Confession’s Not Till Sunday

By Gaurav Bhalla

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May is in the kitchen having breakfast—toasted English muffin topped with thick-cut marmalade and a piping hot cuppa tea. Between bites and sips, she cross-checks items arrayed on the kitchen island against Mary B’s recipe: She and June, her best friend since Montessori, are getting together at 11 a.m. to bake a Victoria sponge cake.

A curated list of oldies—love songs—is playing. She sways sensuously to their rhythms, occasionally stopping to listen more closely and sing along. Shirley Bassey’s What I Did For Love is up next. The song’s seductive lyrics and that voice—mesmeric—born for Bond and Broadway carry May away years into her past. She caresses the heart-shaped pendant on her gold chain, kisses it several times, and traces the initial S in the cake flour. Happy sixtieth, sweetheart.

There’s urgent knocking on May’s front door. Who could it be? Surely not June. It’s only 10:10. Wiping her hands on the side of her capri pants she looks through the keyhole. It is June.

June barges in. No hello, no good morning, straight to an agitated, “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” May asks.

“Father Michael’s been shot.”

May gasps; flops on the sofa. “When?”

“About an hour ago. Guess where?” Then before May can answer, “In his own confessional.”

May gasps again, louder this time, covering her gaping mouth with both hands. “How horrible,” May says, crossing herself. “Imagine getting shot in your own confessional.” 

            “The bastard had it coming.”

“June!”

“Don’t June me. Priests should know better. Carrying on with that bitch.”

“A little compassion June. Who shot him?”

“The bitch’s  husband!” June’s words hissed hotter than the steam escaping from the whistling kettle. “He should have shot both of them.” 

May lowers her head, hot tears streaking her face.

“May, what’s wrong?”

“It can happen to anyone,” May says, sobbing.

“What can happen?”

“One minute your life is full of grace, and the next minute”—May pauses, dabs her eyes and nose with a tissue—“the next minute you’ve crossed a line you shouldn’t have.”

“Who are you talking about, May?”

“Years ago … I knew a woman. She wasn’t a bitch. The world called her that, but trust me June, she wasn’t a bitch, she just slipped.”

June takes May’s hands in hers, and asks in a soft voice. “What happened to this woman?”

Wiping her wet cheeks  with the back of her hand, May says, “Something similar to what happened today?”

“What happened?”

“The man she was with was shot in the back while they were cuddling in his car.”

Startled, June drops May’s hand. “Who shot him?”

May looks away, unwilling to wake memories that had closed their eyelids. 

“Who shot him, May?”

“The man’s wife,” May says, in a barely audible voice.

June turns May’s face around till their eyes meet. “Tell me about this woman, May … and the man she was with … your friend’s listening.”

May nods and exhales loudly. She pats the back of June’s hand and says, “Come, we should start baking.”

“I’m your best friend, May. I want to know, I really do.”

May cups June’s cheeks and says, “Today’s only Thursday, darling. Confession’s not till Sunday.”