My turn now, the beggar headed towards me. I stared deep into the chicory blackness of my coffee and willed him to turn away. I had my own problems and wasn’t feeling very qualified to help others until I had solved my own. His shadow crept over the white of the tablecloth until the coffee and my two ringless hands were embraced in his darkness.
“Do you know the smell of leaves burning in winter?” he asked.
The aroma of hot chocolate with marshmallows – steam drifting upwards, the heat warming shivering hands.
The crispness of cold air.
The earthy aroma of an old man in black galoshes, faded denim dungarees, green cap tending a pile of leaves with a long rake — earth burning.
The stench of death, a temporary stillness of the living, until the white blanket is lifted.
“Yes,” I said.
We both inhaled, the gasp slicing conversation. Me because of the sight of his haunted, pain-filled blue eyes; him because of my response.
A tear slid through the grime upon his face as he grunted and pulled out the chair across from me. I glanced around, now the center of attention. Eyebrows were raised, mouths turned down in disgust. As soon as eye contact was made, it was averted, as if I had become as unclean as this beggar.
“Finally,” he whispered.
He kept his head down, but stared longingly at my coffee, the steam laddering up, the aroma of Louisiana thick in the haze. With the back of my hand, I pushed the cup and saucer across the table towards him.
I watched as he grasped the cup in trembling hands, brought it up and inhaled deeply. His fingernails were black and the creases of his fingers were like roads on a busy map. The rest of his hand was covered by a half-glove, the original color a mystery. A jacket, once brown, was unwinding from the sleeves, long strings dangling. His once-blonde hair was now streaked with earth and nearly black. His cheekbones were prominent, proof of feastless days and sleepless nights. And then there were his eyes...eyes that seemed to be forever brimming with tears, held back only by a surface tension of anger and self-revulsion.
My gaze fell back to his shadow upon the table. Yes, I understood fully the emotions the man felt. I saw them every time I looked in the mirror, caused by my own misplaced loyalty and ignorant inaction.
“Have you awoken to the screams of a child?”
God please no.
I stared into his eyes and he into mine.
He nodded once. “I thought so,” he said. A tear escaped. He caught it with the back of his hand, the sodden fabric of his glove.
I inhaled to steady myself. I pinched the inside of my wrist to ensure I was awake. My eyes fluttered shut as I relived scream after scream of a young boy, his pain and agony rebounding off the smiling faces of Mary and Baby Jesus. I remember heading towards the Sacristy, mortal anger promising divine justice, but stopped at the door by Old Father Prestor, the firmness of his hands upon my shoulders belying his age. His eyes were cold. His lips were a thick crevice in a face full of creases.
Go back to what you were doing, he said.
This is none of your business, he said.
I will handle this, he said.
And I remember turning away from the screams as I obeyed the Church. My naiveté condemning my soul, my morals bartered for venal favors.
“My name is Matthew,” said the beggar. “They sent me to find you. You are to be my confessor.”
Matthew. A hundred lessons from seminary flashed through my mind. Mathew cum Levi. Apostle of Christ. Martyred for converting the King of the city of Man-eaters to the true path. Matthew. Ascended into heaven. The Gospel.
But it was the combination of the words, the formation of the sentence that confused me: Matthew...they...confessor. I was not prepared for this man’s pain.
“Listen, my Son. Drink my coffee. I can provide you with food and directions to where you can get a shower and clean clothes. But as far as being a confessor, I’m out of that business for now.”
He set the coffee down and gripped my hands.
“You haven’t a choice. It’s you they told me to search for. They gave me three questions that only one would answer, could answer. That one, they said, was to be my confessor.” He squeezed my fingers painfully. “I must have a confessor to continue. Please sir.