One to Another

When the doorbell rang the fourth time, the mood had already turned sour. Mrs. Morayo managed a weak smile when she opened the door to see Archbishop Charles Matthews. He beamed when he saw her, offering a bottle of fruity wine, as he stepped into her apartment. Stephen stared into his palms, avoiding the Archbishop’s gaze. Miss Chrissy smacked her lush red lips and offered a weak smile; the Archbishop stopped himself from grimacing at the sight of her crooked teeth, stained by red lipstick. Daniel didn't look up from his plate, poking a fork absently into the bowl of spaghetti in front of him.

“Good evening, Daniel,” the Archbishop said as he approached the dining table.

Daniel took off his face cap and meekly stood to acknowledge the Archbishop. When the Archbishop extended a hand, Daniel was reluctant to take it, as he believed his hands were always dirty - his nails, perpetually stained by engine oil from his workshop.

“In some ways, you are the man of the evening; I'm glad you came back to the church,” the Archbishop said, pulling Daniel into a hug.

Daniel smiled, somewhat comforted, but he still felt out of place. It didn't seem right to face Morayo after what happened because he remained unwilling to mention his part in it. He had stopped attending mass after that night. Stephen still didn't look up; he focused on the lines on each of his palms. Miss Chrissy stood abruptly, knocking over a glass, to greet the Archbishop. He maintained a rehearsed smile as he shook her hand, avoiding a hug. Mrs. Morayo stared disdainfully at Miss Chrissy as she went to clean the mess and pick up the scattered glass.

“Stephen,” the Archbishop called, startling him.

Ever since the confession group lots were cast that week, Stephen had not slept; his conscience gnawed at him. Archbishop Charles Matthew was unconventional. Since he joined St. Patrick’s Chapel, he had devised a myriad of Avant-garde activities. The most recent one started three weeks ago, after he read the first part of James 5:16 to the congregation: “Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed.” He suggested that each week, a group of four people, members of the parish, should be selected at random, and a dinner would be hosted at one of their homes. During that dinner, they would have a group confession rather than private sessions with him; they would confess their sins to one another and pray for each other.

The Archbishop was anxious, although he didn't show it, because this night’s confession group was not chosen randomly; it was because of them that he suggested the activity in the first place.

“How are you doing, Stephen?” the Archbishop asked as he shook hands with him. Stephen was clearly nervous.

“Very well,” he said. “Praise be to God!”

Neither of them smiled; they stared knowingly at each other. Stephen’s eyes seemed to be saying: Please, don't make me do this. The Archbishop’s eyes seemed to reply: You know you have to. And both of them seemed to agree that the soon-to-be-unpleasant evening was inevitable.

When they all sat at the table - richly set with bowls of pasta, turkey, chocolate cake, yogurts, and fruit wine - the Archbishop blessed the meal. Morayo watched Miss Chrissy, who rudely chewed loudly, and spoke with food in her mouth. “I should go first,” Miss Chrissy said, winking at the Archbishop. “Bless me, father. I've been a whore.”

The Archbishop sighed, disappointed, and looked away. Morayo lunged at Chrissy, but Daniel held her back.

“You Jezebel!” Morayo yelled. “You have the guts to show up here after —”

“Please,” the Archbishop interjected, standing up. “I called you all here for a good reason; let's be civil. Please.”

They all sat. Morayo was still fuming; Miss Chrissy blew her a kiss. Stephen continued staring into his palm, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

“I was having an affair with James before he died,” Miss Chrissy said. “But contrary to what Morayo here thinks, I had nothing to do with his death.”

“No one said you killed him,” Morayo shot back. “My husband was hit by a car, and you sure weren't driving. We all know that a cheap whore like you can ride nothing but a married man.”

The Archbishop gulped down a glass of water, wishing it were something stronger. The idea for the Confession group came to him a day after James’ burial. Each person on that table had come to make confessions. Listening to each of them, he put all the fragments together and realized gravely that they got it all wrong. Still, he was bound by confidentiality, and couldn't explain things to them. They were holding onto secrets that were eating them up, without even understanding the full picture.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Stephen spoke up.

