Sleepers by Lorenzo Carcaterra Read Free Book Online Page A

open.
    Seconds later the sides of our booth came to life.
    “Here we go,” I said. “Get ready.”
    “God help us,” John said, making the sign of the cross. “God help us.”
    We heard a man’s low cough on our right as he shuffled his way to a kneeling position and leaned his elbow on the small ledge facing him. He chewed gum and sniffed in deep breaths as he waited for the door to open.
    “We know him?” John asked.
    “Quiet!”
    There was a woman’s sneeze from the other side of the booth as she searched through an open purse for a tissue. She blew her nose, straightened her dress, and waited.
    “Which one?” John asked.
    “The guy,” I said, and moved the small door to my right. The man’s thick lips, nose, and stubble faced us, separated only by the mesh screen, his heavy breath warming our side of the booth.
    “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said, his hands folded in prayer. “It has been two years since my last confession.”
    John grabbed on to my shoulder and I tried to keep my legs from shaking. Neither of us spoke.
    “I done bad things, Father,” the man said. “And I’m sorry for all of them. I gamble, lose all my rent money to the horses. Lie to my wife, hit her sometimes, the kids too. It’s bad, Father. Gotta get myself outta this hole. What can I do?”
    “Pray,” I said in my deepest voice.
    “I
been
prayin’,” the man said. “Ain’t helped. I owe money to loan sharks. A lot of it. Father, you gotta help me. This the place you go for help, right? I got nowhere else to go. This is it.”
    John and I held our breath and stayed silent.
    “Father, you there?” the man said. “Yes,” I said.
    “So,” the man said. “What’s it gonna be?”
    “Three Hail Marys,” I said. “One Our Father. And may the Lord bless you.”
    “Three Hail Marys!” the man said. “What the hell’s that gonna do?”
    “It’s for your soul,” I said.
    “Fuck my soul!” the man said in a loud voice. “And fuck you too, you freeloadin’ bastard.”
    The man stood up, pulled aside the purple drapes hanging to his right, and stormed out of the booth, his outburst catching the attention of those who waited their turn.
    “That went well,” I said to John, who finally loosened his grip on my shoulder.
    “Don’t do the woman,” John said. “I’m beggin’ you. Let’s just get outta here.”
    “How?” I asked.
    “Don’t take any more,” John said. “Let ’em all go over to the other booth. Have ’em think no one’s in here.”
    “Let’s do one more,” I said.
    “No,” John said. “I’m too scared.”
    “Just one more,” I pleaded.
    “No.”
    “Only one more.”
    “One,” John said. “Then we’re outta here.”
    “You got it,” I agreed.
    “Swear on it?”
    “You can’t swear in church,” I said.

    T HE WOMAN’S VOICE was soft and low, barely above a whisper. The edge of a veil hung across her face, her hands curled against the darkness of the booth, the tips of her fingernails scraping the base of the wood.
    “Bless me Father,” she began. “It has been six weeks since my last confession.”
    We both knew who she was, had seen her more than once walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, arm in arm with the latest man to catch her fancy. She was a woman our fathers smiled about and our mothers told us to ignore.
    “I’m not happy about my life, Father,” she said. “It’s like I don’t want to wake up in the morning anymore.”
    “Why?” I asked, my voice muffled by the back of John’s shirt.
    “It’s wrong,” she said. “Everything I do is wrong and I don’t know how to stop.”
    “You must pray,” I said.
    “I do, Father,” she said. “Believe me, I do. Every day. It’s not doing any good.”
    “It will,” I said.
    “I sleep with married men,” the woman said. “Men with families. In the morning I tell myself it’s the last time. And it never is.”
    “One day it will be,” I said, watching her hands curve around a