sense.
“Yes, I do. I truly want redemption. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“They all say that,” I hiss under my breath, even though neither man can hear me.
They all whisper words of apology, begging for a forgiveness they haven’t earned as they weep, on their knees sometimes, trying to get their victim back.
I tip my chin up, silently pleading for Savio to condemn this man. The only weight a priest can truly throw around is the refusal to absolve someone. He can’t go to the police, can’t do anything to make someone truly ‘behave.’ But he can refuse to let them atone.
It’s what always pissed me off about the mob and stuff. Maybe it was all in the movies, but the idea that a priest would condone murder and shit never sat right with me, and it told me someone beneath a cassock was taking bribes.
Jerks.
“I want to stop this,” Paulo whispers. “I don’t understand why I do it. Why I need—” Savio says nothing, and Paulo’s gulp is audible. “I hate myself. I-I tried to kill myself yesterday, Father. Anything to avoid these feelings, these thoughts—”
I blink at that, taken aback. And the anger whirls from me. Not because his niece’s abuser doesn’t deserve my anger, but because now I’m confused.
When Savio sends him on his way with a few token Hail Marys, I’m even more confused.
What just happened?
How did we go from a fury so strong it made the church vibrate with it to a penance so weak, the kid earned more time on his knees than Paulo did.
For a second, I falter.
I’d admit it.
But then, I think about the darkness in Savio’s eyes, think about what I saw in them, and I know something isn’t right.
When Paulo retreats to a pew, almost flinging himself on his knees, his shoulders shaking, I wonder if it’s all an act. Then I ask myself who he’s playing the role to. God? Savio isn’t watching, and he’s the only one Paulo thinks knows his dirty secret. So is he truly sorry?
As I pluck my bottom lip, another parishioner wanders over to the booth, and when she confesses to getting jealous over a neighbor’s lasagna recipe, it’s such a contrast to what I heard before that I almost want to laugh out loud.
I’m not sure what makes me do it, but when Paulo clambers to his feet, I get to mine too.
He’s a slender man, but his belly’s large. Rotund. It’s weird because everywhere else he’s skinny. He slips his sunglasses on, and I know why too—his face is red from crying. He also hunches his shoulders, hiding his expression by dipping his face under the upturned lapels of his coat.
I find it interesting that, even though it’s warm, to the Italians it’s like it’s freezing out.
Here I am, sweating in a thin anorak and scarf the second we make it out of the church and into the sun, and he’s huddled in his coat like it’s midwinter. And he isn’t the only one. I pass a woman in a frickin’ fur coat! Like it’s snowing or something.
Being outside of the church, after what just happened, feels weird.
Off.
Like the world has changed, or I have. I’m not sure which, but I feel uneasy even as I follow Paulo around. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, but I feel driven to nonetheless.
We pass the Vatican, which I still gape at as I wander by. The lane toward it is packed with people, and the coffee shops and stores that line it are heaving too.
Beggars are almost ornamental on doorways, sleeping on pieces of cardboard, pleading for food even as they sleep amid the tumble of life.
It’s strange, because they aren’t even actively busking. They just sleep. Like they know they’ll be ignored.
One thing that has astonished me so far is just how many homeless people there are.
So close to the Vatican, maybe that makes sense. They come to where they believe they will get help. And yet, there doesn’t seem to be much of it.
It feels wrong.
Wicked somehow.
There’s so much affluence in this boulevard, and yet, so much poverty too.
As I follow Paulo over the Ponte Vaticano, which necessitates us avoiding a tangle of traffic that’s crossing the River Tiber, I pass a priest dressed like Friar Tuck, and then a nun who’s wearing a full-on toga.
It’s perplexing how many different priests and sisters I’ve seen, each of them wearing a slightly different ‘uniform.’
Like how the thick hemp rope the friar wears around his