It all sounded great; I wanted to believe that someday I would find my “special calling.” But following my heart and having faith in God seemed like empty phrases to me, like the weekly penance the priest gave me after hearing my bullshit confession from behind a metal screen in the stuffy wooden booth. It felt as superficial as sticking a Band-Aid on a tumor. What the hell did some faceless priest know about my true feelings and fears? Where was God, Jesus, or the Blessed Virgin when my drunk father slapped my mother senseless and beat the fuck out of my brother and me?
I had lost track of time. When I glanced at the clock, I felt the blood drain from my face. My father had been expecting me home by three thirty, and it was already close to four. “He’s gonna kill me,” I said, clamping a hand to my forehead.
Sister V. told me not to worry, and then she did something I’ll never forget. She went into the convent and returned a few minutes later with a note addressed to my father:
Dear Mr. Caruso,
Please excuse John’s getting home late this afternoon. He needed some help with his math assignment, and I asked him to stay after class so I could work with him.
Thanks for your understanding.
Sincerely, Sister Veronica
“There,” she said, handing me the signed note. “Now we both have a secret that we don’t want anyone else to know.”
An earlier version of this story is featured in
The Broadkill Review.