Pardon Me

We exchanged formalities and banalities.

It's a pleasure to meet you.

Likewise.

Nothing about the weather, more along the lines of how was your trip, your accommodations, how are you enjoying the conference and our pastoral tourists-attracting environs.

From his side, very little, holding his cards close to the vest.

Are you from here originally?

Tell me your role again.

And then, I stopped parrying and went for the heart of the matter. His heart.

What do fellow bishops call you? How about fellow priests? How does your secretary address you? Your excellency? Father Theodore? Theodore? Is that as far as the informal reaches: first-name basis?

Then: What did they call you as a kid?

He halted. He sat back in the ancient two-armed paisley, upholstered chair. He closed his eyes, took in a long breath. I waited.

Teddy.

He opened his eyes. A curtain lifted. His face softened, its pallor lightened.

May I call you Teddy?

The ancient grandfather clock, its pendulum swaying. His dolorous eyes pleading, fixed on my eyes. Hands folded in his lap. 

You may.

We had opened a door and entered a room, a dark one with sagging purple velvet drapes and the fragrance of burning candles and stale wine.

Teddy.

May I call you Paul?

Of course.

And I entered a confessional with the same velvet curtain, a kneeler, and a sliding screened door in the window.

How many times, son?

I lost count, Father.

How many times, Paul?

Self-abuse? I tried to count. Mortal sins. I didn't want to commit a sacrilege of the sacrament by leaving out a mortal sin. 

I don't know. It's only been two weeks, Father. Fourteen. Give or take.

Fourteen?

Maybe fifteen. Let's say seventeen, just to be safe. (Safe from what? Eternal flames.)

I'm not coming back, Teddy. How many times for you, Teddy?

I lost count.

But more than fourteen, give or take, right, Teddy?

I lost count.

Teddy.

Paul.

May I call you Paulie?

I prefer not.

Teddy, what are we talking about here?

I prefer not to say.

Is it safe to say it ain't the same as my fourteen-year-old's transgressions, the ones they labeled mortal sins, the Inquisition's torture chamber of shame and remorse for the normal tides of testosterone, Teddy?

You're quite the poet, Paul.

And you're quite evasive, Theodore.

The screen closed.

I parted the curtains. I walked out, to the pews. Or was it the communion railing? It was an odd feeling. I had been give no absolution and therefore no penance.

The silence shrouded me. I longed for the cloudy fragrance of incense. All I got was unlit candles.