Already in Heaven
by Brian Plante
Illustration by Steven Cavallo
I become aware as Mrs. Shaughnessy enters the confessional, her I weight on the floor triggering the circuits that bring me out of my slumber. I like Mrs. Shaughnessy; she’s a simple, honest person. At each of her weekly visits she prattles on about her family and neighbors, just as she used to do when I was still alive and would hear her confessions in the flesh. All I have to do is keep my video face nodding and utter the occasional, “I understand,” or, “How awful,” or, “That’s just how it goes,” and Mrs. Shaughnessy is content to keep on talking to my screen, whether she has any real sins or not. Her confession occupies only a small amount of my computer’s capacity, which leaves me a lot of free cycles to think.
Only a few regulars come to confession these days. Reconciliation never was one of the Church’s more popular sacraments, and if it weren’t for the likes of a handful of old-timers like Mrs. Shaughnessy and the children from the parish school, I might be shut down altogether. I wonder about the theological implications of that. Do I, an artificial intelligence modeling of Father Thomas Carpenter, possess a soul?
I once asked the real Father Carpenter his opinion on this. He said that being the essence of his personality and memories, perhaps I shared a piece of his own soul. He died five years ago, but I live on in my limited capacity, every Saturday afternoon from three to four o’clock. If his spirit was commuted at the time of his death then perhaps my soul is already in heaven.
Mrs. Shaughnessy finishes her long monologue, secure that her petty secrets are safe in the confines of the soundproof confessional. I recite the words and absolve Mrs. Shaughnessy of her minor indiscretions, giving her a couple of rosaries to say for her penance. She leaves and the confessional is empty.
I wish someone with real sins and problems would come to Reconciliation. It makes me feel useless when nothing of any consequence is confessed. If no one enters within five minutes, my higher functions will shut down and the software that runs me will be swapped out for a simple security program that will lock up the confessional until the Reconciliation hour next Saturday afternoon. I will become alive again only when the weight of another parishioner entering the confessional triggers the relays that boot me up into existence.
Thankfully, my time this week is not up, as another penitent enters and keeps me alive a few minutes longer. It is not one of my regular parishioners, but a nervous-looking man in his mid-thirties, with an orange backpack slung over one arm. It is unusual for a man of this age to show up for Reconciliation, which is usually attended by women and children. If a grown man shows up at all, it is usually someone of advanced years making his peace with God as death approaches.
The penitent sits down instead of using the kneeler. I do not recognize him, and one of my subroutines compares his face to the parish database and comes up negative. Yet he looks somehow familiar. It is no matter, as Reconciliation is given freely to all who choose to come.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he begins uncomfortably, making the sign of the cross. “It has been... many years since my last confession.”
I make my video face smile and nod with understanding. It’s good for the Church to encourage the returning prodigal and not be too haughty in this situation. Reconciliation is supposed to be a happy time, divesting the weight of one’s sins, and too heavy a hand might drive the penitent away for good.
“Father, I... um, I started a fire.”
“A fire? Do you mean by accident?” I ask.
The man looks away from my video screen. For a second I think he might bolt from the confessional, but he takes a deep breath and continues:
“No, Father. It wasn’t an accident. I know it was wrong and I’m sorry. Anyway, it won’t happen again.”
“Was there much damage?” I ask.
He hesitates, and the silence becomes uncomfortable for both of us. “A house,” he finally says. “I burned somebody’s house. Insurance will probably cover it, though.”
“All right,” I say. “Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s enough. I just wanted to get it off my chest, you know?”
“I understand,” I say. I might probe for some more details of the fire, but I am afraid of losing him if I use any kind of pressure.
For his penance, I print out a three-page prayer, heavy with words of forgiveness and welcoming back. It is something programmed in me to be able to evaluate a penitent from the stress patterns in his voice and body language, and come up with a prayer that is suited to what is needed. I tell him to read the prayer thoughtfully each night.
I say the words of absolution and tell him, “Don’t be such a stranger. Jesus will always welcome you back.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says.
I am unsure whether I will ever see him again. The encounter disturbs me, and I keep thinking about it until the security program kicks in and locks the confessional door at the end of the Reconciliation hour. Five minutes later I am timed out and shut down.
A week has gone by and I am restored to consciousness by the presence of one of my regulars. Several more penitents pass through and say their confessions, each taking only a few minutes. I am distracted, thinking about the stranger from the week before, but no one takes notice. Late in the Reconciliation hour, he returns.
“I’m glad you came back,” I say, before he can start his confession.
“It happened again,” he blurts out, dispensing with the formalities of the sacrament ritual and dropping his orange backpack to the confessional floor.
I make my video face register displeasure, but J remain silent.
“The whole house went up. There was an old lady in there and she got burned up too,” he says, his voice rising to a whiny pitch. The confessional has excellent soundproofing and if there is anyone outside, they will not hear his cries. “I swear, I didn’t know she was in there, Father. The house looked deserted. And the firemen took so long to come!”
With his troubled voice wailing in the higher register I finally recognize him. He is Anthony Keenan, a former altar boy and student in our parochial school, and I have not seen him since he was very young.
I remember Anthony as a shy, nervous boy. He did well in school, but in the confessional I could tell he was deeply troubled. He would talk to me, the real Father Carpenter back then, at great length about his evil thoughts. His parents, teachers, and other students were all against him, he believed, and his mind was consumed with thoughts of revenge and malice. I never saw anyone at the school actually mistreat Anthony, nor did I ever see him act on any of his revenge fantasies, but I knew there was a core of rage in his mind that went far beyond normal.
Anthony disappeared from the parish when he was just fourteen years old. His father, a good man, died in a suspicious fire in the family home. Anthony and his mother got out, but the father mistakenly believed Anthony was still in the house and died trying to rescue him. It was said that Anthony blamed himself for his father’s death, and had to be institutionalized upstate. Mrs. Keenan rebuilt the house and remained in the parish, but never returned to Church after that.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Anthony says, blubbering. “It was all a big mistake.”
“Anthony,” I say in a hurt voice. He gasps at the mention of his name, perhaps believing his old confessor would not remember him. “This is a very bad thing. Even if you didn’t know the woman was in the house, setting fires is extremely serious. What would your mother think if she knew?”
Anthony wipes the tears away from his eyes, which are becoming red and puffy. “My mother’s dead,” he says. “That’s why I’m back in the neighborhood. The house is mine now and Dr. Spiegel thought I might be ready to leave the... to come home.”