Confessions - Pt.I

Father Joyce took his seat in the right compartment of the confessional box, covered by a curtain separating both the two halves of the box and Father Joyce from the rest of the world. The hard, wooden seat triggered the back pain he had been suffering from, though the spiritual silence of an empty church comforted him, as it always did. He wrestled with the foil wrapping on his two cheese sandwiches, which he had prepared that morning, and found his way into his lunch, biting through the hard sliced bread and tasting its strong contents. It was 12.30, and this was the time that he sat in there to eat his lunch every day, choosing not to eat with his fellow priests in the small room they shared, instead preferring to isolate himself and shy away from the uncomfortable socializing that Father Joyce found disconcerting. He was a relatively old man, in his mid-60s, with his white, bushy beard and contrasting short black hair making him a distinctive figure in the Chorley community, his typical black robe, white dog collar and large gold cross around his neck, also distinguishing him. He loved St. James’ church; it was his life.

Feeling the cold embrace of the wine he sipped, and the fruity essence of it washing through his system, Father Joyce prepared to hear his first confession of the day, putting away the remains of his lunch and clearing his throat, loudly. The dimples above his beard wrinkled together as he coughed, not hearing the sound of a woman’s footsteps approaching the box, her sharp and harsh heeled shoes thundering against the marble floor. This woman was Amanda Henrys, a notable member of the congregation whom Father Joyce instantly recognized the voice of, as she began to appeal for the healing of her soul. Her hair was a poorly dyed blonde, with the roots clearly showing, dangling over her two slightly bloodshot eyes, both of which had deep bags beneath them. It was Mrs. Henrys’ knuckles that were her most alerting feature, all ten of which had little red cuts, her fingernails a little uneven and dirty. She had a low, husky, almost threatening voice, though she surprised her listeners with a tinge of emotion, and a sense of something behind how she appeared.

‘Confess your sins, my child.’ Father Joyce maintained a strict, straight face as he spoke, though Mrs. Henrys couldn’t see how professional he was being.

There was a brief pause before she spoke, and a small whimper as she composed herself. ‘I-I need help.’ She managed to blurt out, speaking as quickly as she could so as to ensure she got it all out before her heavy breathing and aggressive emotion stopped her. The uncomfortably strong odour of the alcohol on her breath attacked the half of the box which Father Joyce occupied, and he let out a little cough as it did so, covering the sound of her crying.

He waited a moment, allowing the smell to diffuse a little. ‘What has happened child?’ His voice was soft, comforting and reassuring.

‘I have…a problem.’ She breathed in and out, allowing herself to speak. It was evident that she had considered coming to reconciliation for some time now, and that she was determined that it would absolve her. ‘My husband – I, well…I hurt him.’

Father Joyce struggled to understand. He couldn’t comprehend how a wife could hurt her husband – surely it was the man who would hurt his wife. In his time in the church, he had certainly never come across a woman being the villain of a violent event, it just wasn’t natural. ‘You’ve done something to your husband?’ He asked, urging Mrs. Henrys to open up.

‘I mean I hurt him, as in I do it all the time.’ She replied, speaking clearer now, though she shook on the cold and hard wooden seat provided for those who seek to repent. ‘It started around four years ago now, and it happens every night – I can’t stop myself.’ The emotion seemed to return as she finished that sentence, and she broke down, crying violently and loudly for several minutes. In this time, Father Joyce kept starting a question, but stopped himself each time as he realised that she hadn’t finished. His main concern was that there was an afternoon service beginning in less than an hour, and he envisaged this discussion lasting near to that time. This was one of the more turbulent confessions that he’d heard in his time, his first being when he pretended to be one of the priests during his time as a choir boy at the church, some 50 years ago. That time he heard the confession of a woman who was pregnant out of wedlock – and it had since been his dream to promote Christian values throughout the world, or, rather, Chorley.

‘I’m not a violent person, but it just keeps happening. There’s something in my head which tells me I must strike him. It’s some sort of animal.’ She shook her head, with her eyes closed as she did so, the red-stained cheeks down which she had cried wobbling as she desperately sought the reason for her attacks. ‘I hit, kick, spit at and strike him with anything I can find in the house, smashing his glasses, breaking his phone, cutting up his shirts into little pieces and burning them. I threw a frying pan across the room last night. He just sits there and lets it happen, he doesn’t fight back, he can’t-‘

Father Joyce nodded as she spoke, interrupting her every so often. ‘Can he not defend himself – Is he not a man?’ He retorted harshly. Though it was not his place during a confession to ask questions such as these, he felt the ridiculousness of the situation demanded ruthless questioning. ‘It seems preposterous to me, my dear, that it is you who needs the help. To me I would say that a man should be able to defend himself against his woman.’

‘I am his wife, not his woman.’ She replied aggressively, a feminist streak suddenly appearing in her attitude. She ran her hands through her hair, her mucky fingernails depositing tiny particles of mud throughout the blonde strips. Father Joyce was shaken a little by her questioning of his authority and order in such a disrespectful way, widening his eyes in surprise. ‘This is not his fault – it is mine, but I cannot stop myself from doing this. I have turned to The Church because I feel as though I have nowhere else to go. Please Father, you must help me.’ She pleaded in a childlike voice. ‘Please. I need you to help me sort this out – it can’t go on like this. Please talk to someone for me – find me help.’

