Beauty and the Blitz

by Sosie Frost

  Knowing how it had been done to me.

  “No, Father.”

  She sat up and the sheet wrapped over her navel. Her hair cast loose, and she let it cover her chest. Just as the children’s Bibles drew Eve before she obscured her beauty with a fig leaf.

  I didn’t believe her. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”

  Her words emboldened. “No. Just the opposite.”

  I should have wept in relief. Instead, I gritted my teeth. I’d given her pleasure, and she gave her heat, her tightness, her need. She’d surrendered to me.

  Christ, I was not worthy.

  Honor slipped from the bed. She took her bra and panties from the floor and gathered them to her body. I said nothing as she retraced her steps to the living room to find the rest of her clothes. The light from the powder room flipped on, and I listened for the door to shut behind her before I moved.

  My body ached. My brain cried for sleep. Hormones. The only blessing for a man once the sin was done, the seed was planted, and the bodies desecrated in lust.

  But I hadn’t desecrated her. Had I? I’d prayed too much, too hard, too deeply to have let sin with me. I swore to carry her burdens, and yet I knew the instant I rose, the moment I donned that cassock once more…it’d have been for nothing.

  I dressed in the pants and t-shirt. My hand stilled over my collar, wrinkled and buried under clothes on the floor. I kissed it.

  Honor was dressed when I returned to her. We stood in silence, and I lamented that I was not some other man. One that might have held her, kissed her, whispered poetry that declared her the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Instead, I didn’t know what to say. God had given me many words to share, but the devil stole them all in a moment of weakness.

  Honor’s voice was too loud, even in a whisper. We both flinched.

  “I didn’t park out front,” she said. “My car is in the church’s lot.”

  “I should walk with you. It’s late and dark.”

  “No, Father. I need…to be alone.” She held her hand out, preventing my approach. “And so do you.”

  I didn’t wish her goodnight. I couldn’t. No night could be better or worse than ours.

  She bowed her head and rushed from my home, quietly. Like a little church mouse fearing she’d be discovered.

  But no one would see her.

  No one but me.

  …No one but God.

  I watched her go, and another sliver of my soul shattered at my feet. I should have made her stay. I should have welcomed her into my arms, into my bed.

  I never should have touched her.

  The night came and went, and morning drew too near.

  Sunday morning.

  I had sinned before Mass. Somehow it made my wonderful, amazing, mind-altering experience seem even more…wrong. Or did it? I waited for a sign that I was damned. A smiting. A strike against me. Tears. Anything that might have moved me.

  I showered and shaved, but I felt nothing beyond the tranquility of my body. Calmed. Protected.

  But if God wouldn’t punish me, I’d do it myself.

  I walked to the church to prepare for Mass, twisting the rosary beads in my fingers without murmuring a single word or prayer. Normally, I’d bless them before celebrating Mass. Not today. The beads had grazed her skin, were held in her hand. Nothing holier existed than her touch, and I cherished the rosaries even as they burned through my conscience.

  My head and heart weren’t connected. I tripped on the loose stair in the rear of St. Cecilia’s—the one I’d always managed to skip in the past. My toe ached, and I limped the halls in silence as the church came alive for worship.

  The sacristy buzzed with activity. My altar servers and deacons dressed and joked. Some gulped coffee to stem hangovers. Others struggled to find a working lighter for the candles waiting in the sanctuary. They greeted me with smiles.

  They had no idea of the sins I’d committed, and they never would. They needed me—to lead, to guide, to serve the congregation in the joy of Mass. I couldn’t let them see how I had weakened. My faith fed theirs. If I faltered…

  It wouldn’t happen.

  I turned to dress, but my shaking hands knocked every vestment off the hangers. They crumpled on the bottom of the cupboard. Deacon Smith groaned.

  “I just organized that, Father.” He waved a hand. “I pity what your mother went through on laundry day.”

  “She had her hands full.” The joke appeased them, but it hurt me.

  I refused to let myself think of my home, my parents—that nightmare—while in the safety of the church. I suffered enough this morning.

  I helped Deacon Smith hang the vestments, but my mind blanked.

  Which one was I supposed to wear today?

  I stared at the cabinet, at the red, white, and pink robes.

  I fought to remember. Green. Today was green. On the liturgical calendar, these days, when not celebrating any feast or moment in particular, were called Ordinary.

  But this day was anything but ordinary.

  I dressed, and my heart pounded in my chest. The rapturous beating buzzed my ears with the rush of blood. I couldn’t hear my deacons, the organ’s music, or the conversation of the parishioners as they filled into the sanctuary for Mass.

