From the catechism I knew that there were sins of omission. These were the most difficult sins to contemplate for they did not, in fact, exist; not acts but the absence of acts.

In the confessional that smelled of something acrid and melancholy like old clothes I knelt, dry-mouthed. Always my mouth went dry in this confined space. There was nothing in my young life so unnerving to me, so awkward, as confession. Whispering Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.

Each week my mother brought me with her to St. Matthew’s and to Father Greavy in the confessional. From time to time there were other, younger priests assisting him but my mother always knew which confessional Father Greavy was using, it was impossible not to know, you could overhear the priests’ murmured voices and recognize them even if you could not hear their precise words.

Each week I was obliged to recite a litany of “sins” to Father Greavy. Fortunately, a list of possibilities was provided at the back of my prayer book, which was a prayer book for young Catholics: disobeying parents, mind wandering during mass, telling lies, uttering profanities, taking the name of the Lord in vain. More obscure and more ominous sins were “impure thoughts”—“impure acts”—from which I recoiled in repugnance, even to consider.

These were venial sins, minor sins. Mortal sins were something other, the province of adults.

It was no wonder that my older brothers avoided confession. They had grown too coarse for such examinations of conscience as they had grown too defiant of priestly authority to make themselves small enough to fit into the confessional. Miriam laughed about confession, uneasily; she had not taken communion in months. (For Miriam was engaged. Whatever “impure” behavior was, it seemed unlikely that Miriam could avoid it with her fiancé.)

Preparing ourselves for the ordeal of confession Katie and I laughed nervously together as we’d have laughed preparing for a physical examination in which all our clothes had to be removed and we had to lie naked and shivering, in a flimsy paper gown, on a table. Because “swearing” was forbidden we dared to murmur forbidden words—hell, damn, God-damn. Provoking each other to astonishing feats—shit, shitty, son of a bitch, God-damn bastard. Fu-uck! We would have been mortified to have been overheard by our brothers or our father whose speech we were echoing, or by our mother who would have been scandalized.

Each week when I finished my anguished whispering of venial sins, my face burning with embarrassment, Father Greavy would reply with forced patience And is there anything more you have to say, my child?—and I would murmur No, Father.

As if these trivial sins could be of interest to any adult, still less to God! Yet, Father Greavy was obliged to behave as if this were the case.