He thought for a moment. At first, he thought that perhaps he should get Mrs. Henrys help, from anywhere and anyone that he could. But above all, he knew that he must maintain tradition and the integrity of the church; which meant that he could not break the confidentiality vow of this confessional box for any reason. The situation didn’t sit well with him, and the way in which it was outside of the regular order which he knew made him extremely uncomfortable. A man being abused by a woman. It was absolutely outrageous, and not something he felt it was his responsibility to assist with; it was a matter for God to determine the course of. But then what if the problem grew worse and Father Joyce hadn’t helped in any way – what if Mr. Henrys was seriously injured? He considered his options in this dilemma for a moment, before coming to a conclusion. Regular society would not hear of such inverted morality and peculiar marriage roles. He would leave it – surely a man should be able to defend himself.

Father Joyce prepared himself, clearing his throat and speaking in a particularly abrupt and matter-of-fact tone. ‘The confession box is not a place for those who behave as you do to ask for help; yes, you may confess your sins, as you have, though I cannot help you outside of here – that is not The Church’s responsibility. You must help yourself.’

The smell of alcohol had disappeared almost entirely, to be replaced by Father Joyce’s breath, which was a cheesy stench that overpowered Mrs. Henrys’ efforts. She didn’t say another word after that, and Father Joyce heard only the sounds of her heels hitting the ground as she left, the St. James’ grand double doors slamming shut as she left the Church.

Around a week later, Father Joyce was again sat eating his lunch in that same, uncomfortable seat which he occupied at lunchtime, starting at 12.30 as he always did. Though he found where he sat uncomfortable, communicating with others during this hour would be significantly more painful to him. This time he was reading from the Bible as he bit into the same cheese sandwiches; it was his guide to life, and he swore by every word in it, using these lunchtime sessions to refresh himself on how he should act.

To his surprise, he had spent the last week concerned about his decision to ignore the cry for help which Mrs. Henrys had given in her confession. It had crossed his mind several times to inform the police of what was going on, even putting his hand out to his home phone, intent on calling them, before correcting himself. He had even considered interfering, and attempting to sort out the situation himself, though he was bound by the confidentiality of the repentance process, chained down by this into not acting. It was not up to Father Joyce to get involved in the situation – and he must never choose to speak of what he had been told in the privacy of a disclosure. That would be the highest immorality. Ignoring his personal opinions on the situation, which at times in the past week he had changed, he often worried that something grave might come of their relationship, though he was determined to honour the vow of confidentiality. As he sat there in the peace of his lunchtime isolation, he congratulated himself on resisting the temptation to ‘do the right thing’, pleased that he had upheld the integrity of The Church in doing so.

It would soon be time for Father Joyce to hear another confession, and he finished his lunch as quickly as he could with this in mind. He looked tired, having spent the previous night lying uncomfortably in his bed as he had terrifying images and visions of the Henrys fighting with each other, his mind crushingly heavy with regret and doubt over his decision to not interfere. He would always find reassurance when the morning came, putting these experiences down to a lack of sleep, and coming to the conclusion that he was right in protecting what Mrs. Henrys had told him, despite her pleas for him to help her; in doing so he had chosen to maintain the Church’s reputation for integrity. The quiet of the church again was interrupted by the sound of heels, and an overpowering aftershave, even before Miles Thompson had reached the box. The box itself was a looming piece of architecture, with a Latin quote written in Gold above the two entrances, both of which were covered by curtains. The Latin translated to how we were before, is how we must be.

It was always a small game of Father Joyce’s to try and work out the face which belonged to the voice of he who sat in the confession box. It had been easy with the typically distinctive voice of Mrs. Henrys, though he found it a little more difficult with Miles, who had quite a feminine voice, his words beautifully rounded and his sentences moving with a remarkable, water-like flow. Miles was the son of a prominent local businessman, a pompous, older gentleman who occupied some alarmingly medieval views, his wife similarly obnoxious and rude, both of them very much seeing themselves as superior to all in their path.

Miles was different. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to associate himself with his parents, but rather that he was a little intimidated by their order, perhaps scared not to ‘smile and get on with it’. He was a young man, in his early 20s, though he understood the world in a way most would envy, though that many wouldn’t bother trying to. He was handsome, with perfect white teeth, blonde hair and blue eyes. Several times his parents had attempted to marry him off to the daughter of another local businessman, and several times had he wriggled out of it, claiming a lack of attraction as his reason for hesitation.

‘Good afternoon Father.’ Miles’ charming voice broke the silence, though most would enjoy the sound of his tones. Father Joyce wasn’t sure of who the voice belonged to at first, though he worked his way to a conclusion after some moments, assigning it to the Thompson family, who had been coming to St. James’ long before Father Joyce had, with generations of their family always, always occupying the front row of pews. It was some sort of statement for them to sit there, and if at any point anyone else were to try and take their position, they had a long history of abrupt looks and comments which usually forced the occupants to move.

‘What is it you have to come to tell me, my child?’ Father Joyce spoke softly to begin with, easing Miles into the process.

‘It is not something I want anyone else to know.’ Miles’ voice was a little different to how he usually spoke, with a more resolute tone, suggesting that he had made a difficult decision to come to confession. ‘Especially my family. I can’t imagine their reaction if they knew what I need to tell someone. I’ve turned here because I don’t see anyone else I can tell, and my head hurts so much now that I can’t go on any longer – I had to tell someone.’ He shuddered a little, the cold of the Church making its way through his coat, which he zipped up all the way to his chin, crossing his arms and lightly rocking back and forth as he told Father Joyce everything. ‘I’m gay.’