Page 8 of Love is Strange
“Much appreciated, Father O’Neil. Come again and we’ll all give you the loyal servant discount,” one of the old crones mocked, and her companion cackled.
“That’s quite enough out of the two of you. Show some respect,” the Madame snapped, and both woman immediately clammed up, making themselves busy. As the boy ushered me out, I glanced back at the woman on the bed. This enchantress, covered in sweat and other unsavory fluids, had cast her spell on me. As I washed my hands of her blood, I looked at myself in the mirror, expecting the sign of the beast to be etched on my forehead. I was completely and utterly smitten. Dazed, I wandered the streets for several hours, sleep long forgotten. This nameless lady of the evening had evoked something I’d never experienced in all of my 30 years on this earth.
Thereafter, I walked by morning and evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I prayed day and night for God to erase her from my thoughts, impure and otherwise. My mind wandered as I prepared my sermons, and in the confessional, as men young and old regaled me with stories from inside the walls of that wretched place she inhabited. I questioned at length where this obsessive streak came from and was reminded of my father’s assertions that I had a pathological weakness for an underdog.
At dinner parties, he’d often muse—much to my humiliation—“If there is a stray within ten miles of this house, Henry will find it and bring it home.”
Regardless of why, she never left my thoughts. I lit a candle for her daughter every night, and I often wondered how her tiny shoulder was recovering. I speculated at the turns in the beauty’s life that had landed them both in their current predicament.
I found myself keeping an eye out in the market for the errand boy. On my walks by the brothel on my evening constitutionals, I wondered at length about which window was hers. I spent more and more time assisting my flock with any and all physical labor that they required, mucking out barns and loading hay. Most tried to dissuade me, but I needed all that hard work to exhaust myself. At night, after I put out the lantern, I recalled her bare, glistening porcelain skin and the memory made it hard to get any sleep.
The whipping winter winds rip me back to the here and now, and anxious to escape the assault, I pull open the cathedral door, crossing the threshold into my sanctuary. The young man I’d been last summer had been an optimist, boldly striding into the world on a mission to spread the gospel. These days, I’m a misanthrope, eager to retreat from this evil world. I’d stumbled on my quest to serve God, and though I know it’s impossible, I feel as if my sins are written on my forehead.
Carrying my burden to the altar, I’m unable to shed my embarrassment at the fantasies I’d once had…that she and I would walk down this aisle together. My senses are heightened as I absorb the ritual of it all, marinate in it like a familiar stew. The thick odor of incense still hangs in the air from the last service, mingling with the aroma of melting wax from hundreds of candles, each representing someone’s plea to The Almighty. It is my sincerest hope that Our Heavenly Father is more generous with my parishioners in that regard than he’s been with me.
I shake my head at my blasphemous thoughts, as this exact behavior is what has me in my current predicament. I’m here to extricate myself... and these thoughts are not mine, but those of the devil on my shoulder. The Lord is testing me, like he has so many others throughout history. Abraham, Lot. I find Adam especially relatable. Tempted by the fruit…but the fault, much like in the Garden of Eden…lies elsewhere.
I gently deposit the burlap sack onto the cool stones at my feet, trying desperately to ignore the writhing movement beneath the rough material. Dropping to my knees, I clasp my hands in front of my aching heart. Raising my chin, I focus on the stained glass images of the Blessed Virgin, barely visible in the stately cathedral. Christ, nailed to his cross, looks longingly toward His Heavenly Father, and I close my eyes in humble regret. My suffering is nothing compared to his, yet I find myself yearning.
“…because of Thy just punishments…” I murmur, and the sack beside me lets out a muffled cry. My heart clenches, gripped tightly in her delicate fist, and I’m transported back to the day she came knocking, and I finally found out her name.
It was roughly six weeks after my late-night visit to that wretched den of inequity, and I’d just packed up for my Tuesday rounds. Every week, I take to the streets visiting the infirmed amongst my congregation, delivering them the sacraments so they don’t have to go without the gift of the blood and body of Christ. Gray skies and whipping winds warned me that a storm brewed over the bay, and I was shrugging into my sweater when I heard a gentle rapping on the rectory door. Assuming it was the milkman, I set aside my basket and bible and opened the door.
The raven-haired object of my erotic fantasies stood before me, her immaculate face framed by a hooded cloak. She cradled her tiny bundle, and when she looked up into my eyes, I could see she’d been crying. Her vulnerability melted me, and I felt myself falling even deeper in love with her. I wanted to confess these feelings, to beg her to run away with me that very instant. Before I could speak, she thrust her baby my way.
“Take her.” Her sapphire eyes shone with fresh unshed tears. Stunned, I simply blinked at her, unprecedented doubt about what to do or say stopping me in my tracks. “I’m begging you, Padre. Take my baby before I change my mind.”
“E-explain,” I finally stammered, pushing the door open, an implied invitation for her to enter my inner sanctum. She hesitated, then hurried across the threshold, the scent of her perfume hitting me like a seductive potion. I closed the door and locked it, following her into the foyer all the while admiring the way she sashayed in her long skirts.
“Tea?” I asked, struggling with my uncharacteristic nerves in her presence.
She nodded, and I led the way into my kitchen. I gestured to the modest oak table, and she seated herself while I put the kettle on to steep. I worried that my cowlick was sticking up, something that only concerned me right before I led services. I couldn’t shake the thought, and I dreamed up an excuse to leave the room so I could check my reflection in the mirror. To my surprise, my light-red hair looked surprisingly tame.
The whistle on the kettle blew, and I rushed back to join her in the kitchen. As I poured the piping hot water into our cups, the baby fussed, and her mother murmured to her in melodious Italian.
“I’ve spent some time in Italy. Whereabouts are you from?” I asked in her native tongue, starving for any and all details she was willing to share.
Her eyebrows bobbed, but she recovered quickly, responding in English. “Modena. Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“It’s fairly forgettable.” She shrugged. “But I miss the food.”
I set her tea on the table in front of her, wearing a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’m embarrassed that I don’t even know your name.”
Her eyes met mine, and she blinked her long coal lashes rapidly. She paused as if considering me and whether she wanted to be honest. Her features took on a resigned calm. “Eve.”
It fit her like a glove, of course. Eve, the naked innocent, manipulated by a serpent, tasting ripe, forbidden fruit, then tempting her mate to do the same. My temperature spiked at the imagery this undeniable parallel conjured, and I fought the urge to tug at my collar.
“Sugar?” I asked, after clearing my throat in an attempt to remove the ever-growing lump that seemed to reside there. When she nodded, I hurried to crack the window over the sink before retrieving the sugar bowl.
“Two lumps please,” she volunteered absently. “And now I’d like you to tell me your name.”
I felt my cheeks catch fire all over again, like a schoolboy with a crush. “Henry.”
“Henry.” Her eyes swept me. “It suits you very well. Please understand me, Henry: I need you to take my daughter. I can’t keep her…not in that awful place. She isn’t safe, and even if she were…she must have a real home.”
I dropped the lumps into her steaming cup and took a seat across from her. “Take her home, Eve. Leave this wretched riverfront and go back to Modena.”
