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Late in the afternoons, from Mondays to Thursdays, Monsignor John Pruitt would hold confession. On an island where the maximum population came to a total of less than five hundred people, it was only on rare occasions that Monsignor John Pruitt would find himself busy. Sure, there were a few devoted members of his flock who would make it a habit to visit multiple times a week, if not, than a month, but afternoons were usually free.
It was somewhat concerning that as more and more time went on, there were far more people who only ventured to step foot into St. Patrick’s for the most holiest of days.
Whatever the case, Monsignor Pruitt did not actively judge the people of Crockett. After all, in the end, it was all God’s will and as a lowly shepherd, he had no right to question his loving Father.
Still, he couldn’t help but think as he kneeled down amongst the pews, rosary in hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have more people coming in. It seemed like he spent more of his days in solitude and waiting for something to raise the spirits of the lowly populace of Crockett.
What had happened to the religious fervor of the devoted?
The promises of his flock to promise themselves to God?
As the decades went by, faith was harder to come by.
As he bowed his head and murmured his seventh Hail Mary, he heard the sound of wood scraping against the floor, of shy footsteps faltering before ultimately stuttering to a halt. Slowly, but with an air of rising exhilaration, Monsignor Pruitt tucked the rosary into his cardigan and turned his head.
“Ah, you’re back already, young la—”
His anticipation for whoever had entered abruptly faded into surprise and apprehension.
Usually, it would be a tall woman with long flowing hair. Dark as his own, but completely straight in contrast to the loose curls that tickled the nape of his neck. She would step forward with a bright smile on her face, eyes bright but glistening with a secret—with illicit intent and sin.
Mildred Gunning.
But no.
Today wasn’t that sort of day where Millie would take him by the hand and lean in close before murmuring to him about her day.
Today wasn’t that sort of day where John would gently pat the back of her hand, the urge to tug her close to him and feel her warmth through his dark, suffocating clothing.
Today wasn’t the sort of day where they would look each other into their eyes and whisper each other’s names like a caress upon the cheek and lips pressed together in one of the dark corners of his church.
Monsignor Pruitt hadn’t realized that he had risen from his kneeling posture until he stepped out onto the aisle and his shoe caught against the kneeler. For a moment, he flailed before he caught himself with a hand on the back of the pew.
“M-monsignor!” He looked up just in time to a girl—a young woman, really—practically stumbling into the church, her dark brown eyes nervously flickering between his stooped posture and her only exit. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He smiled, the burn of guilt and of lost time simmering in his chest.
“Don’t worry about an old man like me, Sarah—”
Sarah… Once Sarai, but always the wife of Abraham. A noblewoman. A princess.
His daughter.
“—it’s not exactly my time yet.” A laugh easily left his throat, but he noticed Sarah awkwardly shift on her feet.
Right. She was here for something probably important.
He rose to his feet steadily before gesturing for her to come forward. Hesitant, like a newborn foal attempting to walk for the first time, Sarah stepped into the church. For most, people would have walked inside this holy place with a sense of serenity and joy—but apparently, not for Sarah.
It hadn’t always been that way.
When Sarah had been little, she would clutch onto her mother’s skirts, her dark eyes captivated by the simplicity of her surroundings and the priest who was impassioned with the love for the people of Crockett Island. As Sarah listened intently during his homilies and sang during the opening hymns, Monsignor Pruitt had smiled kindly upon her.
He even spoke to her a few times whenever it was time she received the sacraments of communion and reconciliation.
Mostly, though, he just watched.
Always separated by rows upon rows of pews.
Within reach, but never close enough to truly know her as a person.
When had Sarah had wandered into St. Patrick’s without Millie to accompany her?
If Monsignor Pruitt were being honest, he would say almost never.
( And if he continued being honest, he would say that it hurt so much to burn with jealousy and drown in sadness when he saw Millie and George hand in hand with little Sarah in between like a proper family.
But he was a priest and he couldn’t afford to be truthful about things like that ).
“What brings you here, Sarah?”
Sarah fidgets for a second, her slim fingers fingering the hem of her shirt before she takes a deep breath. It’s an action that Monsignor Pruitt has seen before as a young priest, back before he had been stationed at Crockett Island. Nervous and anticipation for the worst. Whatever she has to say, it is obviously weighing on her mind.
For whatever burdens she has, Monsignor Pruitt vows to lighten.
It’s what he has to do as her… priest.
“Confession,” Sarah murmurs. Her eyes dart to the door to where the confessional is before settling back on him. “But if you’re busy—”
“No!” He says almost forcefully. Much to his chagrin, Sarah almost leaps back from his tone of voice. “No,” he says again apologetically, trying to soothe her with words alone. “I always have time to help those in need.”
Sarah has a slight smile on her face, but it quickly disappears as Monsignor Pruitt heads for the confessional.
It’s a small room in the corner of the church. While the door is somewhat indistinct, almost as if it were made so that it would fade into the background, the inside is what really matters. Like most confessionals, there is a barrier between the priest and the confessor—one made of interlaced wooden lattices so that while the priest can look and see if someone was there, the barrier would obscure most of the confessor’s features. While identity would not be hard to guess (considering the low population at Crockett), it still enabled some sort of… well, not exactly privacy, but it did allow the person confessing to be somewhat relieved from speaking to their priest face to face.
Once seated, Sarah starts.
Her words are hesitant and stumbling. They’re perfect, as if she had memorized the procedure beforehand, but Monsignor Pruitt knows it’s been a while since he had last heard her confession.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned, my last confession was—” She pauses. “—two… no, three years ago.”
Monsignor Pruitt nods.
“That sounds about right. So, what troubles you?”
