But today, twelve days after Hadrian Johnson’s death, my throat seemed to have closed when Father Greavy asked me the usual question—Is there anything more you have to say. I sat hunched and unmoving, unable to speak. Instead, I began crying.

There was a startled pause. I was such a big girl, twelve years old, I had not cried in the presence of others for years, not like this. And I was sure that Father Greavy knew who I was, if not by name, that I was one of Jerome Kerrigan’s daughters.

It was clear, Father Greavy did not like this violation of custom. I could hear him breathing audibly. I could imagine his small damp eyes shifting in their sockets, in alarm and exasperation. But the confessor had no alternative to asking me what was wrong, calling me My dear child.

And so I told him. Tried to tell him. Sniffling, and choking, and trying to keep my voice lowered so that those who were seated in pews close outside the confessional would not overhear. In a rushed, shaky voice I told him about my brothers coming home late on the night that Hadrian Johnson had been beaten, and what I’d overheard, and seen them doing in the garage, trying to wash a baseball bat—but Father Greavy interrupted me objecting that I had no idea what I was saying. These are serious accusations.

At once I was silent. My heart was hammering in my chest.

In a hissing whisper Father Greavy said that my brothers’ lives were at stake. No, no! He did not want to hear more.

In an instant the peculiar lethargy of the confessional had vanished. The thick-bodied priest, middle-aged, querulous, with thin rat-colored hair, red-stippled fattish nose, a habit of loudly clearing his throat of phlegm like gravel, had been awakened rudely from his doze and was sitting upright squinting sidelong at me through the small grilled window with a hawk’s eyes, alert and sharp.

Father Greavy wanted no more hysteria about a baseball bat. No more about “Hadrian Johnson” who hadn’t belonged to St. Matthew’s parish. He did not want trouble, if questioned he would claim he’d had no idea who I was. As a confessor he did not wish to know who his penitents were. Nor had he heard the girl’s faltering words clearly.

It seemed that confession had ended. The priest muttered words of absolution, sent me away with the instruction to recite six Hail Marys, four Our Fathers. In his agitation he’d forgotten the humble words that ended the rite of confession—Pray for me, my child.