Confessions in Birdsong
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Chapter 1
Confessions in Birdsong
When Father Joseph Kaczmerak first began spouting fragmented whispers from the old St. Casimir’s Parish confessional, the words sounded like the chirps of the birds in the small garden sheltered between the church and the rectory. He had listened to every momentous tidbit without uttering one word. Despite the effort that wore his lips chapped and thin, the words spewed right and left like birdseed that germinated and spread their weedy secrets.
The new pastor tried to stem the tide of truth with gentle chiding, but secrets pooled in the old priest’s throat and slowly overflowed into blunt utterances. The silent pain he’d held between his lips and pressed back in his throat like the melting host after communion for over fifty years liquefied into sound. For weeks, he haunted the hushed quiet of the church pews and stared at the confessional alcoves horrified by glimpses of partial memories—a shocked face, the quick suck of a distressed breath, widened eyes or the quiet sob. Those who’d been wronged were often angry—angry with him for opening his mouth and giving their secrets flight. Father Joseph looked down at the brown patches that age left on his hands and rubbed them. He’d prefer to return to old silence and continual goodwill. How many days had this compulsion reigned? Two? Three? He couldn’t remember.
As he watched the new pastor prepare the lectern for the feast day service, he recalled the moment a well-worn homily had left his lips in the old waterfront bar last week. The urge to pray coincided with a greeting from a girl who reminded him of long-dead Kate Walsh. Like his beautiful Kate, the girl had gray-blue eyes and honey-streaked hair roped into a twisted, long ponytail.
The girl had smiled and had sat next to him on a stool at the bar. With a slight nod of her head, she said, “Evening, Padre.” Her friendliness tricked him into panic. Where was Kate’s little girl? He began to pray for all their souls, but the blessing tripped his tongue into a warp, and scripture leaked out of his mouth.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit . . .” That moment had started the Lord’s Sermon. He blessed the girl who was not Kate and the crowded bar; Father Joe blessed Vincenzo as he stood wiping the same glass over and over as he listened. Joseph Kaczmerak finished the Beatitudes and then garbled something odd about goddesses and songbirds and felt the first tears follow the folded wrinkles down his cheeks. The old homily stuttered in his tear-drenched voice, “Blessed are those who love, love, love.”
Father Joe whispered the same sermon again—the young woman had fled and the bar’s owner, Luis Fuerza, needed the blessing. He prayed for poor, cursed Luis, as the younger man hushed him and walked him back to the rectory. Luis steadied Kaczmerak’s arm, as he stumbled over uneven sidewalks, negotiated each curb, and crossed the brick-cobbled streets with tears streaming down his face. They paused under the last street lamp before mounting the rectory steps and faced each other. Luis wiped at the old man’s face with his own handkerchief, worried that the new pastor might think Kaczmerak had been drinking.
Father Joe gave his first confessions to Luis. “There are secrets told by songbirds. I loved once so I understand. You can’t marry Athena, Luis. Please stay away from her.” He clamped his lips tight after that; he remembered swallowing the rest of his thoughts.
The younger man, eyes shying away, had shaken his head at the warning and the inane urge to feel compassionate toward this lost, shriveled man in the priest’s clothes. Luis Fuerza no longer attended church, but the old man wearing the stiff priest’s collar had touched a deep well of respect inside him for tradition. Luis had soothed, “I don’t think a goddess would give me the time of day, Father. Let’s get you home.” He’d led the old priest up the stairs of the rectory and pressed the doorbell. When Pastor Stallings opened the thick door in a plaid robe and his pajamas, Luis wore the surprised look that people did when it occurred that their priests and teachers were, after all, human under the collar or outside the classroom.
Father Joseph leaned in the doorway and watched the young man walk back toward the bar. He sighed over upending all their lives in his old age. He saw it all with startling clarity for about thirty seconds and experienced a choking wave of regret. Then his vision clouded, and he simply felt tired. When he finally rested his head on the old, flattened pillow, he reminded himself to warn Athena when he saw her. He fell asleep and dreamed of angels singing, birds filling the yard and scattering when he and Kate laughed, then the dream shifted to Athena dancing with Luis, and a large, dark man waiting in a doorway for his Kate. Birds chittered in a cacophony that opened his eyes. Joseph felt all the secrets of the world capture and fist in his age-hollowed chest.
