“Father forgive me for I have sinned.
“Father forgive me for I have sinned.
“Father forgive me for I have—”
Helen’s voice broke off. She was breathless. She had
murmured the words a hundred times, a thousand perhaps.
But it didn’t seem to help. Nothing seemed to help.
She was on her knees in the church prayer garden,
surrounded by birch trees and flowering plants and
multicolored azaleas, a Garden of Eden recreated. Was she
Adam, the one who submits to temptation and therefore must
be cast out? Or was she Eve, the temptress who leads
others to sin and degradation?
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy
kingdom come, thy will be done . . .”
Her hands were folded and her head was bowed. She was
saying the words, chanting them like some arcane ritual.
But who was listening? Who would hear the prayers of a
woman who had done what she had done?
Had done and been doing for years, she thought, and the
sickness took hold of her, sending waves of nausea
throughout her body. She doubled over in agony.
At first, what they did had not bothered her. Or perhaps
it had, but somehow she managed to suppress the guilt, to
bury her true feelings in a morass of rationalization and
intellectual posturing. And then one morning, not long
ago, she awoke and realized—she was a sinner. A pawn of
Satan. What she had done—what they all had done—was worse
than mere sin. It was complete and utter corruption. Moral
bankruptcy.
It was evil.
“Father forgive me for I have sinned.
“Father forgive me for I have sinned.
“Fatherforgive me for I have sinned.”
She recited the words over and over again, but she
obtained no comfort from them. She glared up at the ebony
sky, but she found no answer, no release. What was she
going to do now? She had gathered some of the others, had
talked to them about it. Some had even admitted they
shared her feelings. But it wasn’t enough. Talking would
never be enough. Action was required. She had to do
something.
She heard a noise behind her, from somewhere deeper in the
prayer garden. The door at the base of the bell tower was
closing. But who would be in there at this time of night?
Was it the priest? One of the church regulars? An
irrational fear gripped her. She didn’t want to be seen,
not in here, not now, not like this.
“What are you doing?”
She let out a small sigh of relief when she saw who it
was. Nothing to worry about there. “I’m just . . . having
a quiet moment. Spending some time alone. If you wouldn’t
mind . . .”
“Could you please help me?”
Helen tried not to frown. This was one of the inescapable
realities of being in a church—there was always someone
who needed help. An old woman wanting someone to run after
her groceries. An Altar Guild guy recruiting help with the
cleanup. And it always seemed to come at the least
convenient time. “I don’t know. . . .”
“Please. I really really really need your help.”
“What is it?”
“I saw something in the garden, near the base of the
tower. Something strange and . . . frightening.”
Helen pushed herself to her feet. “Show me.”
She followed down the cobbled sidewalk toward the bell
tower, in one of the most isolated and secluded parts of
the labyrinthine prayer garden. There were two marble
benches flanking a small recess planted with honeysuckle
and flowered hedges. Many of the parishioners had buried
the ashes of loved ones here; a tall marble obelisk behind
one of the benches stood as a memorial.
“So? . . .”
“Over there. By the bench.”
Helen looked in the direction indicated. Someone had been
digging. Signs of excavation were evident; an azalea bush
had been all but uprooted.
“My God,” Helen whispered. Had someone been digging
up . . . one of the graves? She had been at the funeral
last week, and she knew this was where Ruth’s sister’s
ashes had been buried. “Why would anyone—?” Helen’s eyes
widened with repugnance and amazement. “You?”
She turned just in time to see the shovel right before it
struck. It hit her on the side of the head, knocking her
sideways. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if her
brain had been dislodged, her jaw shattered. Her legs
crumbled, and she fell down onto one of the benches.
She remained conscious, but just barely. She watched as
the shovel came closer, then closer, then closer still.
“But . . . why?” Helen managed to gasp.
“Why not?”
Her assailant’s hands clutched her throat with a strong,
unbreakable grip. Helen felt her consciousness fading, and
she knew that in a few short moments she would be dead.
Was this the penance she had been seeking? Was this what
it took to make her feel clean again? Her brain was too
muddled to make any sense of it. As she felt her life
slowly trickling away, her thoughts were not focused on
these questions of theology and personal redemption. As
she stared into the face of her killer, all she could
think was:
I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe it could
possibly be you!
Copyright 2002 by William Bernhardt
