Without Sin
he stone sailed in a silent, bright arc, shining in the sun. No birds
sang. No traffic hummed and growled. No breath was taken. At last the stone
fulfilled its destiny. A black patch grew in the frame of the church
window, the long slow silence ending with the shatter of an image.
Glass fell. The traffic's menacing complaint was counterpoint to the empty, automatic denial filling the mind of the child, standing small and overwhelmed in the dark and unkind shadow of the great, stone wall.
Father Schwarz was a youngish man, blonde, with blue eyes. His hair was thin, so the pink scalp showed through in the light. His neck was pink too, and an old man's scrawny bobbing Adam's apple stood out incongruously. Black anger filled the mind of Schwarz, as he too stood in the shadow of his church.
The child stood lamb-like and resigned. The blue Schwarz eyes burned into the helpless brown gaze of the child. The angry hand began to rise, and the condemnation swelled in acrid turmoil in the thin Schwarz throat.
A picture of the treasured window came to Schwarz. He saw through the beautiful, careful images. He saw his hand punish. He saw his words chastise. He saw again the image of his Lord. His anger shattered against the image, and he saw the child. "Let he who is without sin...," he thought.
"Barry Schwarz, what have you done?"
The horrified, unbelieving shout froze him. The sickness of fear and guilt was a liquid emptiness in his gut. He had no answer.
"I didn't mean it." he offered in a trembling whisper, already knowing that he could not appease the Gods.
"I'm sorry Mummy, " he whispered then cringed beneath the mighty hand that rose and fell across his face and then his shoulders.
"I'm sorry Mummy," he intoned, a tiny hopeless prayer, "it was an accident."
"I'll give you accident, you little monster. You just wait till your father gets home. He'll give you accident too. Nanna gave us that crystal bowl for a wedding present. You are in so much trouble, young man. May God forgive you."
The hand fell again, but it was meaningless now as the young Barry Schwarz cowered amidst the splinters of his childhood, looking into the dreadful, distant future, and the anger of the father.
"Well," said Father Schwarz, "that's an unfortunate accident, isn't it young lady?"
The child peered out from under her fear. No anger coiled around her. No hand grasped her collar. No blow fell. She did not answer.
"You'd better come with me and help me clean up the broken glass. We wouldn't want anyone to get hurt would we?"
Again, no response. A slight frown creased the childish face. They had moved now out of the shadow. Father Schwarz glowed pink in the light. The child looked up at him with bright, thinking eyes, reflecting her inner processing of 'come with me', and 'clean up', and 'broken glass'. The Father put his hand gently on the child's shoulder, as if to shepherd her into the church.
The childish eyes turned warily to scan his face. He smiled again, and committed a cardinal sin.
"What is your name?" he said, "My child." Then with dawning recognition, "Aren't you the young Wilson girl?"
The foray into identity brought to the child the sudden image of her father. The vision of real authority galvanised her. Wheeling away from the unconvincing hand on her shoulder, she ran off along the street, calling out as she went, "I don't have to do what you say. You're not my Dad. I ain't gunna clean up no glass. I don't have to. You're just an old fart anyway!"
Father Schwarz smiled sadly after the small, receding member of his flock, and went to find a brush and pan to remove the broken shards of God's image.
Mrs Arnold, who did the ironing for the church, pointed out to him that he could do with a vacuum cleaner as well as his brush and pan. It took him some time to find the machine and the long extension cord.
And it came to him as he foraged among the pews, picking up the few large pieces of leaded glass, that he was not unhappy about the encounter. It was not the response he had expected, but he would rather be an old fart to young Kathleen Wilson than a figure of retribution. Anyway, he didn't really want her messing about with broken glass, he thought, belatedly.
He swept the remaining few fragments that he could see off the pews and started the vacuum cleaner. Methodical and conscientious, he was down on his knees, covering the floor in careful, thorough sweeps. The noise meant that he did not hear footsteps approaching, so that he was startled to see that he had company.
On his knees, as he was, he was nearly level with the brown eyes of Kathleen Wilson. He switched off the machine. Kathleen spoke into the sudden quiet.
"I've come back to say I'm sorry," she said to him. "I didn't mean to break the window, and I'm sorry I said mean things to you." The voice shook a little. He took in the contrite open face. He smiled and received a smile in return. His gaze moved to the large, capable hand resting lightly on the girl's shoulder, and he looked up into the approving face of the father.
