Fade by Robert Cormier Page B

head as I said the words I had rehearsed countless times: “Father, I must confess a sin that I'm not sure is a sin.”
    A sigh, almost a moan, came from the darkness on the other side of the screen. Had I made a mistake, waited too late in the day for confession? Was he too tired after hours of being besieged by sins to deal with a complicated question? But what else could I have said? I did not know whether the fade was a sin. In the shed or in the cellar, I had practiced fading, learned to endure the frightening limbo of the pause and the excruciating flash of pain. I had learned to absorb the cold, as well. After a while I was able to slip in and out of the fade easily, staying unseen for longer periods of time, my body becoming accustomed to it, the way eyes become accustomed after a while to the dark. The experience of the fade was always disappointing, however. The fade did not provide the freedom it promised. I had the power to pass through the streets unnoticed, to spy on people, listen to private conversations, enter stores and homes and public buildings, unseen, undetected. But for what purpose? Steal from Lakier's or the five-and-ten downtown? Sneak into the Plymouth without buying a ticket? These acts were too petty for the fade. I did not want to steal. Anyway, how could I take anything from a store when the thing I took remained in sight? And where would I hide it later? I was not a thief, did not plan to be one.
    “Tell me about this sin that you are not sure is a sin,” Father Gastineau said.
    I tried to gauge his attitude. Did he sound impatient, angry, tired? Or receptive?
    “Don't be afraid,” he added, more gently.
    “Is it a sin to spy on people?” I asked. “To watch them when they don't know you're there?”
    “Are you a peeping torn?” His voice cracked, like a piece of wood snapping.
    “No,” I said. But perhaps I had been. “Yes,” I amended. “I spied on people. Saw them … doing things they should not be doing….”
    “Listen, my boy,” he said, so close to my face that I felt the breeze of his breath. “I will not ask you what you saw. If you saw a sin being committed, then you have the necessity to remain quiet. If you tell others about it, then you become a part of that sin. The privacy of people is sacred to them. If what they do in private is a sin, then it is up to them to confess. You must do no further spying. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” I said. But I did not understand. Was spying a sin or not? It seemed to me that he had avoided the issue, had not given me an answer. I sagged with relief, however, had escaped an explosion of anger, and I dropped my chin to my laced fingers on the small confessional shelf.
    “Anything more?” the priest asked, brusque suddenly, stirring in his chair.
    “No,” I said. Hadn't he heard enough?
    “For your penance, you will recite one rosary. For the rest, you will keep away from this female and not touch her again. And you will stop spying. Now, say a good act of contrition….”
    Only later, running homeward, face lifted to the cool breeze of a waning summer afternoon, did I realize that I had forgotten to confess my other great sins: the impure thoughts at night and the spasms of ecstasy they brought.
    Would the sinning never stop?
    “Hey, Pete,” I called. “Pete … are you coming out?”
    No answer from inside his tenement.
    “Aw, come on, Pete,” I cried, listening to my voice echo back at me in the twilight, the neighborhood caught in after-supper stillness.
    Again no answer, although I knew Pete was home and so were most of his family.
    I kicked at the bottom step and drifted aimlessly toward the street. Twilight was smoothing the harsh edges of things, bringing with it an aching loneliness. I thought of the fade and how it had set me apart from the rest of the world, my world, Frenchtown. From my family. From Pete. He and I had barely communicated in the past two weeks. I had purposely avoided him at first and