  I couldn’t let myself get distracted. Mass was a time of celebration—a few minutes of praise, glory, and gratitude for the Lord and his blessings upon the church.

  And yet I could think only of myself—on my own selfish desires and mounting sins.

  I deserved to burn myself on the charcoal we used to light the incense. Rookie mistake. I tossed the charcoal into the censer and gave it a quick swing.

  Too much.

  Puffs of sandalwood escaped in a thick cloud. Deacon Smith and my altar servers coughed. The smoke detector gave a warning chirp.

  Not what we needed.

  Deacon Smith leapt onto a stacked pile of chairs and climbed to the smoke detector, silencing it with a thud of his fist before the incense forced an evacuation.

  “Easy, Father Rafe.” He laughed and removed the battery. I helped him down from the chair. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine.” I handed the censer to the attendant who promptly adjusted the cage. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

  “Happens to us all.”

  Not like this.

  Not before Mass.

  Not when the souls of my entire congregation depended on me to bless them, honor them, and deliver them to salvation.

  As if I deserved that right.

  A priest was no different from a lay person—I was in mortal sin, and I was to confess what had happened and beg for my forgiveness. Fortunately, the sins marred only my soul. The communion I’d offer to the parish was still valid, even when administered by a sinner’s hand.

  Even if I had no right to take the communion.

  And I had no idea how to hide that.

  Deacon Smith offered me a bottle of water. I chugged without tasting it.

  “I can assist you today, Father,” he said. “The choir can sing without my direction. Usually. Most of the times. Somewhat. I don’t think they’ll sing Lady Gaga without me to direct them…”

  The choir.

  Honor.

  Was she here?

  My thoughts corrupted images of my sweet, smiling Honor into the memories of her naked, writhing, and impaled upon my cock.

  “Go to the choir,” I said. I gestured to the others. “I have my altar servers to help.”

  And I’d be fine…provided I remembered my words. The Missal would be before me, the words and actions and ritual instructions were always upon the altar so we did not commit a mistake. But my head clouded as the incense fogged my thoughts. What was once muscle memory and rote memorization faded in the uncertainty of my sin.

  I’d never faced a sin I couldn’t conquer. And I never fought so hard only to lose. I suffered in my humiliating, humbling defeat.

/>   Honor was right. I had prided myself on my ability to overcome temptation and sin. My caution became arrogance, and my arrogance my undoing.

  I ruined myself. I broke my vows. I damned her.

  And still I waited for the moment when the heralds would call and the angels would descend and that fiery sword of justice would strike through my blackened heart.

  It didn’t come.

  And the congregation awaited me to lead them in a celebration of the Lord.

  I marched the processional to the altar. Nearly two hundred good, honest souls in attendance looked to me to guide them during this celebration.

  And all I heard was her singing.

  Heaven.

  She sang in beautiful, pure harmony with the rest of the Choir. Her voice burst over the sanctuary, bright and solemn and angelic.

  It haunted me.

  The incense swung from my hand. Once. Twice.

  Had I swung the third time before the candles?

  I couldn’t remember now. The servers said nothing, and I moved to the altar. I bowed and rested for a moment, clearing my mind.

  It didn’t work.

  My concentration was broken. I listened for her voice above all others.

  She wasn’t just a distraction. I never knew an angel could damn someone so completely.

  At least I had a chance to cleanse my soul. The Penitential Act was written and spoken to beseech the Lord for forgiveness, for an honest confession of sins and guilt.

  My voice led the congregation, strengthening as I spoke the prayer. The words had never meant so much to me.

  “…I have greatly sinned in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do…” My gaze fell over the church—the bored parishioners in the pews, the children and adults on their phones, and the handful who listened.

  She was there.

  Honor clutched her hymnal in the center of the choir. She dressed in concert black, covered and pure once more. She, too, spoke the words of the prayer with meaning.

  I clutched my trembling fingers into a fist, each repeated word a strike over my heart.

  “…Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”

  And I meant it. Everything that happened between us was my fault.

  Would it change anything? I felt no relief. No hope.

  I was once a perfect, penitent servant for Christ. Now, my blood stirred and thoughts darkened. Had she but whispered, I’d have given my soul to become a servant for her.

  The readings echoed over the church, and I sat at the side of the dais. My gaze fell only to the sacred altar, the looming crucifix, my own folded hands. The choir stood behind me, and I flinched as Honor sang once more, a beautiful solemn psalm between readings.

