LA MORENITA, Chapter 22

N parked his red Impala by the curb while Father F stood on the sidewalk in front of the church, talking with parishioners after Sunday Mass. N and M got out of the Chevy and walked up the sidewalk to greet him just as he was turning to go back inside.
“Father,” M said. “I want you to meet N. He wants to become a Catholic.”
“I see,” said the priest. “Does he have a sponsor?”
“I’m his sponsor,” Maria replied.
Father F wrinkled his nose, as if something in M’s declaration had a disagreeable smell. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled something on the first page. He tore off the page and handed it to N. “Go to this parish, my son, and ask for Father C.”
“But Father,” M said. “I thought you would give him the instruction.”
“Normally I would,” Father F agreed. “But in these circumstances, I think your young man here needs to talk to Father C.”
N drove to the parish address Father F had written on the note pad. He entered the church cautiously, shielding his face from the sunlight that cascaded down through the high windows, painting the stark white walls with bright colors. The dark wooden trim and scenes from Christ’s life depicted in the stained glass windows made the church feel oppressive. It was as if the omniscient sanctuary knew that N was perpetrating a fraud.
It took N a while to find the office. He had to stop twice and ask kneeling parishioners where it was located. Eventually, he found the door and knocked. “Come in,” called a deep voice. N opened the door. “Yes, my son. May I help you?”
“ “I’m looking for Father C,” N said.. “Father F sent me”
A priest with a long, pale face stood up and took a few steps. Tall and lean, he looked quite fit for a man his age. He had a great shock of white hair on the top of his head, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to walk with a slight limp. “I’m Father C,” he
said as he reached out and shook N’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to become a Catholic,” N said.
“Is your name N?”
N nodded.
“Yes, Father F told me about you.” Father C turned and sat back down. He gestured toward a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
N sat. For the longest time, he and the priest stared at each other. Then the priest said, “So you’ve met a cute little Mexican girl, and you think you want to become a Catholic.”
“You sound like my Father,” N said.
“I am your father,” the priest said. “Your Father in Christ.” Again, they stared at each other. After a while, the priest spoke. “So, my son, what makes you think you want to be Catholic other than wanting to be with this cute little girl?”
N squirmed in his chair. The hoax would be hard enough to perpetrate without all these questions. “Can’t we just cut to the chase?” he asked.
“This is the chase,” the priest said. “Answer my question.”
N tried to stare the priest down, but the man’s grey-green eyes never strayed from N’s. After giving up the stare, N said, “My mother used to take me to the Baptist church when I was younger. All I ever heard there was what a big sinner I was.”
“You think that’s not true?”
“No, I know it’s true. But that’s part of my problem. They wanted me to make this decision for Christ and then go off and sin no more. But it didn’t work like that. I came forward one Sunday and prayed with the minister, and I felt real good about it. But I kept right on sinning, and a week later, I didn’t feel any better than when I first came forward.”
“And?”
“Well, I had some friends who were Catholics. And they kept sinning, too. But every week they got to go to church and confess. I think this was a better way to do it. To get it all off your chest and start fresh each week instead of saving up all your sins to the point where you feel like they’re crushing you.”
“And how do you think the priest takes away your sins?” the priest asked. “By giving you a few ‘Hail, Marys’ and an ‘Our Father’ or two?”
“I guess,” N said. “Something like that. I don’t know. I mean, the only time I got a fresh start in the Baptist church was at the beginning. But I kept wanting to be forgiven. I kept wanting to feel better about myself.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“No, you’re saying it fine. I understand you might actually be serious about your decision. Father F thought you were turning Catholic only because of this girl. That’s why he wanted me to discourage you.”
“Oh,” N said. He felt numb.
Later that week, N and M huddled together in the front seat of his Impala as M asked him questions. “What is God?”
“God is God. What else can He be? What can I say?”
M shook her head. “God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
N shook his head and sighed.
“Does God have a beginning?”
“No. No beginning.”
“Where is God?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then why don’t we see Him?”
“We don’t see God because– He is a pure spirit– and cannot be seen with–, cannot be seen with– .”
“Bodily eyes. Cannot be seen with bodily eyes.”
N shook his head in frustration. “I’m never going to get this. I can’t believe it’s going to take six months just to change religions.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
N’s face turned red. Not only did he hear the question, he also imagined hearing his father: “When the novelty wears off, you quit. You always quit.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s start again.”
She took a deep breath. “What is God?”
“God is– , God is– .”
“God is a–.”
“No, don’t tell me.” He reflected a moment. “God is a spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “There’s more.”
“A spirit–,” He paused. Another word came to him. “A spirit infinitely—something.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Perfect. God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
“Yes.”
“God has no beginning. He is everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
The next day, N went to his first confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“It’s never been, Father. This is my first confession ever.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“I’ve sinned so much I don’t know where to start. “So much anger in me. So much lust.”
“I’m an old man, my son. I’m not as fascinated by sin as I used to be. Just hit the highlights.”
“When I was in the fourth grade, I punched a kid in the nose as hard as I could just because I wanted to see him bleed.”
“Hmm. Are you sorry about that?”
“Yes I am, Father. And when I was sixteen, I forced this girl to have sex with me. And when she stopped moving underneath me, I hit her with my fist.”
The priest didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel ashamed, Father. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Were you drinking at the time?”
“Yes, Father. I was drunk.”
“Well, clearly, you need to perform an act of contrition.”
“Tell me how, Father. I’ll do it.”
That Sunday, at fifteen minutes to eight, N met M and her family outside the church.
“Are you going to sit with the family?” she asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He looked at the dark eyes which protruded from the homely faces of her sisters and the leathery faces of her parents. If there’s such a thing as Mexican Claustrophobia, he thought, I’m going through it now. “Can we sit by ourselves?”
“Sure.” N took her hand and walked slowly into the church. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.
“There,” he said, pointing to space next to the aisle in the last pew.
She walked to the edge of the pew, genuflected at the end of the row, and made the Sign of the Cross. Then she got up, entered the pews and sat down. He followed her and plunked himself down beside her.
“Why didn’t you kneel?”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” he lied. In truth, he didn’t like kneeling. He didn’t like the pain it caused in his right knee, which had been injured twice in football, and he didn’t like the constricted feeling in his heart, as if the mere act of genuflecting was somehow attacking the very core of his personality.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll be good practice for you.”
N stood up and moved out to the end of the row. Quickly, he genuflected and crossed himself, touching his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. M got up and knelt beside him. “When you make the Sign of the Cross,” she whispered, “you go from left to right, not from right to left.” She demonstrated. Nodding, he copied her movements. They both got up and sat down in the pew. As he sat there, he yearned for the simplicity of a Baptist worship service.