1892 by Paul Butler

Author:Paul Butler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flanker Press
Published: 2012-12-21T05:00:00+00:00

Tommy

I waited in silence. It was cool beneath this high-domed ceiling, and there was a tingle in the soft breeze that had somehow made its way into the Cathedral. I had begun my journey, I told myself. In the act of washing, combing my hair, dragging these reluctant limbs to the very place of this morning’s humiliation, I had set in motion something remarkable. I could feel a faint rumbling in the ground and my lungs were awakened to a timeless austerity in the very atmosphere.

Religion was full of wretches such as I. Even the hymns attested to the inclusive power of redemption. Christianity prided itself on the hardcases. The fall from the horse, the blinding light. If I were to become the most pious and respectable man in this city, it would not be without precedent. I would be one among many, brought low only to be saved.

The lean man with the hollow cheeks seemed welcoming enough. When I asked if I could see the priest, stammering over the words, he turned away sharply but beckoned me to follow. Then, when we reached the threshold to the vestry, he told me to wait. Something in his fussy, fastidious manner eased my nerves. It felt as though it had started, that a small cog in some mechanism for the reclamation of lost souls had been set spinning. Soon other parts of the machine would whir and clank into motion.

Standing now under the archway over the vestry door, I could hear the low voices of the man and the priest but couldn’t make out the words. Was this the sound of my salvation? Were they mapping out the plan there and then? For the first time in my memory, I could feel a weight drawing me down to my knees; it seemed sweet all of a sudden to subjugate my will, to lay myself low before something greater than myself. It would be a relief, a blessed relief, to give it all up, to say I was wrong all this time – defying, sneering, fornicating, drinking, and stealing – to lay out my sins and ask for help. I had made a ruin of my life, I could see that. But a light had shone, spearing through my vanity, and a clean fire of fresh hope burned in my chest. It couldn’t be too late.

The low talking ceased and I heard the creaking of a chair, then the approach of footsteps. Father Ryan appeared under the arch, his small eyes tired but piercing under grey bushy brows. I waited for a moment but he said nothing.

“Father,” I ventured, “I would like to apologize for this morning.” My throat closed up as I spoke; my voice was thin and unfamiliar to myself.

He stared at me, unblinking.

“I am . . . I am ashamed,” the words came out so distorted I could barely recognize them. My mouth had become numb and its workings beyond my control.

“Why?” he asked without emotion. “What great change

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