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Chapter 6: Confession

Chapter 6: Confession

CHAPTER 6

CONFESSION

Wilmington—25 Years Ago

I

t was the summer before second grade, and we were worried about something that wouldn’t happen until springtime—confession. It loomed larger than the shadows and noises that followed us when we took shortcuts through the woods at night. None of us said we’d tell the truth, but nobody was brave enough to say they’d lie to a priest either. In the absence of a solution, we didn’t talk about it.

During the last week of August, we made lots of trips to the smoke shop. This was where the important people in the neighborhood went. The guys who dressed nice, drove Caddies, and laughed as if the world were a great ball of fun. The smoke shop was full of colorful characters: Mikey the Face, Patsy the Whale, Tommy Tucks, Charlie Knuckles, Nicky the Nose, Paulie Shoes, and a host of others. It was run by Doggs Caputo, a tough little bastard who never smiled and always sported a five-o’clock beard. Doggs also had a thing about nicknames—everybody had to have one. If he gave you one, it normally stuck.

On Thursday, the week before school started, Tony and I went to buy cigarettes. While we waited, Doggs came out. He shoved the frames of Coke-bottle glasses through wiry hair that should have been cut a month ago. Should have been combed, too. “What are you kids doing here?”

“Just hanging out,” Tony said.

“What’s your name?”

“Tony—”

I kicked him before he got out the rest.

He finished the sentence with, “Nothin’.”

I stared at Doggs. “What difference does it make?”

Doggs swaggered over, flipped his cigarette at my head. I ducked, glared at him.

“So, we got Tony fuckin’ Nothin’ and Mr. fuckin’ Nobody, huh?”

At times it seemed as if every word out of Doggs’ mouth was an “f.” And he was clever in how he used the word; he used it as a verb, a noun, an adjective, even tacked on some letters and managed to use it as an adverb. When he got really pissed, he strung them together in the same sentence. He stared at Tony and me, lit another cigarette, then laughed. It was such an unusual occurrence that the Whale rushed outside.

“What’s goin’ on?” Patsy’s voice rolled down the street, rumbling like a bowling ball down a lane. Whenever he talked I expected to hear pins shatter at the end of the sentence.

“Go back inside,” Doggs said. “I’m having a conversation with my new friends.” He tousled the hair on both our heads and started to walk away, then turned back, staring at me, then Tony. “What the fuck, you two brothers?”

“Just friends, why?”

“You look like brothers.”

“Yeah, we hear that all the time,” Tony said.

Doggs squinted as he looked at me. “You the kid Moynihan couldn’t bust at the station?” He bent down, looked closer. “Look at me, kid.” When he stood again, his head was bobbing. “Yeah, I thought so. You’re Dante’s boy all right. Got those same fuckin’ eyes.” He opened the door to the shop. “Patsy, get a couple packs of Winstons. One for Tony Nothin’ and one for Nicky the Rat.” He turned back to look at me. “It is Nicky, isn’t it?”

“I ain’t no rat.”

“That’s right, boy. And that’s why you’re getting the name. Not many kids your age keep their mouth shut. Got good blood, though. Guess I’m not surprised.” He grabbed the cigarettes from Patsy, tossed a pack to each of us. “See me next summer. Maybe I’ll put you to work.”

“We can do it now,” I said.

“You’ll do it when I say, Rat. Now get out of here before I take back those cigarettes.”

“Thanks, Doggs,” Tony said.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said.

As we walked home, I wondered what Doggs meant by “good blood,” but Tony distracted me.

“The Rat,” Tony said.

“Sounds like a goddamn squealer.”

“Bullshit. Everybody’s gonna know. Christ’s sake, you got the name from

Doggs

.” We walked about half a block before Tony spoke again. “Besides, it’s like Johnny Viola, you know how they call him Johnny Handsome.”

“Yeah, guess so,” I said, and whistled. “He sure is an ugly fucker.”

“Ugly as a goddamn peach seed.”

We both laughed as we walked the rest of the way home. “Johnny Handsome,” I said, and smiled.

September came far too

fast, and with it the first day of school at St. Elizabeth’s. We walked the corridors along with hundreds of other kids, looking for our classes and wondering who our teacher would be. There were only two options: Sister Mary Leona or Sister Mary Thomas.

Sister Leona was ancient—jowls like a bloodhound and eyes so squinty it was hard to tell if they were open or closed. Frankie said she taught his grandfather. Judging by what we saw, I didn’t doubt it. Of course, an old teacher had its benefits: worse hearing, worse eyesight, couldn’t hit you as hard.

On the other hand, Sister Mary Thomas was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible person God ever put on this earth. She was also the nicest, kindest, sweetest, and most caring person God ever put on this earth. Which side you got depended on who you talked to and on what day, or even what time of day. She stood a few inches above five feet, but when she walked the corridors with her fiberglass yardstick or her pointer, she was a giant. Some kids said the yardstick twitched as she walked, looking for someone to hit. And she was as quick as a cobra when she struck. If you found her singling you out, you’d better hope your ass was padded because there was a good chance you were getting whacked. One kid, Jimmy Borelli, got hit so often he brought a pillow to school so he had something soft to sit on.

