• • •
Rain was falling across the sunset when Pete and I entered the stucco Catholic church where he and I attended Mass. It was cool from the electric fans that oscillated on the walls and the air smelled of stone and the water in the rain ditch outside. I lighted a candle for L.Q. Navarro in the rack of burning candle vases in front of a statue of Jesus’ mother, then entered the confessional.
The priest was ten years younger than I, a thin, Mexican Franciscan named Father Paul who had once been a labor organizer for the United Farm Workers. He listened while I told him of my behavior at Peggy Jean Deitrich’s cottage, the self-delusion that had put me there, the possible compromise of my clients’ interest.
Then I relived the moment that had burned inside me like a hot coal. “A little boy I should have been watching almost drowned. In another minute he would have been gone,” I said.
“I see,” the priest said. Through the screen I could see his profile, his jaw propped on two fingers, his eyes staring into the gloom. “Is there more?”
“No.”
“I have the sense there’s something you haven’t mentioned. I think it has to do with anger.”
“I don’t see the connection, Father.”
“You don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to. But do you regret the injury done the third party, the husband?”
I could hear the rain running off the tile roof outside the confessional, the sound of someone kneeling in a pew, a car passing on the wetness of the street.
“He’s an evil man,” I said.
Father Paul’s profile turned toward me for just a moment, then he looked straight ahead again, as though resigning himself to an old knowledge about human behavior.
“By whatever power is vested in me, I absolve you of your sins. The peace of the Lord be with you, Billy Bob,” he said.
The light in the sky was green when Pete and I walked outside and the rain was dripping into the shadows under the pines on the lawn. Pete wore his straw hat low over his eyes and breathed in the dampness of the air as though he were taking the world’s measure.
“We still gonna get them buffalo burger steaks?” he asked.
“You bet,” I said.
“That’s Temple Carrol’s car in front of the cafe,” he said.
“It sure is.”
“Why you stopping?”
“No reason.”
“You sure tell a mess of fibs, Billy Bob. Soon as I figure out one angle of yours, you come up with another.”
“Do me a favor, Pete.”
“What’s that?”
“Stay out of my head.”
“I knew you was gonna say that.”
The inside of the cafe was brightly lit, the front window beaded with rainwater, the fans ruffling the oilcloths on the tables. I hadn’t seen Temple since the incident at Peggy Jean’s cottage on the Comal and my voice felt thick in my throat when we sat down at her table. The side of her face was pink from the sunset and rippled with the shadows of raindrops running down the window. She kept looking inquisitively into my eyes.
“Y’all go to church on weeknights?” she said.
“Billy Bob went to confession,” Pete said.
“Oh? Did we do something we shouldn’t?” she said, looking at me strangely.
“I got pulled in a whirlpool. Billy Bob saved my life. But he blames himself ’cause I was in the whirlpool. That ain’t no reason to go to confession,” Pete said, and began chewing on a breadstick.