Priest (2 page)

In my small, aging parish, there are usually one or two funerals a month, four or five weddings a year, Mass almost every day, and on Sundays more than once. Three days a week, I lead Bible studies, one night a week I assist with the youth group, and every day save for Thursday, I hold office hours for parishioners to visit. I also run several miles each morning and force myself to read fifty pages of something not related to the church or religion whatsoever.

Oh, and I spend a lot of time on
The Walking Dead
reddit. Too much time. Last night I stayed up until two a.m. arguing with some neckbeard about whether or not you could kill a zombie with another zombie’s spinal column.

Which you can’t, obviously, given the rate of bone decay among the walkers.

The point is, for being a holy man in a sleepy bed and breakfast town in the Midwest, I am fairly busy, so I can be forgiven for being surprised that next week when the woman returned to my confessional.

Rowan had just left, and I was also getting ready to stand and leave when I heard the other door open and someone slide into the booth. I thought maybe it was Rowan again—it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d doubled back because he’d remembered some new menial sin that he’d forgotten to tell me about.

But no. It was that husky, knowing voice, the voice that had inspired my extra rosaries last week.

“It’s me again,” the woman said, with a nervous laugh. “Um, the non-Catholic?”

My words came out deeper than I’d meant them to, more clipped. A tone I hadn’t taken with a woman in a long time. “I remember you.”

“Oh,” she said. She sounded a little surprised, as if she hadn’t actually expected me to remember her. “Good. I guess.”

She shifted a bit, and through the screen I saw hints of the woman behind—dark hair, white skin, a flash of red lipstick.

I shifted a bit too, unconsciously, my body suddenly aware of everything. The custom-tailored slacks (a gift from my businessmen brothers), the hard wood of the bench, the collar that all of a sudden was too tight, much too tight.

“You’re Father Bell, right?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I saw your picture on the website. After last week, I thought maybe it would be easier if I knew what your name was and what you looked like. You know, more like I was talking to a person and not to a wall.”

“And is it easier?”

She hesitated. “Not really.” But she didn’t elaborate and I didn’t press, mostly because I was trying to coach myself away from the host of implausible desires that crowded my mind.

No, you can’t ask her name.

No, you can’t go open the door to see what she looks like.

No, you can’t request that she only tell you about her carnal sins.

“Are you ready to begin?” I asked, trying to redirect my thoughts back to the matter at hand, the confession.

Follow the script, Tyler.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Poppy

So I have this job. Had this job, I should say, because I do something different now, but up until a month ago, I worked in a place that could be considered…sinful. I think that’s the right word, although I never felt sinful working there. You’d think that would be why I’m here—and in a way it is—but it’s more that I feel like I should be confessing it to someone because I
don’t
feel like I should confess it. Does that make any sense? Like I
should
feel awful about what I’ve done and how I’ve earned my money, but I don’t feel awful in the least, and I know that’s wrong somehow.

Also, I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re wondering.

You know what else I should feel guilty about? The fact that I’ve wasted everyone’s time and money. My parents in particular, but even you, this person I don’t know, I’m detaining you and making you listen to all of my fucked-up-ery and thereby wasting your time and your church’s money. See? I’m a wreck, wherever I go.

Part of the problem is that there’s this slice of myself that has always been there with me, or maybe it’s not a slice, but a layer, like a ring of a tree. And wherever I go and whatever I do, it’s there. And it didn’t fit into my old life in Newport, and then it didn’t fit into my new life in Kansas City, and now I realize it doesn’t fit anywhere, so what does that mean? Does that mean that I don’t fit in anywhere? That I’m destined to be alone and detestable because I carry this demon on my back?

The funny thing is that I feel like there’s this other life, this shadow life I’ve been offered, where that demon can run free and I can let that ring, that layer, consume me. But the price is the rest of me. It’s like the universe—or God—is saying that I can have it my way, but at the cost of my self-respect and my independence and this vision of the person I want to be. But then what’s the cost of
this
way? I run away to a small town and spend my days working a job I don’t care about and then spend my nights alone? I have my self-respect, I have good deeds, but let me tell you, Father, good deeds don’t warm your bed at night, and I’m filled with this awful kind of despair because I can’t have both and I
want
both.

