The Miracle of the Images. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ at the large brown envelope...marked 'For Eyes Only'. She watched as Father Francis shuffled the mail passing over the brown envelope.

      Curiosity was compelling...but she knew better than to suggest that the envelope would not go away...and she knew as well that Father Francis was waiting for her to do so.

      So she thought to herself...I'll just have to see it when I do the filing...smugly she left the room for other Saturday morning duties.

      III. THE CONFESSION

      Father Francis watched the mystery man coming up the walk. He looked to be of average height for a Caucasian, about six feet tall and weight perhaps one hundred eighty. The man stood quite erect, as a military man, he walked up the sidewalk to the front door of the rectory at the historic and preciously small Victorian chapel of St. Augustine Catholic Church in Germantown, Ohio. Father Francis heard Mrs. Clarice answer the door; she failed to ask the visitor if he could possibly reschedule the confession but directed the caller to the rectory office where Father Francis stood near the window watching his fighting Irish of Notre Dame make battle against the bitter enemy to the north, Michigan.

      The audibles were distinct as gladiators met at mid-field, as over three hundred thousand eyes watched the teams dig in at the line of scrimmage. Imagine, one of Notre Dame's finest... out of action on this Saturday...replaced by a sacrament.

      "Excuse me Father Francis, but your 1:00 appointment is now here."

      Father Francis seemed to note a triumphant sound in Mrs Clarice's voice, and he gave her 'the' look as she shuffled out the office door.

      "Good afternoon Father." The voice was clearly mid-western and no hint of Italian.

      "Good afternoon", I responded.

      "May we offer you something to drink...a coffe' perhaps" I noticed a hint of Italian in my own voice.

      "Mrs Clarice... coffe' ...Por favor."

      "Thank you Father... if it isn't too much trouble."

      "None at all" I responded

      "I do believe, that Mrs Clarice has just brewed a new pot... in her new pot...near her new microwave...in her new kitchen."

      "Grazie...Padre." The old lady said as she threw her head at him.

      "How goes the game?" Aldo asked.

      "The Irish are threatening." I said.

      "Sure would be a feat for the new coach of the Irish, ranked at # 24 to beat the 4th ranked Spartans at home." Aldo said.

      "Yes... it would certainly make my day as well." I replied.

      "So, Aldo...you're not here for confession?" I inquired. "Nor the game?"

      "No Father...although after fifty years it might be a good idea." He said. "Not the game...you know I have seen the game every year."

      Mrs Clarice brought the coffee and a tray with cold cut sandwiches...they both thanked her as she backed out of the office and closed the door....nearly.

      "Mrs Clarice..." I called to her... "The door Por favor."

      "Why are you here, Mr. Selleri?" I asked

      "Did you not hear from the Holy Father...and do you not have a communication for me?" Selleri asked.

      "I did hear from the Vatican secretary...and they were rather mysterious and brief...asked me to meet with you...you know get some introduction...so, if you don't mind Aldo, could you please start at the beginning." I asked.

      "Yes Father, as though as I was in confession in order to protect the confidentiality of this conversation." Aldo said.

      "That's acceptable." I said.

      Aldo watched as the priest kissed the holy vestment and placed it around his neck and on top of his cassock.

      "Bless me Father for I have sinned in thought, word and deed." Aldo began

      "In Nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus, sancti...Amen" I said while making the sign of the cross blessing the pentatent.

      "It's been fifty years since my last confession...Judica me', Deus" Aldo began.

      "We've missed you." I said.

      Aldo warmed to the priest. Throughout his life, Aldo had never been so alone, as when he was alone. And now he somehow felt safe...this empirical wisdom covering his ability to say whatever he wanted to get off his chest...and if it happened to be offensive, in the end, the absolution would come with the raising of the priest hand...

       "Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem, peccatorum, nostrorum, tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus." (May the almighty and merciful Lord grant us pardon, absolution and remission of our sins)

      In many ways Aldo was as nearly like a coyote as any animal that came to his mind. He lived on the edge of humanity...foraging for the truth but knowing that his very nature to be distrustful of all... perfected his own comfort with himself. He was not a sociopath in that he never felt remorse for any transgression. The opposite was true and Aldo was even bipolar with serious manic depression. Manic when he was on the farm; free and alone to discover... just to be. Depressive when forced into a social situation, which might jeopardize the legal nature of his adoptive parent's life. That was the truth of it...Aldo was beyond feeling any pain at the prospect of being 'discovered' because he had come to know that the worse that could happen to him was that the United States would deport him to Italy, where, at the very least he might discover who he was and be able to assume his own identity and perhaps even rediscover some semblance of a natural life.

      "Father Francis, I have been living a lie...a part of this whole identity crisis throughout my life."

      "How do you mean...and take your time Aldo so that I may understand." I said as the game droned on and the Irish marched down field again.

      "I first remember being here....you know, in the United States when my Mother told me I was four years old... that was in 1942...she wanted me to know my age and that I was born in Italy, of noble parentage in the past, perhaps of a Count in the fifteenth century.

      "You don't know how old you are?" I asked.

      "Not exactly, I have no birth certificate" Aldo searched my eyes for some acknowledgement of understanding...but none was there...confusion weighed as Notre Dame stalled.

      "You see Father, soon after our arrival in Dayton, my Mother passed away." Aldo said.

      "Buried, I suppose in some pauper's grave...I was never told."

      "Why Dayton?" The Priest asked.

      "Apparently my Mother was looking for my Father who was in the Air Force. She was able to somehow get information at the naval base at Naples, Italy... that he was stationed at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio."

      "What about papers?" I asked.

      "There were no documents...my Mother was befriended by a Greek captain on a ship out of Naples...you know how that goes... and I only remember how savage the journey and how ill my Mother became."

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