Scout’s Honor: Chapter 17

Pennsylvania

“Austen,” called the matronly clerk. “Richard Phillip Austen Jr.”

The small gathering of supplicants looked about the dreary DMV’s institutional waiting room, impatient for their turn at the window. 

“Austen? Richard Austen?” she asked again, louder. 

“Here,” Eddie said, jumping from the plastic chair, surprised at hearing the name said aloud. He hurried to the counter. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I must have been daydreaming.”

“That’s all right. You weren’t daydreaming when you took the test. You scored one hundred percent. I have a question for you, though. Are you sure you want to drop the “junior” from your license?”

“Yes please, ma’am. My father died when I was a boy, I’ve never used it.”

“I suppose we can do that.”

“And, if it’s OK with Pennsylvania, I would just as soon drop my middle name too. I never use it either.”

“So, just plain Richard Austen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right then. Are your people from Harrisburg?”

“No. Wilkes-Barre,” said Eddie, remembering the graveyard where he’d found the elfin tombstone commemorating Richard Austen’s brief life. He had taken that information, along with the knowledge that birth and death records were not cross-referenced by the Pennsylvania Department of Health, to obtain a copy of Austen’s birth certificate. He hoped dropping the middle name and the junior would scatter leaves across his trail. 

“Coal country? You don’t sound like you’re from Luzerne,” she chuckled. 

Eddie had thought of that. “My mom moved away, out west, when I was young, after my dad died in the mine. Didn’t like it much and we came back a couple years ago. May I please ask one last favor, ma’am?”

“Well, you certainly are my politest customer of the day,” she said, smiling at the clean-cut youth. 

“I’m about to enlist in the Marines, and I’m not sure exactly where I’ll be in the next couple weeks. Is it possible to pick my license up here when it’s ready?”

“You come back in two weeks, Richard. Ask for me, Mrs. Hubbard. I’ll have it for you.”

Austen had been sitting, sometimes kneeling, for the better part of an hour in the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul. Alone in a brightly polished wooden pew, he bowed his head beneath the Basilica’s great copper-clad dome—not in prayer—but debate. He’d picked Philadelphia’s biggest church, reasoning he could melt into its throngs of worshippers should his confessor become overly curious. But should he even confess? Had he committed any sins? If intention were everything, was he guilty of anything beyond intending to smuggle marijuana? What help could a priest be? Austen’s internal debate had so consumed him that he’d noticed neither the cathedral’s imposing Roman-Corinthian brownstone exterior upon entering nor its awe-inspiring nave. He had to decide soon, confession ended at five. He rose, adjusted his awkward horn-rimmed glasses, pulled his baseball cap from his pocket, and joined the short line outside the confessionals. When his turn arrived, he donned the cap as he entered the closet-like booth as a test, knowing that if the priest ordered him to remove it, the small latticed window between them offered too little anonymity.

 “Yes?” said the priest after a pause.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it’s been six years since my last confession,” said Austen. He had forsaken confession—and ultimately the Church itself—within a year of reaching puberty, when he realized the Church would forever condemn him over his simple urges for which he felt neither guilt nor remorse. “May I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“You know how sins and crimes don’t always overlap?” said Austen. “Like, it’s not a sin to jaywalk or a crime to swear… Is it a sin to smuggle an illegal drug?” 

“Endangering God’s precious gift of physical health with drugs, whether in yourself or others, is a grave sin. What alienates us from Our Lord or our neighbors is a sin,” said the old man, his rote reply suggesting he’d heard innumerable versions of this question in the past. 

Austen shook his head, more in self-preservation than denial, hoping the priest wrong. Alcohol was a drug, too, far worse than cocaine according to the Inn’s fast set. If the old man were right, every liquor store owner in the country was hell bound. He persisted. “But what if the drug is harmless?” 

“My son, would you be here this afternoon if you weren’t already heartsick over these sins?” asked the priest. He drew his cassock sleeve back, glanced at his wristwatch, a practiced gesture meant to prod meandering penitents. “Are you ready to confess?”

“I know the bible says killing in self-defense isn’t a sin,” said Austen, upping the ante. He paused a moment in vain for his confessor to agree. “But what if—hypothetically—that self-defense happens while committing a crime? It’s still not a sin, right?”

“Killing?” cried the priest, peering hard at Austen through the latticed window. “Is this your sin?”

“No, no, no,” snapped Austen. “I was only asking hypothetically.”

The old man straightened in his chair, leaned into the window, his voice hardened. “Hypothetically then: Until you confess your crimes to the police and your sins to our mother Church, your soul will not rest, and your righteousness—your honor—will be lost. Do you hear me?” he demanded.

“Yes, Father.”

“Now, do you have any sins that you do wish to confess?”

 Stung by the old fool’s wrong answers, Austen replied, “I had sex with a girl… but that’s not a sin either. Tell you what, father, just for the hell of it, I’ll say five Hail Marys anyway.” He jammed his cap lower and sprang out of the booth, half-running for the exit beneath the Basilica’s great pipe organ. 

Goddamn worthless Church.

If you’d like to share your thoughts about Scout’s Honor, please write John at john /at/ johnmcnellis.com.