The Archbishop panicked. “No, not yet, Stephen,” he said. “You should go last.”

“No,” Stephen said, meeting Morayo’s gaze. “I can't bear it anymore.”

Morayo froze, wondering if Stephen knew what she did. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to use the… I'll be right back.”

Miss Chrissy yawned and looked away. The Archbishop eased up and went for another glass of water. Stephen went back to looking into his palm. Blurry images from that night rushed into his mind, making him dizzy.

“Are you okay, Stephen?” the Archbishop asked.

“Is there something I don't know about?” Miss Chrissy asked. “There’s so much tension in the air, I feel. I thought mine would be the nastiest confession…” she laughed. “But it seems that everyone knows I'm a whore.”

“You're not a whore,” Daniel said, surprising everyone. “You’re not a saint either, but neither am I.”

Miss Chrissy didn't know what to say. She always had a reply for people who called her a whore; she had heard it so often that, as a defense, she would call herself a whore before anyone else got a chance to. Her relationship with James was what earned her that title, but she couldn't stop seeing him. They had fallen in love long before Morayo came into the picture, and it was all James’ fault; he didn't want her officially, but he wouldn't let her go either.

“You have a confession, Chrissy,” the Archbishop said when Morayo returned to the table.

“I’ve said mine already,” Miss Chrissy said, dabbing her cheeks; she hadn't realized that she was crying.

Morayo’s face softened. “I’m sorry for calling you a whore,” she said.

Now Chrissy was sobbing. “It's all my fault… It's all my fault… I killed him,” she said in between sobs.

Morayo leaned in. “What do you mean?”

Stephen gulped down a glass of water, wishing he could teleport out of there.

“I had a gun,” Miss Chrissy said. “I was going to kill him that night.”

Morayo sank back into her chair. “But you didn't use it.”

“Yes, but I aimed at him. Then I asked him to run. That was when he got hit by the car. If I didn't… If I hadn't…”

The Archbishop patted Miss Chrissy’s shoulders, comforting her. We’re getting somewhere, he thought.

“I’ll go next,” Stephen said. He glanced around the table, as though looking for something, and then settled for the fruit wine. “I’ve been battling with alcoholism for a while now. When I try to stop, it just… pulls me back in.”

The Archbishop felt a bit relieved.

“I lost my job that night,” Stephen continued. “I told myself that I wasn't going to drink.”

Daniel shook his head, realizing what he was saying.

“I came over to see James… I needed him to lend me some cash… then I saw it; that glass of whiskey. The bottle was close to it. I couldn't resist.”

“Did you drive drunk?” Miss Chrissy asked.

Stephen wiped his sweaty forehead, poured himself another glass of water, and took off his jacket. “I hit him with my car; I’m the one who killed James. I saw him, and I hit the brakes, but it… It just didn't stop.”

He started sobbing, holding his face in his palms.

Chrissy looked from Stephen to Morayo and wondered why the widow remained impassive, seeing her husband’s murderer - accident or not. Then she looked at the Archbishop, and his expression told her that he knew this already. She looked around the table, putting pieces together.

“I see what's going on here,” she said, staring at the Archbishop. “We’ve all confessed to you. Daniel, you're a mechanic, right? So, I guess you're next. Was the car faulty?”

Stephen looked up now, turning to face Daniel. “What is she saying?”

Daniel looked at the oil stains on his fingernails and thought back to that night. He was in such a hurry to leave the workshop because he had a date. He had lied to Stephen, earlier, that the car had been fully repaired, but he didn't mention the issue with the brakes; he was going to see to it when he returned from his date. He said all this now as a part of his confession, and as he spoke, Morayo avoided his gaze. Before he'd return to the workshop that night, Stephen had picked up the car.

“So, you're saying it wasn't my fault?” Stephen asked. “You’re saying I could’ve stopped the car if the brakes weren't faulty?”

“Yes,” Daniel said. “I think it's mostly my fault. I should've fixed up the car before leaving.”

Miss Chrissy bit back her rage. She began to resent Daniel. If he had done his damn job, James would still be alive. If only.

