Page 4 of Priest (Priest 1)
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 wom
an 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.
