My Father Was Good

My father has always been good to me.

He would give me money to go to the store and a list. 

"Don't forget!" He would say, ushering me out the door.

I wouldn't forget. How could I? I would get a scolding of a lifetime. Frankly, I couldn't even return home if I happened to forget.

...

Mother liked to pray in her room where I wasn't allowed. She was a religious woman of middle-class stature. Not because we had money, but because in her mind she was somewhere far away. She always seemed as if she would break if I touched her, into a million shards scattered in a world I could not join her in.

I don't think I've ever seen her smile, only press a crucifix to her chest and mumble words that could only be understood by her. 

And father, he was also a religious man. He went to church with his mother, because he was a good man. He would say "Son, don't forget to confess, or you'll never go to heaven."

And so I confessed. I confessed how much I loved my family, and how normal we were. How every day was a joy.

The priest would listen, with no judgment. Just like a priest should. 

And then, my sins were gone. With a snap of his finger, and a Hail Mary with knees below the pew. The dirtiness was gone.

My family was good, they were kind. People who went to church could not be anything but. 

So when I heard my father scream obscurities and saw mother arch her back as if she wanted to melt into her chair and disappear, it was because good people have fights sometimes. And they makeup, just as good people should.

So that moment when I dragged my feet into the church and sat down on the pew. And stared, blankly, at the crucifix on the wall, dazzling brightly and brilliantly on Christmas morning; I knew that my world had gone wrong. They didn't deserve what they got, it was a moment of delusion on my part. When my father had snatched mother's rosary from her pale and tightened hands-boney and weak with age-and pulled it apart; with the red marble-like beads rolling under the couch and beside mother's feet-that too, was not because they were bad. 

I was bad. My rage, everything I had been taught about respect and loyalty to god-was broken right then. Mother didn't deserve it, she was still good. Father, with that action alone; could have cared less about the creator. And so I wrapped my arm around his neck. My mother didn't say anything, just watched; as his face grew paler and paler; and he fell to the ground like a rag doll. 

In my shock, I had dialed the police. Trembling fingers, I saw them tremble. I couldn't feel my fingers, I only felt numb. As if, it was another person with my face who had just attacked her father, e who had singlehandedly sent him to hell. Father hadn't confessed his sins into the abyss of secrets that was the confessional and thus was no longer pure enough to join the creator and angels in heaven. I knew that because that was what I had been taught all my life.

And then there was mother, crawling desperately on the ground as she picked up each individual bead and placed it her purse-had resisted arrest by the men in blue only until every last bead was retrieved. Then, she kneeled, limp, over the body of father. And she smiled. And laughed. There were no tears in her eyes, and the men had to drag her away from father, still laughing. I can still hear her laugh, how infectious it was.

She had dropped her purse on the ground by the door, she didn't seem to want it anymore as she didn't complain, even as the door shut and I was left alone.

And I felt at peace.

Now, I stand up from the pew. The mass had yet to start, and I was alone in the dimly lit church; walking, slowly-towards the confessional. The priest would do his magic, and I would be clean again. 

I needed to be clean because currently, I felt so very dirty.

That's why when I sat down on the other end of the confessional; with only the priest's eyes staring back at me-I spoke. My voice remained calm because the church was a calming place. It always had been, it had always given me peace.

We remained in silence, as I waited for my penance. What prayer would I get today, what hymn would I sing for forgiveness? 

Still, he didn't respond. He always responded even that one time I stole twenty dollars from my dad to buy myself dinner when I was young. When mother hadn't come out of her room.

I had felt horrible then. Now, I knew; as long as I was here; I would be saved.

Because God forgave his children, even when they did bad things.

I heard the clicking of fingernails, like that of typing on a cellphone. It was brief, I figured I had imagined it. 

Still, I tapped gently on the cracked screen of my old blackberry flip phone.

I relaxed. It was a false alarm, the sound wasn't remotely the same. 

"Father?"

There was a pause. I heard churchgoers enter the double-doors, ready for mass. I was ready too, but I didn't know what I would need to do to have my slate wiped clean once more.

I was starting to grow impatient.

"Father-what should I do?"

The door of the confessional swung open, and I stared unblinkingly at the police officer, with handcuffs in tow.

"You must have the wrong guy. Confessions are private, officer."

I felt the cold metal touch my wrists, and my hair being forcefully grabbed as I was dragged out and forced on my knees

"It was foolish of me, to think I could trust a priest." 

I leaned my head back, looking to the side with a tilt of my head. 

"Before we go. Father, please. The Penance."

The priest, old, fat, and wrinkled refused to meet my gaze. 

I was dragged out, screaming curses at the top of my lungs. Eyes full of hatred stared back, full of fear. 

My father did not deserve his fate.

My parents were good. And so was I.