The Confession of Joe Cullen Read Free Page B

murdered a priest.”
    â€œI see.” Then silence, silence. Cullen heard the old man’s breathing, his own breathing. Then the old man asked, his voice unshaken, “Were you conscious of what you were doing?”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œAnd tell me, how do you feel about what you have done?”
    â€œTerrible.”
    â€œAnd sorry? Contrite?”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œTell me, my son, do you believe in God?”
    Cullen’s hesitation was so long that the priest asked his question again. “My son, I asked you whether you believed in God. Can you answer that question?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Cullen said finally.
    â€œThat is not an answer, and you know that, my son. Look into your heart, and then tell me what you believe or disbelieve.”
    â€œI was in Vietnam,” Cullen said forlornly. “How can I tell you that I believe in God?”
    â€œYou saw what man does and not what God does. Can you accept that?”
    â€œNo,” Cullen whispered.
    â€œPlease, louder, my son.”
    â€œNo. No, I can’t accept that what man does isn’t what God does — I mean, I guess I want to. I can’t.”
    â€œThen I must ask you again — do you believe in God?”
    â€œFather, I want to.”
    â€œBut do you?”
    Cullen felt every muscle in his body tighten. He knew what the priest’s question meant, and as much as he wanted to lie, he couldn’t.
    â€œNo,” Cullen said.
    He heard the priest sigh; there was such sorrow in that sigh that Cullen’s eyes were wet with tears.
    â€œThen why are you here in God’s house?” the old priest asked gently.
    â€œI don’t know. I had nowhere else to go.”
    â€œDon’t you know, my son, that murder is an offense against God, a terrible offense against God?”
    â€œI have guilt,” Cullen managed to say. “I’m filled with guilt, Father. I can’t sleep, I can’t rest. It’s not like Nam. It never happened to me that way in Nam. This is something else. I’m sick with what I have done. I thought — if you could forgive me, if you could give me some kind of absolution?”
    â€œHow can I, my son? When you say you are filled with revulsion at what you have done, I believe you. But what can I do? A pagan can come to me with guilt, with conscience, with revulsion, but I cannot give him absolution. He must understand that his offense, his sin, is against God, not against man. It is the same in your case. You don’t believe in God, so there is no absolution, no forgiveness.”
    â€œWhy? Why are you turning me away?” He was a little boy again, pleading.
    â€œI am not turning you away, and even if I spoke words of absolution, they would be meaningless. Pray, pray, and seek inside yourself, and when you have found God, come back here and I will give you absolution.”
    â€œJunk in every size,” Cullen muttered miserably, and then, louder, said, “Thank you, Father.”
    From the church, Cullen walked west, remembering that once an elevated highway had nestled alongside the river and the piers until it bore witness to the municipal crooks who had built it so poorly that in time it came tumbling down. Well, if a murderer like himself could walk around in the city, with nobody giving two damns about it or what he had done, then why bother with common crooks? Nothing was as it had been once, and nobody really gave a damn about anything, and the old priest would have been happy to give him absolution if only he had stood up and said forthrightly that he believed in God. He should have lied, and he was not sure but that everyone lied.
    He walked on alongside the river, and then out onto an ancient pier. He sat down on a pile of wooden planks and lit a cigarette and thought about things. In time, he came to two conclusions: one, that he would never sleep again or be able to face himself unless he