Confession

I.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 28 long years since my last confession. Quite a dry spell, no denying. God knows I've got a busload of sins we could chat about, but I seek the sacrament for only this one:

I stole your duck.

Yes, I stole a duck from you at the Church Easter Egg Hunt in 1975. On that April Sunday, under a bright blue sky, plastic colored eggs filled with candy, gum and little white plastic crucifixes lay hidden all around the church grounds. After Mass, the kids gathered outside the church on the sidewalk in front of the wooden double doors. Out near the road stood a giant oak with a pale, weatherworn yellow ribbon still tied around it, even though a few days later President Ford would declare the Vietnam War "over as far as the United States was concerned." I remember that because it was all over the news, and because I worshipped Walter Cronkite (false idols, I know. You might want to start writing these down). But I did love him, mostly because he reminded me of Captain Kangaroo:

Anyway, I scanned every crevase in that old tree while I stood there, searching for hidden plastic eggs. After an excruciatingly long wait (during which I spotted no eggs), you, Father, came through the double doors to officially start the big Hunt. And these were your EXACT words: "After all the Easter Eggs are found, if you have a penny, you win a baby duck! Okay, ready...go!"

The rest of the kids scattered like a bomb went of, but not me. I instantly jammed my hands in my pockets and started fishing around furiously. And then I had my grubby little fingers around it. That one thin piece of copper felt like pure gold. My face just about broke from smiling, because I had just won myself a duck!

Now, I know what you're thinking. Even an eight year old boy who regularly swam in a Superfund site (remember our pond?) should have known that you meant we had to find the penny in an egg. But, I want you to go back and take a close look at what you actually said...You see my point? Apparently, I was born a lawyer. But honestly, I didn't think I was winning my duck through smartass logic. I really thought you meant a penny was a duck ticket. Simple as that.

When the hunt was over and dozens of rejected white plastic crucifixes covered the grounds like lonely little snowflakes (did you really think we'd keep those?), I lined up with the other lucky pennyholders to collect my duck. And damn was he cute. Just a tiny yellow ball of soft feathers. I carried him gently back to the family car to show him off. As we were slowly pulling out of the church driveway (there were several other cars creeping along in front of us, ducks being passed around inside each one), you walked up and knocked on my Dad's window. When he rolled it down, you stuck your head in and said, "Someone stole a duck. We've got one poor child who found a penny in an egg, but all the ducks were already gone." Then you turned slowly until you were looking directly at me and said, "who would do such a thing?" With righteous daggers flying out of your eyes, you added, "I can't even imagine."

That's when it dawned on me. I had stolen this duck. I didn't find a penny, I just had one. But this knowledge didn't change anything. I didn't even consider fessing up or trying to explain. I was taking this duck home, even if it cost me my soul. Eternity in hell? Bring it on. This duck was mine.

Yes, I was prepared to give up the Kingdom of Heaven for that duck, because he was going to change everything at our house, starting with the pond.

You came out to our house on at least a couple of occasions, so you should remember the pond in the back yard. It was dead sick with Dow chemicals and overrun with weeds. In my 8 year old brain, I figured that if I set a baby duck loose in there it would be the start of something miraculous. Other ducks would come to visit my little buddie, and they'd chat and munch on bugs and small fish and maybe eat some of the weeds (God, please, let them eat the weeds), and pretty soon flowers would grow on the banks and fish would thrive and that old sewage hole would look like something out of a goddamn Disney movie!

Of course, it didn't quite turn out like that. But I'm happy to report that the pond did not kill my duck. He grew up, and his soft yellow feathers turned strong and white. He eventually flew away, but he would come back every now and again to visit. I named him Butter. Don't ask.

II.

For years afterward, I felt terrible about stealing that duck from you, Father. But then something happened that helped me breath a little easier: I found your porn stash. Now, my brother Rip was an altar boy, so I guess I should be thankful I didn't find a secret stash of Boy's Life or Teen Beat (no offense Father, but it's a fact that a whole lot of your teammates turned out to be queer as pink paint. And twice as evil). No, what I found was simply a Playboy magazine in your house next to the church.

It was 1979, and my parent's marriage was on it's last legs. As my mother was preparing to move out, you made it your mission to stop her, and you pulled out the single greatest weapon in the Catholic arsonal: soul-devouring guilt. The last Mass we attended as a nuclear family, you stood at that somber altar, colorful shadows cast across your stage by stained glass saints, and with the eyes of Mary upon you, you spoke about us. You didn't use names, but I knew you were talking about my family, and neither you nor God were the slightest bit happy about what was going on. When we walked out, I felt the entire congragation staring.

We didn't go straight home after Mass that Sunday. Instead, we walked across the church driveway to your house. Rip was busy doing whatever it is that altar boys do after Mass, so it was just Laura, me, Mom and Dad. While I don't have a detailed memory of what went on, I think the adults talked in the kitchen, and Laura stood near the door trying to listen. This left me free to check out your living room. It was a small, dark room, with only one long window on the wall facing the church. Near that window was a small table with a single chair next to it. Next to that chair was a wooden magazine holder. I plopped myself down and started browsing your collection, and there it was: Playboy.

My Dad being both a subscriber and avid collector of Playboy, seeing pictures of naked women was not shocking to me. Hell, by that time it was just about my favorite hobby. But I knew that God did not like this hobby. No, God liked his women fully clothed and standing solidly and obediently next to their husbands. So what was this doing here, in the house of God's right hand man? What kind of priest would have this sort of magazine just laying around for anyone, including children, to see? Who would do such a thing? I can't even imagine.

It may seem like I'm overreacting, but remember that only minutes before I had listened to you bring the wrath of God down upon us, just as you brought it down upon me as I sat in the backseat of our car holding a baby duck years before. Remember in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and the gang are getting berated by the Wizard, and Toto goes over and pulls back the screen? Well, imagine if behind that screen Toto had discovered a Catholic priest kicked back in his chair and taking in the full centerfold splendor of Miss July 1979. Dorothy left Oz, my Mom left my Dad, and I left the Catholic church.

III.

Okay. Forgiveness, let's get down to it. I think we both need some. But my knees are killing me, so can't we both just say a couple Hail Mary's and call the whole thing squashed?