I whispered in the darkened confessional, the words hissing against the screen that separated me from Father Gastineau. I had chosen him for my confession because he was the youngest of the three curates at St. Jude's. “It has been June since my last confession. I received absolution and made my penance.”The old formula completed, I hesitated, unsure of myself despite my careful plans. To gain time, I called upon my usual ‘start-off’ sin, the venial sin to ease my way into the more important transgressions. “I lost my temper, three times.”One of the church's huge doors closed gently, almost with a sigh. Otherwise, all was silence.I had chosen late afternoon, the final moments of the confessional hours, to make my move, waiting in a distant pew for the penitents to thin out. I had also argued silently with myself, wondering why I was there in the first place. Since Armand and I had been successful in deceiving our mother about confession earlier in the summer, she had not brought up the subject.