The new pastor tried to stem the tide of truth with gentle chiding, but secrets pooled in the old priest’s throat and slowly overflowed into blunt utterances. The silent pain he’d held between his lips and pressed back in his throat like the melting host after communion for over fifty years liquefied into sound. For weeks, he haunted the hushed quiet of the church pews and stared at the confessional alcoves horrified by glimpses of partial memories—a shocked face, the quick suck of a distressed breath, widened eyes or the quiet sob. Those who’d been wronged were often angry—angry with him for opening his mouth and giving their secrets flight. Father Joseph looked down at the brown patches that age left on his hands and rubbed them. He’d prefer to return to old silence and continual goodwill. How many days had this compulsion reigned? Two? Three? He couldn’t remember.
As he watched the new pastor prepare the lectern for the feast day service, he recalled the moment a well-worn homily had left his lips in the old waterfront bar last week. The urge to pray coincided with a greeting from a girl who reminded him of long-dead Kate Walsh. Like his beautiful Kate, the girl had gray-blue eyes and honey-streaked hair roped into a twisted, long ponytail.
The girl had smiled and had sat next to him on a stool at the bar. With a slight nod of her head, she said, “Evening, Padre.” Her friendliness tricked him into panic. Where was Kate’s little girl? He began to pray for all their souls, but the blessing tripped his tongue into a warp, and scripture leaked out of his mouth.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit . . .” That moment had started the Lord’s Sermon. He blessed the girl who was not Kate and the crowded bar; Father Joe blessed Vincenzo as he stood wiping the same glass over and over as he listened. Joseph Kaczmerak finished the Beatitudes and then garbled something odd about goddesses and songbirds and felt the first tears follow the folded wrinkles down his cheeks. The old homily stuttered in his tear-drenched voice, “Blessed are those who love, love, love.”
Father Joe whispered the same sermon again—the young woman had fled and the bar’s owner, Luis Fuerza, needed the blessing. He prayed for poor, cursed Luis, as the younger man hushed him and walked him back to the rectory. Luis steadied Kaczmerak’s arm, as he stumbled over uneven sidewalks, negotiated each curb, and crossed the brick-cobbled streets with tears streaming down his face. They paused under the last street lamp before mounting the rectory steps and faced each other. Luis wiped at the old man’s face with his own handkerchief, worried that the new pastor might think Kaczmerak had been drinking.
Father Joe gave his first confessions to Luis. “There are secrets told by songbirds. I loved once so I understand. You can’t marry Athena, Luis. Please stay away from her.” He clamped his lips tight after that; he remembered swallowing the rest of his thoughts.
The younger man, eyes shying away, had shaken his head at the warning and the inane urge to feel compassionate toward this lost, shriveled man in the priest’s clothes. Luis Fuerza no longer attended church, but the old man wearing the stiff priest’s collar had touched a deep well of respect inside him for tradition. Luis had soothed, “I don’t think a goddess would give me the time of day, Father. Let’s get you home.” He’d led the old priest up the stairs of the rectory and pressed the doorbell. When Pastor Stallings opened the thick door in a plaid robe and his pajamas, Luis wore the surprised look that people did when it occurred that their priests and teachers were, after all, human under the collar or outside the classroom.
Father Joseph leaned in the doorway and watched the young man walk back toward the bar. He sighed over upending all their lives in his old age. He saw it all with startling clarity for about thirty seconds and experienced a choking wave of regret. Then his vision clouded, and he simply felt tired. When he finally rested his head on the old, flattened pillow, he reminded himself to warn Athena when he saw her. He fell asleep and dreamed of angels singing, birds filling the yard and scattering when he and Kate laughed, then the dream shifted to Athena dancing with Luis, and a large, dark man waiting in a doorway for his Kate. Birds chittered in a cacophony that opened his eyes. Joseph felt all the secrets of the world capture and fist in his age-hollowed chest.