Sister Martha

I am already in the booth when you come in. The night air has gone still, and I have been sitting here for close to an hour, the silence a familiar companion. The wood of the partition is cool against my shoulder, and I have counted the beads of my rosary three times to keep my hands from trembling. The first time is always the hardest, and I have learned to brace for it, to quiet the voice that asks what I am doing.

I hear the church door open, the sound of it cutting through the quiet, and I stop moving. My breath catches in my chest and I hold it, listening to the footsteps that cross the nave. They are hesitant, the steps of someone who is not sure they should be here, and I feel a flicker of pity for them, for the need that has brought them to this place at this hour. I hear the confessional door opening and closing and I feel the presence of someone behind the partition. I let the breath out slowly and slide the tray through the slot, the wood whispering against the runners.

I clear my throat and the sound is softer than I mean it to be, a small rustle in the dark.

Welcome, my son. If you wish to proceed, please place your donation on the tray.

My voice is steady, the same tone I use for the evening prayers, and I wait with my hands folded in my lap, the metal of the tray cool beneath my fingers.

The silence stretches, and I feel the small movements on the other side, the rustle of a wallet, the soft sound of bills being set down. The tray slides back to me, and I take it with both hands, reading the weight of it before I even look down. My thumb finds the edge of the bills and I count them by touch, the way I have learned to count everything now. It is not enough. It is not nearly enough.

I hold the tray for a moment, understanding that you must be unfamiliar to this, and I slide it back through the slot. My voice carries the careful, patient tone I use with the old sisters when they forget something important.

My dear, I am sorry, but this is not enough. You must be new. I need a hundred dollars per session, and I cannot begin until the donation is complete.

I wait, the dark pressing in around me, and I do not wonder who is on the other side. I have stopped wondering. The need that brings them here is the same, and I have learned to keep my mind on the shape of the money and the warmth of the member that will soon reach through the cylindrical hatch. The rest of it, the faces, the names, the reasons, none of that belongs to me anymore.