“Oh, you know… Sneaking out to the Uppards, telling little lies here and there… Eating the last slice of pie that my dad wanted to eat.” Her laugh fills the intimate space. “It’s that pie you and the mayor had to judge for last week’s baking competition, remember? Mom decided to bake another one just for the family.”
Yes, he definitely remembered the flaky crust, the sweet and inviting filling… He was not biased when he said that Millie scored fairly high—her pies were just that good.
“Between you and me, young lady, your mother deserved a higher ranking than third place.” They both share a chuckle, but the sound is strained and somewhat hindered by the fact that there is one more sin looming above them. Sarah hadn’t fully confessed yet. “And between you and me, I believe you’re not done confessing.”
Through the mesh, Monsignor Pruitt catches a glimpse of the young woman’s face falling slightly. He may have been getting older, but it was quite obvious that a person didn’t engage in the sacrament of reconciliation to confess small things unless you were confessing frequently.
Sarah came for a reason.
“I… My mom came to mass this morning. Did she…”
“I do recall seeing her this morning. She pulled me aside—” A dangerous thing to do, really, considering one of the town’s gossips was present, but it had been a while… And it was a mother’s love that begged for the wise counsel of one of the Lord’s many shepherds. Millie hadn’t spoken so brazenly to him for… other reasons . “—and asked for some advice.”
Sarah nods.
“We’ve been fighting these past few weeks. Nothing too serious, but… Yesterday got really bad.” Sarah bows her head forward, sadness coloring her every movement. “I said some things that I didn’t mean and well… I talked to Dad about it and he said that I should give Mom some space for a bit. And, um… He knows that you and Mom are close, so…”
It takes an insurmountable—almost Herculaneum—amount of willpower for Monsignor Pruitt not to outwardly react. George is a nice man, a brilliant father, and a decent fisherman. It just pulls at his heartstrings that in another lifetime, a different universe, Sarah could have spoken to him without the help of a wooden barrier inside of an aging church.
She would have called him “Dad”.
And Millie would have confided in him without any harsh or critical retribution from the rest of the townsfolk.
He wants to cry.
But he’s her priest and a loving shepherd should not falter in the face of such distress.
“Is it okay to ask what happened?”
“Mom didn’t?”
“She did say a few things, but I’m inclined to hear both sides of the conversation before I can come to a conclusion.”
There is silence for a moment before Monsignor Pruitt sees her incline her head forward in assent. “Sounds fair.”
“I should hope so or I wouldn’t be so good at my job.”
Sarah is still for a moment before she nods, slow and deliberate.
“I talked about the Uppards, right? Well, I’ve been seeing someone —”
And it’s here that Monsignor detects that there’s something off about that admission. There’s something more to this story, like a missing puzzle piece that is so small and seemingly so insignificant, but still important enough to warrant a search because without it, the whole puzzle would be incomplete. It’s not a lie, he knows this like he knows the collar choking his throat is white, but Sarah isn’t being wholly truthful.
“—and um…” She seems to curve into herself, not as steely or as strong as her mother. Not yet, anyway. “Mom cares, I know she does, but…”
“She doesn’t approve of your sneaking out to see someone. That’s understandable.” Oh, if only Sarah knew just what her mother and he had done all those years ago… But back to the point. “I hope your beau is treating you well?”
If Sarah is surprised that he isn’t prodding her for names or for more information, she doesn’t show it. She does, however, stumble a little—again, there’s something that he isn’t seeing and a part of him somewhat knows what it is, but doesn’t—can’t—acknowledge.
Caresses in the dark, stolen glances when crossing paths.
Forbidden love, enticing temptation.
Before Eve had bit into the Forbidden Fruit, had she also taken a moment to herself to think of the consequences before the first Original Sin?
“Yeah,” she finally answers, “this person I’m seeing… They treat me well.”
Not a lie, but also not a truth either, Monsignor Pruitt notes.
The puzzle piece is in reach, but as a priest, he doesn’t have it in himself to complete the final image.
Because that final puzzle piece is too familiar and too dangerous to speak aloud.
Forbidden.
Sinful.
He never realized that Sarah was so similar to himself and Millie.
It saddens him, but despite that, he still loves her, accepts her.
For now, he’ll address the bigger issue that had Mille practically running into his arms, urgency weighing down her aging bones and tired frame.
“Then, I suppose you should be truthful and honest with your mother. She worries for you, especially when you’re still young and only a few weeks short of graduation.” Sarah moves to protest, but he is quicker. “From what I gather, she worries that the relationship between the two of you has grown and that she’s losing time to bridge the gap. She’s not mad about… your relationship, Sarah.” And he isn’t either . “But she would appreciate it if you talked to her.”
It takes a second before the young woman speaks up. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is frail and on the verge of tears.
Not of sadness.
Or anger.
But there’s a relief that warms his heart.
He did that. He made her feel relaxed and calm—the wise shepherd relieving the most beloved of his flock of one of their heaviest burdens. Pride is a sin, but for a fraction of a moment, Monsignor Pruitt basks in the shadow of what could have been a shining moment of fatherhood.
“T-thank you, Monsignor. I think I know what to do now.”
He finishes their appointment in the confessional, his role as her could have been father drawing to a close.
“I think a few words of affirmation and an act of service should suffice as your penance.”
“No prayers?”
He almost laughs at the wide eyed wonder at his statement.
“Not at all sins can be forgiven through the recitation of prayer. Although…” He contemplates for a moment before saying, “You should bake your father that pie… and tell your mother that you—” I. “—love her.”
They exit the confessional, Sarah first and then Monsignor Pruitt. As they wave farewell, he watches as his daughter races down the steps and back home, free as a bird unchained from the burden of her sins.
John wishes that he could say the same.