Chapter 16

The next pen belonged to the St. Joseph Cathedral in the old man's hometown. It was large parish with a   school beside it where the old man had attended as a youth, being raised Catholic. But he had not returned there since, except for his neighbor's wedding which was the occasion where he swiped the black pen from the table in the foyer where the guestbook lay, being the ninety-eighth and final recorded guest at the affair.

After finding no clergy in the foyer, the old man entered the chapel. The ornate and spacious sanctuary full of statues, Sistine-like murals on the
rotunda ceiling, and the hanging crucifix had not changed in the sixty years since he had taken his first communion. In fact, it seemed the very same Gregorian choir–whom the old man as a boy thought lived in the walls–had never aged nor stopped for so much as a breathe of air, but continued their eternal sanctus faintly heard through the sound system.

And there it was...the old wooden confessional with scarlet curtains-still just off the stage-which he had often entered to receive sacramental penance for the misdeeds of his youth. 

Suddenly, out of the confessional, stepped a parishoner-a dark-looking young man in a hooded sweatshirt-who profaned the reverent air with cursing as he rushed out of the sanctum.

Still unable to find someone to return the pen to, the old man approached the confessional and knocked on the wood and whispered,"Pardon me, Father-"


"Enter, my son, and I shall hear your confession,"whispered a voice thru the curtain.


"Oh I don't think I need to confess, I just wanted to-"


"The Lord will judge that, my son."


Reluctantly, the old man entered the confession booth and rested on the kneeler. It was much smaller and lighter than the dark dungeon he remembered as a teenager, but as he knelt he seemed to magically regress to the age of sixteen.

The screen opened and he could see the meshed and gravity worn face of a priest who oddly resembled one whom he had confessed his dangerous and immoral behavior to long ago. He still remembered his words:

"Be grateful you did not die in your sin, my son–for no unclean thing can enter the Kingdom of God." 

He recalled the murky swamp of guilt bathing and pickling his soul and then the tsunami of peace that washed over him when the priest uttered the words,"You are forgiven, my son." 

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,"said the old man as if addressing the crucifix hanging in the small window.

"Continue..."said the Father.


"Well, I don't know if it is a sin, actually,"continued the old man," but a few years ago, I was attending a wedding here and upon signing the guestbook, I pocketed this long black pen." 

Then old man slid the pen thru a small grid hole to the priest.

"Was this a pen you coveted, my son?"

"No, I have no need for pens..I have plenty of others."


"And how did you obtain these other pens?"


"Well...in the same way, I guess-"


" Are you familiar with the commandment: Thou Shalt Not Steal?"


"Yes, Father. but I have been returning them all.."


"Ahh, restitution is as important as confession. A truth some young people do not like to hear."


"Yes-he seemed very upset," agreed the old man, assuming the Father referred to the young man who had stormed out. When he realized–by the Father's silence–that he was challenging a confidence, the old man redirected the conversation,"Are there sins for which no restitution can be made?"


"Yes."

"Which ones, Father?"


"Thou shalt not commit adultery. For once the virtue of a woman is taken it cannot be returned."


"Then what hope is there for such a sinner?"


The rhythm of their conversation was broken again by a long pause. Then the Father said, "You are forgiven, my son. Go thy way and sin no more."

Seconds later, what sounded like a gun shot echoed thru the cathedral. And then sneakers squeaking across the marble floor.

The old man quickly slid his curtain and saw the hooded young man run out of the cathedral. 

Then he saw the quarter-size hole in the curtain of the center booth and flung the cloth open.

The priest had his hand over his heart on his black robe.

"Oh dear...dear God!" he cried in a trembling voice, seeing the wet crimson stain on his palm.

"You're shot! I'll get help-where's–"the old man began.

"No..time...please take this," begged the dying priest, handing the black pen back to the old man,"Take my confession."

The old man snatched a program from the previous day's mass in a nearby pew,"Okay...go ahead."

"Father, f..forgive me...for I have sinned..."he whispered laboring,"I...always tried...bring honor to the Church...but I...I was weak once... fathered a child...Will not implicate her...know they are taken care of...Oh God, Please...forgive...will sign..." 

The priest scribbled his initials at the bottom,"Give to the bishop–"

Suddenly, the priest's whole countenance changed from the heavy forlorn look to one of tranquility and joy, as if the heavens had opened to his view and light had filled his veins.    

"Oh, such peace!...finally, the burden gone...H..How is it done?" cried the priest.


"His name is The Restitution,"said the old man as he held the old priest's face. Then he whispered the words again so that the priest could inhale them with his last breathe,"His name is The Restitution."

And the priest died.



Soon, the ambulance arrived along with the bishop to whom the old man gave the note, and the pen, and he went on his way...