Old Donegal made a surly noise and hunched his head back into the pillow to glower.
"You want me?" the priest asked. "Or is this just a case of wifely conscience?"
"What's the difference? Give me the business and scram."
"No soap. Do you want the sacrament, or are you just being kind to your wife? If it's for Martha, I'll go now."
Old Donegal glared at him for a time, then wilted. The priest brought his bag to the bedside.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."
"Bless you, son."
"I accuse myself ..."
Tension, anger, helplessness—they had piled up on him, and now he was feeling the after-effects. Vertigo, nausea, and the black confetti—a bad spell. The whiskey—if he could only reach the whiskey. Then he remembered he was receiving a Sacrament, and struggled to get on with it. Tell him, old man, tell him of your various rottennesses and vile transgressions, if you can remember some. A sin is whatever you're sorry for, maybe. But Old Donegal, you're sorry for the wrong things, and this young jesuitical gadget wouldn't like listening to it. I'm sorry I didn't get it instead of Oley, and I'm sorry I fought in the war, and I'm sorry I can't get out of this bed and take a belt to my daughter's backside for making a puny whelp out of Ken, and I'm sorry I gave Martha such a rough time all these years—and wound up dying in a cheap flat, instead of giving her things like the Keiths had. I wish I had been a sharpster, contractor, or thief ... instead of a common laboring spacer, whose species lost its glamor after the war.