I walked down the hall, careful not to attract attention. When I saw Sister Mary Thomas I turned my head.

“Niccolo Fusco.”

The words echoed off the walls. Her voice demanded a response. Ignoring a call from Sister Thomas was like ignoring a call from God.

“Yes, Sister?” I said, framing a smile.

She waved her pointer. “I was fortunate enough to get you in my class this year. Room 118. Class starts at 7:50.”

“Yes, Sister.” I gave her my I’m-so-lucky smile, but inside, I cried.

“Shit,” I whispered. “I got the witch.”

Before Frankie or Tony could answer, another command came from behind us. “Oh, and you, Mr. Sannullo, and Mr. Donovan. You were fortunate enough to get the witch too.”

Tony gulped. Frankie’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. And I damn near fell down.

“Yes, Sister,” Tony said. “We’ll be there at 7:50 sharp.”

Sister Thomas wore a smile, but her voice carried a threat. “You do that.”

As she walked away, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows. We’d heard about nuns having eyes in the back of their heads, but did they have some kind of God-enhanced hearing, too?

The year flew by,

and before spring arrived, Tony earned his nickname. “The Brain” he became known as, and for good reason. There wasn’t a math problem or question asked in any class that he didn’t get right.

The First Communion celebration was near the end of second grade. Prior to that, all kids did their first confession—it was the day we’d dreaded since last summer. The nuns taught us how the priest was God’s representative on earth, and how he couldn’t tell anyone what was said in the confessional.

“So it’s all right to tell your sins to him,” the nuns told us. “No one will know.”

On Saturday afternoon we met at the church. I got put in Father Dimitri’s line, tenth from the front. I felt sorry for the first one to go. Must have been scary. My stomach churned as I stepped inside, closed the curtains and knelt. It was dark in there, and the infamous “divider” separated me from Father Dimitri, but I recognized him. That made me think he could recognize me too. I didn’t like that, but it was too late to ditch out, so I took a deep breath and repeated the ritual. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.”

Father Dimitri mumbled some nonsense in Latin, made the sign of the cross, then told me to confess my sins. Twice I almost started, but then I said, “Father, I’ve done a lot, but I don’t think I can tell you.”

“It is all right to be afraid, my son. This is just between you and me. No one else will know but God.”

“See, now you’re already bringing somebody else in on it,” I said, getting ready to stand. “I think I’ll just keep it to myself.”

“If you do not confess, I cannot absolve you of your sins. You will not be able to receive First Communion.”

I was in a jam. If I didn’t get First Communion, everyone would know something terrible was wrong.

What would Pops say?

What would Mamma Rosa say?

“Listen, Father, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell God what I’ve done, and He can absorb me, or absolve me, or whatever it is He does. That way, it’ll be between me and God. I

know

He ain’t telling nobody.”

A long sigh followed. “But you have to do penance, and I have to administer that based on your sins.”

Shit. Another problem.

“How much for someone who’s been really bad? I mean, I didn’t kill anybody or anything.”

“I cannot—”

“How about I do a rosary? That should cover it. Jimmy Borelli was in here before me, and I saw how fast he finished his prayers. You couldn’t have given him much.” I laughed, but in a low voice, then whispered, “I

know

what Jimmy Borelli has done, Father. If he finished with a few Hail Mary’s, a rosary from me is plenty. Trust me.”

A pause followed. I thought I heard Father Dimitri laugh. Finally, he said, “All right, my son. Say a complete rosary, and may the Lord go with you.”

As I walked out, I realized he hadn’t actually said my sins were forgiven. Now what could I do? I couldn’t go back in there. Sister Mary Thomas stood at the front of the church, making sure all the kids were in line and well-behaved. I walked up and got her attention.

“Sister, suppose for some reason a kid has sins and can’t get to a priest. Suppose he says his sins to God instead. Will that work? Does it have to go through a priest?”

Sister Mary Thomas rubbed my head and put on her friendly smile. “If this…child was sorry for his sins and told God, I’m sure it would be all right.”

“So if another kid maybe forgets a few sins while he’s in the confessional, but remembers them later and tells God about them, he can maybe just say a few extra prayers to make up for it?”

She stopped rubbing my head and looked down. Her face had that almost-mean look to it. “This…kid…better be really sorry. And he better remember all of his sins the next time. But I’m sure God would forgive this kid.” She whacked me lightly on the butt with her ever-present pointer. “Go say your penance.”

I smiled as I sat in the pew, saying the rosary. Sister Mary Thomas had just made my day brighter. It was almost summer, and now I had a clean soul. That left a lot of room for fun. I got to thinking about religion and how it worked. Decided the Catholics had it right. The Jewish kid on Third Street didn’t get his sins forgiven like this. If he did something wrong he had to live with it, or go talk to the person, or settle it all up when he died. I wasn’t sure how it worked for him, but it wasn’t like this.

Nah, the Catholics have it down pat. Do something bad, tell God about it, then start all over.

I liked that.

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