I want a good life,
and
I want passion and romance. But I was raised to see one as a waste and the other as distasteful, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop feeling like “Poppy Danforth” has become synonymous with waste and distaste, even though I’ve done everything I possibly can to escape that feeling…

“Maybe we should continue this next week.”

She’d been quiet for a long time after her last sentence, her breathing shaky. I didn’t need to see inside her booth to know that she was barely holding it together, and if we were in a
modern
reconciliation room, I would have been able to take her hand or touch her shoulder or
something
. But here, I could extend no comfort other than my words, and I sensed that she was past absorbing words right now.

“Oh. Okay. Did I—did I take up too much time? I’m sorry, I’m not really used to the rules.”

“Not at all,” I said softly. “But I think it’s good to start small, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmured. I could hear her gathering her things and opening the door as she spoke. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. So…there’s no penance or anything that I should do? When I Googled confession last week, it said that sometimes there is penance, like saying a Hail Mary or something.”

Debating with myself, I also stepped out of the booth, thinking it would be easier to explain penance and contrition to her face rather than through that stupid screen, and then I froze.

Her voice was sexy. Her laugh was even sexier. But neither held a candle to
her
.

She had long dark hair, almost black, and pale, pale skin, highlighted by the bright red lipstick she wore. Her face was delicate, fine cheekbones and large eyes, the kind of face that peered out of fashion magazine covers. But it was her mouth that drew me in, lush lips that were slightly parted, letting me see that her two front teeth were ever so slightly larger than the rest, an imperfection that for some reason made her all the sexier.

And before I could stop myself, I thought,
I want my dick in that mouth.

I want that mouth crying my name.

I want—

I looked toward the front of the church, toward the crucifix.

Help me
, I prayed silently.
Is this some sort of test?

“Father Bell?” she prompted.

I drew in a breath and sent another quick prayer that she wouldn’t notice that I was transfixed by her mouth…or that the flat-fronted wool slacks I wore were suddenly growing a little too tight.

“There’s no need for penance right now. In fact, I think coming back here to talk is a small act of contrition in and of itself, don’t you?”

A small smile quirked her mouth, and I wanted to kiss that smile until she was pressing herself against me and begging me to take her.

Holy shit, Tyler. What the fuck?

I said a mental Hail Mary of my own while she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “So maybe I’ll see you next week?”

Crap. Could I actually do this again in seven days? But then I thought of her words, so full of pain and bleak confusion, and I once again felt the urge to comfort her. Give her some kind of peace, a flame of hope and vibrancy that she could take with her and nourish into a new, full life for herself.

“Of course. I’m looking forward to it, Poppy.” I hadn’t meant to say her name, but there it was and when I said it, I said it in
that
voice, the one I didn’t use anymore, the one that used to have women dropping to their knees and reaching for my belt without me having to do so much as say
please
.

And her reaction sent a jolt straight to my dick. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating, and her pulse leapt in her throat. Not only was my body having an insanely unprecedented response to hers, but she was just as affected by me as I was by her.

And somehow that made everything so much worse, because now it was only the thin line of my self-control that kept me from bending her over a pew and spanking that creamy white ass for making me hard when I didn’t want to be, for making me think about her naughty mouth when I should be thinking about her eternal soul.

I cleared my throat, three years of unflagging discipline the only thing that kept my voice even. “And just so you know…”

“Y-yes?” she asked, biting into that full lower lip.

“You don’t have to drive up from Kansas City just to come here for confession. I’m sure any priest there would be happy to hear you. My own confessor, Father Brady, is really good, and he’s based in downtown Kansas City.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, like a bird. “But I don’t live in Kansas City anymore. I live here, in Weston.”

Well, shit.

Tuesdays. Fuck Tuesdays.

