A Talk With Father Tom
It didn’t take long to get from Browntown to St. Elizabeth’s, no more than five minutes. I parked by the school and walked across the street to the church, praying that Father Tom was holding confession. According to his schedule, he should be.
Inside the church, I dipped my fingers in the holy water, blessed myself, genuflected, and took a seat in a pew in the back row. I needed a minute to compose myself.
About ten minutes later, Father Tom made his entrance, meaning confession was about to begin. There was no one in line, so I walked up, and I pushed the red curtains aside and knelt. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession.”
“What have you got to report, Niccolo?”
I always hated it when the priests did that, acknow
