Confession

As the chaplain entered the gas chamber he figured he had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen; he'd seen it many times over the years he'd served as chaplain for the prison. This condemned man had never asked to speak with him before, never attended a single service. But today, the last day of his earthly life, he had expressly asked to see him. It was a little different this time than most occasions though. The meeting with the chaplain was the man's only request, no last meal, no visit from kin, if he even had any, nothing. He only requested that after he was strapped into the chair the chaplain come to him and that they be given 10 minutes before the cyanide was dropped. It had the chaplain a little curious but he was fairly certain the condemned man wanted to confess and ask for forgiveness before he paid his debt with his life.

The man sat silent and still when the chaplain entered the chamber. "Would you like me to close the door?" asked the chaplain.

"Yeah, that'd be swell" he replied.

The chaplain closed the door most of the way and turned back to the man. "I am here for you, son, as you asked of me. What do you want?"

"I did it, you know. Hell, that's the first time I ever said it. But it's true. I did everything they accused me of," the man said, "and I needed to tell you." His words were cold and totally void of emotion. It was like speaking to a ghost, a man that was already dead. The chaplain began, "I see. And you need for me to -"

"I need for you to shut up and let me finish," the man interrupted. His voice had a much bolder tenor now. He had something else he obviously needed to get out before his time on earth expired. "Like I was sayin', I did everything they said. I beat 'em both. I tied her up. I cut him and I killed him. And I made her watch everything I did to him."

"I see. But you didn't kill her. Why not?" asked the chaplain.

"That's pretty easy; I knew seein' what I done and then livin' with those memories would be way more torture than if I just killed her."

"It must have been awful for her and probably still is." This statement brought a hint of emotion to the condemned man: a wry grin, ever so slight. Immediately the chaplain wished he hadn't said it. It didn't add to or evoke any guilt as it was intended. Instead, the thought brought the man a twisted gratification.

After a brief pause he continued, "But they never did get me for all of it. She didn't tell them the whole story, what else happened that nigh... to her man. I still got that secret and so does she." There was an eerie gleam in his eyes as he contemplated this secret. His demeanor shifted from benign to something on the brink of evil. "And I got to tell it now, to you, before they kill me." It was a struggle for the chaplain to not let any reaction show; it would only ad to this warped man's enjoyment of the situation. As coolly as he could, the chaplain said, "I'm listening."

"Lean over here," the man said, "so's nobody else can hear me." The chaplain realized the man was strapped down and no threat to him, as long as he didn't get so close as to be bitten and he wasn't terribly concerned about that. Leaning close to the condemned man the chaplain said, "Confess your sins my son."

The man began to whisper to the chaplain. He told for the first time what had transpired on that night. As he confessed to the chaplain, the man's eyes were locked on the widow of the man he'd murdered those many years ago. "That's it. I'm done," the man said. The chaplain stood erect now and looked at the convicted man but said nothing.

As the chaplain left the execution chamber he was met by the widow, her face painted with relief and agony. It was an awkward moment for him as she stood with her eyes locked on his. Although it was the last thing he wanted to do, he walked over to her to express his sympathy.

She was trembling as he approached her. The tension inside the chaplain was making it hard for him to think. He hoped that she wouldn't ask what he and the convict had spoken about. Could he use his clergy as a cloak to not speak about it? It didn't seem like the right thing to do. It seemed like a cop out but it would be an easy escape. "Father, can I ask you something?" she said before he had a chance to consider his options. "Yes, but I'm not a Catholic priest, if that makes any difference. I'm the prison chaplain."

"I don't care. I need to know what you were talking about in there." she replied in a trembling voice. Exactly what he didn't want to do and yet knew he was going to have to. "I'm not sure what I can tell you. I mean, that is really a privileged conversation."

"I saw him talking to you and you said something back. After you that he just sat there, didn't even look back toward me, and died. Did he ask you for penance? Did you tell him to take it like a man and go peacefully or to not fight it? Is that what was going on?"

He took her hand in his and looked directly into her eyes. She looked so pitiful and vulnerable. She needed an answer. She needed some closure. "He asked me to forgive him his sins before they dropped the cyanide."

"Is that all? Did he say anything about that night, what he'd done?"

"No, said nothing of it." She didn't need to know that he had told him everything. It would do her no good to hear the truth. Slightly more steady now "So, what did you tell him? To sit there and breathe in deeply or to spare me his glare?" she asked.

"He wanted me to give him the answer to his question. He wanted forgiveness and to know if there was something he needed to do for it. I told him there was nothing I could do for him; I certainly wasn't able to forgive him anything. It was between him and God. And I told him he would find out what God thought in just a few moments. That's when I walked out of the chamber. I suppose he was pondering that, probably why he sat there and didn't look at you. He was waiting to hear from God I'd guess."

She broke down, tears flowing from her eyes like a torrential rain, nearly collapsing on to the grey concrete floor. The chaplain caught her and helped her to the nearest chair. He was glad, as he sat there with her, that he hadn't hid behind his cloak, at least not completely. She may not have needed to know everything, the largest part of the conversation. But she did need to know how it ended.