I said early morning Mass to a mostly empty sanctuary—two hat-wearing grandmothers and Rowan—and then I went for my run, mentally cataloging all the things I wanted to get done today, including putting together an informational packet for our youth group trip next spring and writing my homily for this week.

Weston is a town of river bluffs, a topography of fields sloping towards the Missouri River, punctuated with punishingly steep hills. Runs here are brutal and vicious and clarifying. After the first six miles, I was covered in sweat and breathing hard, turning up my music so that Britney’s voice drowned out everything else.

I rounded the corner onto the main drag through town, the sidewalks mostly clear of people browsing antiques and art shops since it was a weekday. I only had to dodge one elderly-looking couple as I forced myself up the steep road, my thigh and calf muscles screaming. Sweat dripped down my neck and shoulders and back, my hair was soaked, each breath felt like punishment, and the morning sun made sure that I was greeted by waves of August heat rolling off the asphalt.

I loved it.

Everything else bled away—the upcoming renovation to the church, the homilies I needed to write, Poppy Danforth.

Especially Poppy Danforth. Especially her and the knowledge that the mere act of thinking about her made me stiff.

I hated myself a little for what had happened yesterday. She was clearly a well-educated, intelligent and interesting woman, and she had come to me, despite not being Catholic, for words of help. And instead of seeing her as a lamb in need of guidance, I had been unable to fixate on anything other than her mouth while we were talking.

I was a priest. I was sworn to God not to know another’s body while I lived—not even to know my own body, if we were getting technical about it. It wasn’t okay to think the kind of thoughts I had about Poppy.

I was supposed to be a shepherd of the flock, not the wolf.

Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal sins in a starring role.

Guilt wormed through me at the memory.

I’m going to hell
, I thought.
There’s no way I’m not going to hell.

Because as guilty as I felt, I didn’t know if I could control myself if I saw her again.

No, that wasn’t quite right. I knew that I could—but I didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to give up the right to carry her voice and body and stories in my mind.

Which was a problem. As I came up on the final mile of my run, I wondered what I would tell a parishioner who was in the same situation. What I would offer as my honest insight into what God would want.

Guilt is a sign from your conscience that you’ve strayed from the Lord.

Confess your sin to God openly and sincerely. Ask for forgiveness and the strength to overcome the temptation should it arise again.

And lastly, remove yourself from the temptation altogether.

I could see the church and the rectory, only a short distance away. I knew now what I would do. I would shower and then I would spend a long hour praying and asking for forgiveness.

And for strength. Yes, I would ask for that too.

And the next time Poppy came in, I would have to find a way to tell her that I couldn’t be her confessor again. The thought made me depressed for some reason, but I’d been a priest long enough to know that sometimes the best decisions were the ones with the most short-term unhappiness.

I stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, feeling lighter now that I had a plan to follow. This would be so much better; everything was going to be fine.

“Britney Spears, huh?”

That voice. Even though I’d only heard it twice, it had been seared onto my memory.

It was a mistake, but I turned anyway as I pulled out my earbuds.

She was running too, and by the looks of it, she’d run just as far as I had. She wore a sports bra and very, very short running shorts, that only
just
covered her perfect ass. Sweat dripped from her too, and she was absent the red lipstick, but her mouth looked even more amazing without it, and the only thing that saved me from staring hungrily at it was the fact that her toned thighs and flat stomach and perky tits were on such ready display.

Blood rushed to my groin.

She was still smiling at me, and I remembered that she had said something.

“Sorry, what?” My words came out harsh, breathless. I winced, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I just didn’t peg you for a Britney Spears fan,” she said, pointing to where my iPhone was strapped to my bicep and clearly displaying the cover of
Oops…I Did It Again
. “Retro Britney too.”

If I weren’t already roasting from the run and the heat, I would have flushed. I reached for my phone and tried to subtly change the song.

She laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll just pretend I saw you listening to—what is it that men of God listen to when they run? Hymns? No, don’t tell me. Chanting monks.”