Kneeling was always the toughest part for him. Not physically- his kneecaps had dealt with a whole lot worse than a little uncushioned wooden plank. But he was a big man. Not fat—the man was in as perfect shape as he thought he could get- but large. 6 feet tall, broad shoulders and big, muscly legs and arms. Kneeling on a rail felt cramped. He didn't mind so much when he did it at a pew at Sunday mass—EVERYONE was doing it, so he didn't get the sense he stood out that much (although his legs sometimes did brush the feet of the person behind him). But alone, like this, kneeling in a room that was just a little smaller than his bedroom closet, he couldn't help but feel like an elephant in a clown car.
Not that he considered sitting at a confessional to be a laughing matter. His hands squeezed together, and his eyes looked at what little he could see of the man on the other side of the latticed wooden barrier between them.
Bless me, Father…" he began reciting from memory. "I have sinned. It has been... uh..."
"Two years," the priest told him. "It's been two years."
He recognized the voice immediately. Father Frank Omar. A Spanish-Moroccan priest who had been a friend and part of the parish for nearly two decades. He was a pillar and guiding hand to all he met, especially those who formed part of Hispanic community. For the first time in hours, the confessor grinned, just slightly. "You've got a good memory, Padre."
"You don't make yourself easy to forget. Sometimes I wonder why you always sit on the latticed side."
"The confessor's grin faded. "Old habit, I guess," he said quietly.
"How are you, Jack?" Father Omar continued. "I saw your match last week. Incredible footwork."
"Yeah, it went... great." He repeated the last part softly. "It went great."
"Sorry, Jack, you know I'm a fan," the priest said warmly. "Some of the other priests wonder how a man who dedicates himself to peace and non-violence can like boxing so much. I blame all the pay-per-view fights we used to watch at my house when I was a boy. I figure if it's just for sport… well. Perhaps I'm the one who should be confessing my 'insatiable bloodlust,'" he chuckled.
Jack said nothing.
"... sorry, Jack, you know I like to talk. Tell me what you've come to confess. I'm here for you."
Jack's silence lasted five more seconds. He cleared his throat. "I... I did something I shouldn't. I really messed up."
"Father Omar's eyebrow rose. "I haven't heard you sound like this since..." he stopped himself.
"Since Maggie, I know," the confessor replied. "It's… Father, I don't know if I can do this…"
"Trust in your faith, Jack," Father Omar encouraged him. "God is here for you. Let Him loan you His strength."
Jack's face dropped, and he made a sound that sounded like a mixture between a sound and cough. He looked back up at the lattice and wiped a drop of spit from his mouth.
"It's… it's my kid. He's been havin' trouble at school. Kids've been makin' fun of him- callin' him names- and he comes home and he tells me that he's been..." His voice begins to shudder. "in a fight! And he comes home and he says he's broke a kids nose and he's so proud of it! L-like he's won the lottery! And… and I yell at him and I grab him andIlosemytemper and..."
"... and what?"
"And I socked... no, no, I... I swing the back of my fist and hit his... jaw and... and he runs off and I keep tryin' to tell him I'm SORRY-"
Jack put his hand to his mouth. Father Omar's neck craned forward slightly as he heard the gasps of muffled sobs.
"H-h-h-he's my kid! I hit my own kid, Frank! I ain't never done that before! Never! Not to him! Not to Mattie!"
"Jack, easy, easy!" Father Omar said, trying to comfort him.
"Th-there's more. I... I was too ashamed to tell you this before, but... sometimes I used my... hands on Maggie, too…"
"Jack...!"
"I... I just can't help it, Padre! I... I just get so mad and I can't think straight and 'fore I know it I…" For a while Jack stopped, and the only sound uttered between them was the boxer's breathing, which, as the minutes passed, slowed from a fast, labored wheezing to a steadier, quieter pace.
"Are... are you gonna call the cops on me, Padre?"
"Father Omar straightened up in his chair, literally taken aback. A beat passed.
"You know I can't do that," he answered. "Your sins are between you, your conscience and God. Jack... is there anything else?"
"... yeah. Yeah, there is one more thing." His voice, though lower and still haggard, had become clearer. "I... I ain't entirely fightin' on the up and up no more. I ain't gettin' as many offers as I used to and... I've gotten mixed up with some bad people."
"How bad?"
"You don't wanna know, Padre."
"Jack… have they made you do anything bad?"
"No, no… just… they just have me do fights, is all."
"Then get out now, Jack. Get out before they pull you so far down that you CAN'T get out. And get help. There are so many professionals out there who can…"
"And all of them charge an arm and a leg. I'm sorry, Frank. I don't got the money for therapy. Or any other kind of help."
"Then Jack… at least quit. Do it tonight. Can you do that?"
Jack bowed his head. He closed his eyes and saw Matt, running across the living room, not bothering once to look back at his father.
"… yeah." He opened his eyes and looked at Frank once more. "Yeah, I think I can. One more fight and I'm through."
"Why fight at all? Why not go there and just quit?"
"I need the win, Padre. I need it for Matt."
A sigh slipped from Father Omar's lips. "You're telling me right now you're going to commit the same sin you're confessing again the moment you leave…"
"I'll come back after. I promise. And after that, I'll never have to confess about it again."
Jack couldn't make out the movement Father Omar made right then. Another long quiet followed. And then, finally…
"… I take it you remember the Act of Contrition?"
"Jack bowed his head, and recited the prayer he had known in his head since Sunday School. When he had finished, Father Omar leaned in and told him, "I hereby absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. You may go now and serve the Lord."
Jack began to rise, but stopped midway. "Hang on, Padre. What about my penance?"
"Oh right, sorry," Father Omar said hastily. "Ten Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's. And Jack?"
"Yeah, Frank?"
"Good luck out there."
Jack nodded and stepped out, ducking his head so as not to hit the top of the doorway. Still felt like getting out of a clown car. As he left the parish, he paused in front of a trashcan and pulled out a piece of red cloth. A devil mask he had gotten from a costume shop. The one he would wear when he would fight "off-the-books." No one could tell it was "Battlin'" Jack Murdock under the mask when he wore it during matches- at least, that was the idea- so the spectators called him the way they saw him. "The Red Devil."
"Tonight." His eyes went back and forth between the garbage bin and the mask in his hands. His grip on the mask loosened at first, then fiercely tightened. He quickly pushed it back into his pocket, looking up every few seconds to make sure no one was watching, and kept walking. Just one more fight, he told himself. One more fight and the Devil would be out of his life forever.