LANGUAGE, RICHARD

by Conor Robin Madigan

Joe stands in dim sacristy. He follows a stretch with burp and bends to hold knees. Want of sleep, nights restless and angry, Joe prays--Aspiration against Exhaustion, head hangs. He wakes from respite and calm to his brother's health, Richard's alcohol problem; a problem Joe handled only by grace of priesthood. Richard's last confession, a year before involved a quick fist to Joe's shot slide--sign meeting ended. I can't help him if his only sin is silence. Richard busted out front double-doors and caroused his words and damns. Richard smokes consumptively at double-doors. A voice in him told to confess to Father Graves. Graves, long since a man not of the church, stands on a hill and awaits Marcus the falcon. This is the day and Joe finds courage in a coffee with maple syrup from Sister Shaw's kitchen fridge. Should this be the year I make him call me Father? Should he call me Joe, should I ask for Father Magee? He stalks sacristy and stir-spoons walled chalices. A red light flickers sacristy doorframe next Main Altar. Fuck. Hands deep in surplice he jogs to confessionals. A prayer to calm for a listen, he draws the slide. "How long has it been since your last confession?"
"One year, Joe."
"How long?" To push Richard, "Exactly?"
"One year, to the moment, Joe."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Joe itches a long pit of silence.
"I can't make your confession for you, son."
"Call me son again."
"Sorry, Richard."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Anything to report? And you call me father."
"Plenty to report, Father."
"Very well."
"I've had my way with Mitsy, and masturbate twice a day, if and I'm not too drunk to do so, Father. I've killed three souls for waking me in slumber, Father: a goose from the O'Reilly's, Father, a gull, Father, and though I didn't kill the sheep, I let it loose, Father, as it was the single one waking all the rest in the morning and waking me, Father, I think it's dead."
"Why don't you find a place to live that's not under the fu,overpass?"
"Because the overpass'll have me, Father."
"How are your kids, Richard?"
"Fine. They're fine."
"Please."
"Aoife's been making out with Brendon at the beach. She's kissed Patrick a few times, so says Da. Liam's boppin' about. They still don't know."
"Thirteen years for Aoife, a few for Liam. I believe we're entering mortal sin, lying to your children."
"Well, uncle, why don't You fucking tell them?"
"Four rosaries for each bird and six for the sheep, and you'll give O'Reilly seventy even for its disappearance. I can give a loan, if you need."
"Fine, Father."
"And you'll do them in the pew next my booth as I hear the lady next. And for Mitsy you'll find some place to live and keep yourself fairly clean. It's been years since I've seen you shaven."
"I did it at Serviano's, Joe."
"Well, you've missed nothing."
"Fine. Maybe I'll try out Mitsy again."
"Richard."
"Sorry, Father."
"Fine. A rosary for that last remark, as well. Should keep you sober for a day."
"Fine, Father."
"Slide me your flask."
Richard hesitates with a foot tap.
"Gav saw you sipping from it during mass."
"Fucking cunt."
"Another for that last remark."
"Sorry, Father," he slides the flask under the screen to his brother's hand.
Joe shoots the slide.