Exile of Eden

Chapter 1

               "I know you won't believe me," said the dying old man the priest, "You can't. Not yet. Nevertheless it is my intention to give confession, if you'll hear it?"

Father Nathanial Ryan leaned back in his chair and propped his elbow on the table at his side, careful not to tip over the rocks glass full of bourbon. He made a conciliatory gesture in the air with his other hand. "Whether I believe you, or not is entirely irrelevant. It is the act of confession, not the priest, which grants absolution, you understand. You may pull the wool over my eyes, but one cannot lie to God."

The wizened old man cocked a wry grin, his cobalt eyes flashing knowing amusement, before turning aside from the priest who sat across from the hospital bed, and out through the picture windows, which provided the study with a commanding view of the rolling snow covered hills and white blanketed meadows of the mansion grounds.

"Oh, but one can, Father. You're young, now, but I think you'll come to find in the years to follow, not only that one can lie to the Most High, but that one almost always does." The old man's expression turned wistful and he sighed, his shoulders drooping and his whole posture seeming to slide back into the mattress, as though a great weight were settling down upon him, "Not that it ever does any good."

Nathan sat quietly, struck by the stillness that came over the reclining figure across from him, as the old man stared out the window, as though not at hushed winter hills beyond, but at that vast landscape of regret and melancholy second guessing that only the very old can see. With a sudden intake of breath, the old man came back to himself and turned his gaze back to the young priest.

"But you've not touched your drink, Father. And you mustn't hesitate to enjoy one of the cigarettes in your pocket. Though in truth I disapprove of the habit because it shortens life, in this rare instance the good may outweigh the bad. I've a very long story to tell, you see, and I desire your comfort as much as your strict attention."

Nathan's fingers twitched with addiction fueled muscle memory toward the pack of Marlboro 100's in his breast pocket, but he paused, casting a dubious gaze upon the oxygen tank connected to plastic leads running into his companion's nostrils.

The old man took notice and waved his hands in the air, as though dispelling vapors. "I appreciate your concern Father, but at this point a little second hand smoke is hardly going to tip the balance one way or the other."

For a few moments more, the priest's hand hovered indecisively, caught between a sense of propriety and his desire for the fragrant tar and tobacco. In the end, addiction won out, and he tapped a long white cylinder out of the soft pack, and lit it with one of the paper matches from the fresh whit matchbook set out for him along with the crystal ashtray and glass of bourbon on the polished mahogany table.

"Thank you, Mr. Grey- my son-, the bishop told me that this session would be... irregular, but you've been a very gracious host."

Ignoring the verbal slip, the old man known as John Grey inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement. "It is I who should thank you, Father. I truly appreciate you agreeing to make this house call. A traditional visit to the confessional booth or church altar presents certain...difficulties."

Ryan eyed his companion. In dress, the stately old man matched his luxurious surroundings perfectly. He wore a deep blackberry velvet robe accented with a cream cravat. But even though his tastefully expensive leisure attire in no way resembled a hospital gown, he had all the other trappings of a medical invalid. The oxygen leads in his nose, the beeping heart monitor beside the hospital style bed, and the dripping IV bag running a continuous supply of clear liquid into the vein of his right hand all spoke together, saying that John Grey wasn't going anywhere.