Fuck this.
Before the silence kills me, I climb into my car and head out of the neighborhood.
My Land Rover’s engine rumbles, and it’s one thing I like about this vehicle: it’s manly.
Vehicles should reflect your personality. My wife drives a sleek Mercedes sedan. It’s refined, like her, efficient and beautiful. It suits her. Mine is aggressive and rugged, two things I think a man should be.
Sure, on the outside, I’m a gentleman. But on the inside, like every other man on earth, I’d like to think that I could hunt an elk and eat it raw if I had to, tearing into its muscle and sinew with my bare teeth. I want to believe that I could protect what is mine, that I could beat my chest and howl at the moon.
Not one of those things are necessary, because I live in suburbia, but I could do it. That’s what counts.
I head down the highway toward the outskirts of town, toward Immaculate Conception. Its lights are warm and bright, a muted glow from the stained glass windows as I pull into the lot.
It’s a large church, as most Catholic churches are, but it somehow manages an air of intimacy, of comfort. When I walk up the steps and into the sanctuary, it greets me like an old friend, and I suck in the familiar smells...of the wood, of the reverence, of the quiet. If silence had a scent, it would be this church.
It smells of wood bathed for a hundred years in sunshine and lemon polish.
At this time of evening, I wasn’t sure that anyone would be here, but I hear low voices coming from the confessional, so I sit down to wait my turn. I can’t make out the words, only low murmurs.
I cross my legs at the ankles and prepare to wait awhile, but it’s only a few minutes before the confessional door opens, and a girl steps out. She’s wearing a hoodie, and her eyes strike me.
Big and brown, watery with tears. She barely meets my gaze before she shrugs past and hurries out of the church. Her footsteps fall quickly on the thick carpeting of the aisle, then she’s gone.
My turn.
I step inside and take a seat, and through the ornate wooden mesh, I can see the white collar in the dark.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice is loud in the quiet. “It’s been forever and a day since my last confession.”
I see the priest’s white teeth as he smiles.
“Go on, my son.”
“Well, how much time do you have?”
He chuckles and waits.
I continue.
“This week, I lied a couple of times. To my wife. I told her I wasn’t frustrated when I was. She’s at work right now, and so I’m alone. No wife, no sex life.” I try to make light of it.
“That’s unfortunate.” The priest’s voice is wry.
“I know you don’t know what that feels like, but let me tell you, it sucks.”
No answer.
“Also, I was furious at another driver and flipped him off yesterday. He cut me off and didn’t even wave an apology.”
“Anger is not godly, my son.”
“I know,” I agree. “That’s why I’m confessing it.”
“Anything else?”
“So much,” I tell him. “But I don’t want to bore you. It mostly has to do with looking at scantily clad women and masturbation.”
“What have I told you about masturbation?” The priest’s voice seems like it is cloaking amusement.
“That the church is against it, but you’re not.”
“That’s right. Are you ready for dinner?”
“You bet your ass I am.”
I open the door and step out, and wait for my brother to join me.
Being identical twins, we look exactly alike but for the white collar circling his neck.
Michel smiles at me as he steps out of the confessional.
“How’s Corinne?”
I shake my head. “Halloween is coming up. You know how hard this time of year is.”
“I know. I’ve been praying for her.”
“Thanks.”
Michel pulls his purple stole off and hangs it up. We walk toward the door, and as we step outside, I turn to him.
“Wait. You never absolved my sins.”
“Are you truly repentant?” His raised eyebrow betrays his doubt.
I grin. “Not really.”
“That’s what I thought.”
We chuckle and head to the parking lot.
“Do you want to ride with me or drive yourself?”
“I’ll drive. I value my life.”
“Whatever.”
Michel heads to his old death trap of a pickup, and I head to my shiny Land Rover, and we head down the road, as opposite on the outside as we are identical on the inside.
I’m behind him, so when the exhaust from his truck fills mine, I punch a button to filter the air.
At a stoplight, I text him.
Your truck is a piece of shit. Get a new one.
He answers before the light turns green. Mine has character. Yours is soulless.
Tell me that again when your character is broken down and you’re walking.
Ridiculous banter with my brother is normal. It keeps me feeling normal...distracted from the current state of my reality. It might sound dumb and detached, but it helps me cope. It’s avoidance at its finest.
Within a few minutes of traffic, we pull up to our favorite mom-and-pop café. The glow of the sign beckons me.
Vilma’s. The light in the M is broken, but you can still read it. Every few seconds it flickers, then dies, flickers, then dies. It’s been that way for two years and they never fix it. It would cause a meltdown in someone with OCD.
This place might be small and a bit dingy, but it’s also cozy and warm and familiar. I have breakfast here every day after my run and before I go to work. I know everyone here, and they know me, and there is comfort in that.
Vilma herself greets us by name, and I smile at her. She’s aging and sometimes crotchety, but she likes me. She cares that I’m here, and that’s comforting, too.
She leads us to our normal table, the one in the very back, the one where the wood veneer is peeling and the vinyl chairs are cracked.
We sit down and examine our sticky menus.
“So how was your day?” I ask, studying the list of food that I already know by heart.
“Oh, good. I just got run-of-the-mill confessions today. You know how that goes. Lying. Cheating. Impure thoughts. So on and so forth. How about you?” Michel asks, motioning for the waitress and her coffeepot. I don’t understand how he can drink coffee so late in the day and still sleep at night.
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Depression, marital strife, OCD.”
“Well, here we are,” he answers. “The Cabot brothers. Changing lives one soul at a time.”
“I’ll leave their souls to you,” I tell him wryly. “I’ll worry about their minds.”
Our normal waitress with the faded red hair bustles over with a pot of steaming coffee and fills Michel’s cup up to the brim. She knows not to pour me any at this hour.
“You’ll have...the corned beef and hash,” she guesses for Michel.
He nods. “That sounds good, Meg.”
She nods, her pen pausing on her pad as she assesses my mood. “And you’ll have...the Texan, medium-well, toasted bun and fried onions.”
“That’ll do me,” I tell her.
She grins because she knows us, then heads to the kitchen to turn our order in. I return my attention to Michel.
“How’s Artie doing?”
“She sleeps all day,” I tell him.
“Well, she’s getting old. A girl’s entitled to her beauty rest. Man, she’s gotta be... Well, you and Co got her right after you got married. How long ago was that?”
I think about that.
“Hell, I don’t even remember. Fourteen or fifteen years.”
“That’s old for a dog, bro.”
I know.
“Her hips are hurting her,” Michel tells me, like I don’t know that. “She’s in pain. That’s why she’s getting mean.”
“I’m not ready to put her down,” I answer firmly, because I know where he’s going with this. “She’s fine for now. She’s got a lot of life left. Corinne loves that dog, and so do I.”
Michel nods because he recognizes the stubborn streak in me. It matches his own.
“Well, let’s meet here for breakfast tomorrow, and you can bring Artie so I can say hi.”
“Deal. And I’ll buy your dinner tonight as a thank-you for keeping me company.”
“And breakfast tomorrow. You’re no picnic lately.”