The Confession of Joe Cullen Read Free Page A

presence, intent on her work, she glanced up suddenly and let out a shrill gasp.
    â€œPlease,” Cullen said.
    â€œOh, you did startle me, sir.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to. Is there a priest here now who could hear confession?”
    â€œOh, yes. Father Immelman is here, but he’s having his afternoon nap. He’s getting on, you know, and he needs his nap. He’s seventy-three. When you get to that age, you want a nap in the afternoon. Not myself, of course; there’s so much work to be done. Do you come here often?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI should have known. I know all the churchgoers, but my memory’s so poorly these days. What time is it, sir, if I may ask?”
    Cullen looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to three.”
    â€œWell, there you are. In another ten minutes, he’ll be down. You can sit in the booth — the one over there,” she said, pointing. The moment he comes down, I’ll tell him you’re there.”
    He nodded, mumbled a thank-you, and then went to the confession booth and sat there, breathing the musty air and remembering his childhood without joy. The smell had not changed, and he had a notion that anywhere, in any booth, the smell would be the same.
    The smell was his childhood. He remembered hearing, somewhere, that the deepest memory was odor, the deepest impression, the link of man to an ancient time when he was not man at all, only becoming, and this odor was filled with the fears and frustrations of an adolescent boy. Cullen did not want to remember the adolescent boy. There was a great deal that Cullen didn’t want to remember. There was the odor that came from the body bags, and there was the odor of mud when your face is in the mud, and there was the odor of sheer terror the time he was shot down with VC all around him. He was beginning to sweat, and in another moment he would have leaped out of the confession booth and fled the church.
    Then, on top of that thought, pinning him to his seat, there was the sound of the old priest’s slow steps, and the opening of his door to the booth.
    â€œMy son?”
    Cullen opened his mouth but no sound came from it.
    â€œMy son, you wish to confess? To receive absolution?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow long is it since your last confession?”
    Long moments passed before Cullen could count the years.
    â€œMy son?”
    â€œI’m trying to think about it, Father.” It was before Vietnam. Was it 1970? That would make it seventeen years. Or was it 1968? Nineteen years.
    â€œI think — nineteen years.”
    From the priest, a long silence — to the point where Cullen had the feeling that he had left the box, and then when he spoke, he asked whether Cullen was still a believer. “You said you were, my son — or that you had been in the past. You have not put the church out of your life, have you?”
    â€œThings happened, Father. I was in Vietnam.”
    â€œAnd that kept you from confession?”
    Cullen was not used to self-examination. It was only recently that he had begun to look into himself, trying desperately to find motives and see himself as another might see him.
    â€œI don’t know,” he answered. “I’m not sure. In some way, it made it too hard to confess.”
    â€œYes.” The old priest’s voice was without rancor. He had lived a long time and heard too many confessions ever to be surprised. When he asked Cullen what he had done that brought him here today, after so many years, he could almost have anticipated a tragedy of some sort.
    â€œI murdered a priest,” Cullen replied, each word torn out of his gut.
    â€œYou murdered a priest? Is that what you said? My hearing is not of the best.” There was not surprise nor anger nor horror in the old man’s voice.
    â€œYes, Father,” Cullen whispered.
    â€œA little louder, please, my son.”
    â€œYes, Father. I said that I had