitated a long moment. "You."

He leaned forward and kissed Jamie's warm, soft lips. It took maybe a whole second, but it lasted forever.

An instant later, he was apologizing. "Shit, I'm sorry, Jamie, I…"

But Jamie reached out and pulled him back into the kiss. Their tongues met. Arms snaked around waists and shoulders, hands explored flanks and spines. It was heaven, even in the unmerciful heat.

They broke for air. "Is this what you wanted?" Jamie panted.

"Yes. For years."

"Nothing wrong with this that I can tell."

"Corrigan would disagree with you. I'm damned twice over – once for wanting carnal relations outside of marriage, and again for being a homosexual."

Jamie smiled. "Well then, he can damn me, too."

"But…but isn't this against everything they – the church – teaches us?"

"They tell us to love each other." Jamie's fingers played near his hip; a giggle escaped.

"Ticklish?

"No."

"I think you are." In a flash, Jamie's fingers were at work, trying to prove the point.

Soon the pair were rolling about the bed, laughing, tickling, and grabbing; a total tickle war raged. The headboard banged against the wall, and the legs of the bed groaned as it shifted under the stress of the battle.

He remembered a feeling of elation as he wound up pinning Jamie's long frame underneath him. His hands held the dark haired boy's wrists out to the side. Both boys were clearly interested in carnal relations. Grinning, he leaned down to kiss the helpless Jamie who lay beneath him. How had they missed out on doing this for so long?

It's funny how one instant can change a lifetime forever.

The door to Jamie's bedroom opened. "What the hell is going on in…"

Light from the hallway flooded in; light like a thousand suns; light from a heaven that would not be scorned. Jamie's mother stood in the doorway, clad in a bathrobe. Her eyes took in the scene.

There were no hysterics, no theatrics. Jamie's mother just gestured with her head. "Out. Get your things and go home, Stanley."

What could he say? He slid off the bed, while Jamie curled up in a ball. He got out.

Three decades onward, and he still wasn't sure how long it took him to get home. His parents were surprised to find him at breakfast the following morning. They didn't ask, and he didn't explain. He never knew if Jamie's parents had called or told anyone.

He tried to see Jamie in the days that followed. The boy who had been his right arm was missing. Finally, one of the Nowak kids said something a week after.

"Guess it sucks to be Kowalski."

"What?" He had asked, cautiously.

"I heard his parents sent him off to some religious retreat. What a way to ruin the last two weeks of vacation."

"I didn't know there was a church thing going on."

"Who cares? Not like I'm gunning to be a priest or anything."

A kind of emptiness settled in after that. Jamie did not return to Archbishop Carroll that fall. Word was he'd transferred to some seminary boarding school in Rhode Island. He couldn't get up the nerve to just walk up to the Kowalski front door and ask. And then they moved away.

The angels had exacted their retribution. He had transgressed; he would not forget.

He graduated high school; went to community college, met Maura, got a job. They married, bought a house in the old neighborhood. Had three kids, went to church. He'd tried to atone by leading a model life.

Stanley walked away from Blessed Sacrament Church on that cold grey morning; but even as he passed the cars parked along the wintry street, he could feel the humid summer warmth from so long ago. Returning home, he kissed his wife. He made her breakfast, and then drove Jared and Mark to soccer practice. He tried to resume his usual life, but his heart was troubled.

On Saturday, he went back to the hulking brown sandstone church where he'd been baptized and married. The sign read: Confessions Saturday, 2:00 – 4:30 PM.

The interior of Blessed Sacrament was dim; votive candlelight wavered toward the front of the church. Quiet reigned.

At the confessional box, his eyes scanned the nameplate on the new parish priest's door. Father James Kowalski.

He entered, and knelt. He spoke. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned…"