Inside, the church is quiet, cold. A few old women doing the Stations. Votive candles flickering. The familiar smell of incense. The font sits beneath a wall carved with a scroll of the Ten Commandments.
I bless myself with holy water first. Wait a moment, as if I think I’ll feel something.
Nothing. It’s just water.
A few paces away, the confessional is empty. No line. I could walk right in.
I stand there. Rehearse it in my mind.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been?—
How long? Since St. Ignaty's. Since before. Since I decided what I was willing to do.
—three weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins:
The words are right there.I killed my father. Five syllables. I could say them and the priest would ask if I'm truly sorry and I'd have to say?—
What? Yes, and make the absolution a lie? No, and be told I can't be forgiven until I am?
I clench my fists.
There is only one thing I can do,mustdo, in light of what I’ve committed.
But for what?
Saving my own soul would only make things worse for everyone else.
I stand in front of the curtain for eleven minutes. I know because I count every one.
Then I leave.
Nothing has changedabout the fencing salle. It has the same tall windows, the same orderly rows of pistes on the ground, the same score boxes and wires, and--were I to go through the doorway--the same lockers, sinks, and showers just beyond, I'm sure.
The only thing that's different is the missing equipment. And the fact that for just under two weeks, I haven't set foot inside.
"So good of you to join us." Kai steps out from the back corner, beyond the weight machines, where the set of French doors leads into the sweep of grass by the lake.
I look at the clock on the wall. Three minutes to four. "I'm not late," I remark. “Unless I had the time wrong--"
"No, you're not late," he interrupts. "I'm just messing with you. Relax."
I dip my head a little, and Kai scowls. "That's what you call relaxing?"
"I'm relaxed," I say. Perhaps a bit tersely.
"Suit yourself." Kai puts his hands in his back pockets and rocks on his heels. "Anyway, no, I just couldn't sleep, so I've been here since the asscrack of dawn." He thumbs over his shoulder to the corner he emerged from, where I can now see crates and boxes stacked almost as tall as we are. "They really fell over themselves to expedite some of this stuff, so. Hope you like breaking down boxes."
I stare at the packages: stenciled with all the major brands, the logos I've seen on the cuffs of jackets or the bibs of masks or the pads inside bell guards for my entire life. "You got all this out here in a week?"
"Yeah, well," Kai lifts a shoulder. "I mean, we can't fence without equipment, so..."
"The season's over," I point out.
"Yeah, but still," Kai looks down at his toes. "I mean, we want to stay in shape, don't we?" He looks up at me.
I don't respond right away, because if I'm perfectly honest, I haven't thought about fencing. It's like I can't, somehow. Like there's a block. Like the idea of bouting again, let alone competing, tournaments, another season, it's all suddenly inaccessible to me. Something that just can't happen or won't happen.
Because it's just not the same.