“Well, who did you go on a date with?” Miss Chrissy asked spitefully.

The Archbishop felt like leaving; he could feel the atmosphere become tenser.”

“I don't think I should say.”

“This is a confession,” Stephen said. “I don't think you should withhold anything.”

“You don't understand.”

“What don't we understand?” Miss Chrissy yelled, slamming her hands on the table. “You killed James for chrissakes."

“That’s not fair,” Daniel sighed.

“You know what's not fair —”

“Oh, please, control yourself,” Morayo yelled. “He was my husband. Mine!”

Miss. Chrissy retreated as though struck, and then asked: “Where were you, that night?”

“What are you even asking?”

“Answer the question”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what you think I mean!”

“We know who killed him already!”

“Who, him?” Miss Chrissy laughed. “He was drunk out of his mind; maybe he thought he -”

“I did it, Chrissy, you don't need to say that.”

“But it wasn't your fault either, Daniel added. “I should've -”

“‘Would’ve’ ‘should’ve’ ‘could've,’ but you know what you actually did? You left your work and went on a stupid date with some cheap whore who-”

“Cheap whore?” Morayo interjected. “You’re the cheap whore.”

The Archbishop was wondering if he had ever been around so much yelling before. It seemed as though they weren't seeing him at all. No one noticed when he picked up his bag and left the house.

“It was you?” Chrissy asked Morayo. “You went on a date with Daniel?”

Daniel sighed and nodded.

“You were having an affair.”

“What the hell do you take me for?” Morayo shot back.

“A catfish,” Daniel said.

“Oh, grow up,” Morayo said angrily. She went into the kitchen and returned with whiskey. “Seems like the Archbishop has left us to figure things out ourselves. “Perhaps we should all drink our brains out as Stephen did.”

Stephen lowered his head.

“You always point fingers,” Miss Chrissy said. “You have hated me since the first day you met me because you believed I was not as righteous as you seem to be.”

“I don't hate you.”

“Oh shut up.”

Morayo gulped down her drink and poured Stephen a glass.

“I don’t drink anymore,” Stephen said. And then as an afterthought, he added: “You should probably check out that bottle. The one I had here that night tasted funny: likely expired.”

Morayo became tense, but maintained calm.

“Why did you bring me out that night?” Daniel asked, taking the drink Morayo had poured for Stephen. “You catfished me for weeks, teased me, got me all riled up, and then asked me to meet with you. What did you hope to achieve?”

Morayo gave it much thought. She had confessed everything to the Archbishop, and he didn't expose her. Still, he had allowed her to rid these ones of unnecessary guilt.

“James had been cheating… I knew,” she said. “I just wanted to know what that was like.” she started sobbing. “But when it got down to it…”

Stephen put on his jacket, nodded goodnight to everyone, and left the apartment. Daniel put on his face cap and considered leaving too. Miss. Chrissy drank from the bottle of whiskey, and Morayo solidified her decision to say nothing. She had confessed to the Archbishop; that was enough.

As the Archbishop walked home, he wished he hadn't left so early. Although he didn't want to compel Morayo to say anything, he hoped she’d confess and rescue everyone from guilt. He recalled their session vividly.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips, that you may confess your sins with true sorrow.”

“I killed a man,” she said.

The Archbishop took a deep breath before responding. “I’m sure it was all for a good reason,” he said.

“I killed my husband,” she rephrased.

The Archbishop remained quiet.

“He has been unfaithful for too long,” she said bitterly. “I gave him a chance to repent, but he would not. I had no choice.”

The Archbishop was going to say: “There is always a choice,” but he chose silence instead.

“I laced his drink with hallucinogens. I was going to kill him that night, but his best friend took it instead. He rambled on about how much he missed whiskey. It was fruit juice.”

“What happened next?” the Archbishop asked.

“I had to go on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes, I needed an alibi, so I set something up.”

The Archbishop nodded.

“When I was driving back home, I saw him. He was almost hit by a car, but the driver managed to swerve and missed him. I took my chance. I made sure he saw my face before I rammed into him with the car. I have never felt more satisfied.”