Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [70]
The service continued into a series of announcements and information decimation. After fifteen minutes of preaching and an hour and forty-five minutes of church affairs, the service was finally over.
The lady in red had a name. “My name is Cindi.”
“Donald.” I stood and waited for her to do the same. She didn’t seem like she was in a hurry to go anywhere. The six-year-old boy had shimmied himself out and was now waiting for his mother at the end of the pew.
“Excuse me,” the boy’s mother said to me, her smile no longer visible. It had been replaced with an angry scowl that begged for an explanation of my audacity in keeping her from her appointed task.
“Cindi, we’re blocking the pew,” I said.
Cindi looked over at the restless mother, rolling her eyes, and continued to rummage through her red bag. “I’ve got it,” she said, pulling out a red phone. She then stood up and walked out of the pew. I followed behind her with the now irate mother behind me. I stopped outside of the pew to glance at my watch. I had come to the church to go to confessional. It was my minor bid at salvation. The capacity-filled church was now inhabited by a sprinkling of people. I was about to head to the confessional booth when Cindi blocked my way.
“You weren’t going to leave before saying bye and taking my number, were you?” She pushed her hips back to accentuate her big, fat ass.
I reached out my hand and took her hand and shook it firmly. “Cindi, it was a pleasure meeting you. I must go.”
“You’re married, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, very happily married,” I said.
“So, can we be friends?” she asked, not losing that “you’re mine” look on her face.
I put my left hand over my eyes and appeared to be in deep thought. “I don’t think my wife would like that.” I made my way toward the confessional booth without waiting for a response from Cindi.
In direct contrast to the big open church, the confessional booth was cramped and smelled of wilted flowers. I did the customary kneeling, then took a seat next to the porous screen. A small scraping sound indicated the priest was sliding his screen back.
“I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned,” I said.
There was an outline of a man’s face behind the screen. “What have you done, my son?”
“Where should I begin, dear father?”
“Wherever you wish, my son.”
“Well, Father, I have slept with hundreds of women, lied to men and women and cheated on my wife on numerous occasions. I got married to my wife because she had money and hated my father because he raped my mother. I killed my father and I see no end in sight for my horrible behavior.”
“Why are you here, my son?” the priest asked.
“Father, I have recently fallen in love with a beautiful woman whom I would like to spend the rest of my life with. But my lust for the flesh seems to be a never-ending battle. I’ve been good lately but I don’t know how long I can continue. Later on today, I have to settle a matter that will free my body but tie up my soul. And tomorrow will mark a total change in the direction of my life.”
As I spoke to the priest, I began to feel much more relaxed and the words came out effortlessly as the tremor in my hands subsided.
“Son, listen to that guide that God has given you and follow it. If your guide is telling you that it is wrong, do not do it. Your past sins can only be forgiven by your prayers and the direction of your future. Pray to the Lord for guidance so that the little voice will steer you away from the bad. Pray to the Lord so that little voice will stop you before your misdeeds. Son, you have done bad deeds but God has welcomed worse into His garden. Go forth today and be blessed.” He pulled the screen back and only his presence was felt behind the screen.
“Thank you, Father,” I said and rose from the wooden bench. I walked out of the booth, relieved that I was no longer the only one weighted by my troubles. I half expected to see Cindi rising from one of the pews. I was happy when I walked outside in the company of myself. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find in church, but I felt