The confessional. The dark side of the human soul. I hear it all. Things done in desperation, good Catholics laid low by what seem on the surface to be simple venial sins. My name is Rick Sterling. What few friends I have call me “Father.” I’m nobody’s pal. I’m a priest.

It was a sweltering August night. The type of humid night that makes a rosary slip from a man’s sweat-slicked fingers and fall to the tiled floor below. The kind of festering night that causes even the most devout of ministers to falter in his vows, to condense the Stations of the Cross down to six. The kind of night, the kind of hot, airless night that forces a Jesuit to man the confessional booth nude. My kind of night.

Nothing much was happening. Oh, the occasional timid, whining voice; a few interestingly unique mortal sins; nothing a handful of Hail Mary’s couldn’t cover. Still, the night had been quiet . . . perhaps too quiet. My intuition was shrilling like a dime store alarm clock. I was just getting ready to call it a night when the broad walked in. I could hear the confessional door open and heard a whisper of silk as she situated herself on the kneeler. I grunted a bit, just for her to know someone was there, and she spoke at the screen.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been six months since my last confession.”

Yeah. Six months. This dame had some sins to confess, or I’m a Rabbi with a propeller yarmulke. I could tell by the sound of her voice that I was in for administering the kind of absolution usually not reserved for little old ladies with silver hair and baby blue handbags.

I leaned into the screen and took a good long look. She had legs to make St. Andrew think twice about the strength of his faith. All the way up to her face, she was the kind of dame made a man admire God’s craftsmanship. When she turned to me, her face was angled slim and graceful, like the soft lines of a bunny’s cheek. Her lips were filled with dew. Her grey eyes were mostly lost in shadow. I felt the regret for my vow of celibacy like a bracer of the worst whiskey to come out of a Kansas City distillery.

“I’m here to confess my sins.”

“Relax, doll. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands. Just take it easy. Light up, if you want.” I slid her a cigarette through the screen.

“Thanks.”

“So. You were saying.”

“It’s been six months since my last confession.”

I lit a cigarette of my own. “We been through that.”

“Do you mind if we slide past the lesser sins? I’m kind of on a schedule here.”

I took a savage puff. “Fifty Hail Mary’s.”

“Fifty? Isn’t that a bit much?” I could see her eyes widening through the screen. Both boxes were swimming with smoke now.

“Believe me,” I said, “in this business, it’s best to keep your backside covered.”

She made a note on a little pad. “Do I have to do them all today?”

I shook my head. “Take the weekend.” No use beating on the kid.

“Thanks, padre.”

Lock yourself in an oversized grapefruit crate six days a week with fallen human beings and your perspective changes on a few things. You no longer pretend to be concerned when they no longer pretend to feel guilt for their thousands of mindless peccadilloes. You listen in to a steady stream of monotone syllables, bereft of passion, delivered in a cathartic act of ritual self-abuse. A purging. This was spiritual sludge, and I was here to collect it. Everything performed with a wink and a nod, both sides playing expected parts. One lady, she comes in for confession every Wednesday night eight, has since before I arrived, lists the same arcane list of sins and receives the same penance every time. One visiting Spanish Jesuit took the box and gave her a light penance; I don’t remember what it was, but it wasn’t her usual list of prayers and she burst into tears and was hysterical. Ever since, everybody gives her the same prayers. It makes things a lot easier.

So I generally don’t expect much. But this dame was different. There was something in her manner — the way she kept fidgeting, casting frightened, sidelong glances at me. The lady had some story to tell.

“Talk to me.”

“You see . . . after my sister died. . . .”

“Your sister? Not a nun?”

“My real sister.”

“Go on.”

“. . . I needed comfort. Guidance. In my grief, I turned to Sister — ”

“Your sister? I thought she was dead.”

“No, no . . . my parish nun.”

“Go on.”

“She referred me to Bishop Amish. Said he was certified.”

“Amish.”

“He’s certified, all right.”

“Go on.”

“As I was saying . . . I turned to Bishop Amish to help assuage my grief¾”

“Bishop Amish? Of this parish? St. Anthony’s? The new district bishop?”

“That’s the one.”

“That’s the Amish you mean.”

“Yes.”

I felt my gut drop. It was a recent promotion within the church. District Bishop. A new bedroom, my own telephone. Maybe priority use of the rectory van. As it was, me and Amish were the only two being considered for the position. Let’s just say that I didn’t get it. I turned back to the dame. “Go on.”

“And he… comforted me. In more ways than one.”

“Who comforted you?”

“Bishop Amish.”

“Bishop Amish?”

“Bishop Amish.”