  I thought I was strong enough to save us both.

  What if I was just weak enough to destroy her?

  I stood once more, prepared to deliver the homily for the week. At least it amused me. The parable of the lost sheep. How apt. One truly repentant soul could make Heaven rejoice over the prayers of ninety-nine righteous souls who didn’t need to repent.

  If I wasn’t a devout man, I might have overlooked the sign. But I knew what I had to do.

  Protect Honor at all costs, through all transgressions.

  And hopefully save myself.

  The Mass was slower than usual, my motions tripped by trembling fingers or words. A dyslexia of the soul. I consecrated the bread and wine and deliberately focused on my actions, but my mind was blessed by images of her.

  On her back. Sharing in a passion so honest and genuine and pure I couldn’t banish the beauty of it as I could cast away the nightmare of sin.

  Lead us not into temptation…

  The Lord’s Prayer meant so much in that moment, and yet, the sound muffled against my ears and heart. Had the congregation noticed?

  Every sound dragged from my lips. I worried it called the wrong attention to me. That the congregation didn’t see my collar or my robes or the chalice I lifted in praise.

  I feared they saw me. The sinner I was. The villain I’d became.

  The lost child who had sought comfort and family within the church when his own blood wanted only to destroy his innocence.

  I broke the bread and spoke the words, but my hands trembled.

  The priest was always honored with the first gift of the Host. I cracked a small corner of the wafer, dusting my fingers over the chalice to ensure no crumbs spilled.

  I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t cleansed. I hadn’t confessed. To celebrate communion would only cause further sins.

  I clenched my jaw and broke it again. Smaller.

  The congregation didn’t notice. Maybe they wouldn’t see my shame.

  I mimed the motion, pretending to take the Host upon my tongue. I drew the chalice to my lips but refused to taste the wine.

  Did anyone notice?

  I glanced over the pews. None whispered. No one thought any differently of the motions, my prayers, my guilt. Hardly anyone paid attention.

  Only one person saw what I had done.

  Honor looked away the instant our eyes met.

  My heart had opened for her. Now it shattered.

  If she asked, I’d have forgiven her. The question remained. Could I forgive myself?

  That answer wrenched from the depths of my crumbling soul.

  No.

  Mass ended in praise and song, announcements and a few pleas for more volunteers for the Summer Festival. Deacon Smith praised the current volunteers. Apparently they had signed more vendors and brought more food, games, and activities into the parish.

  They thanked Honor Thomas especially for her tireless work, and then the faithful filed out.

  One ceremony done. One more to go, the Mass at noon. Larger than the early morning one.

  How was I to get through another ceremony?

  I had an hour to prepare, and I stripped of the alb and chasuble to collapse at my desk. My rosaries hadn’t offered me comfort last night. They weighed heavier in my hand now.

  The knock was soft, too light and patient for Deacon Smith. I looked up as the door opened.

  I’d expected her.

  Honor dressed in black for the choir, a simple and modest skirt and long-sleeved shirt that hid everything I had cherished last night. Her hair was loose. For some priests, in some Masses, we asked woman to wear a scarf over their hair. Not in my church. Honor’s ebony curls bounced, soft and perfect over her delicate form. She looked no less holy, no less innocent than she had while resting in my bed.

  She didn’t let me speak. She came forward, holding her fist out to me.

  Her fingers unclenched.

  The communion wafer waited in her palm.

  “I’m sorry, Father Rafe,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. Deacon Smith handed them to the entire choir, and I would have made a scene if I refused. I didn’t know what to do.”

  My voice rasped, hoarse, a harsh and graveled sound. The same tone I took with her in bed. The grunted and masculine dominion over her.

  “You aren’t supposed to take that,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I had options. Return it to the tabernacle. Use it in the next service. The body of the Lord wasn’t something that could or should be smooshed within the penitent hand. But I knew what I was to do.

  I took her palm, pulling it close. Her heat stirred me once more, and I caressed her fingers in mine. I murmured the blessing and took the wafer in my mouth, allowing it to dissolve upon my tongue as I was permitted to do.

  A crumb remained on her hand.

  I drew her fingers to my mouth and kissed her skin.

  She trembled.

  “Honor—”

  My angel ripped her hand from mine and bolted from my office.

  I hated to swear, hated the vulgar words and profane meanings, and yet nothing expressed my frustration more. I bit my tongue and clutched my rosaries before my temper overwhelmed me.

>   No.

  Not temper.

  Guilt.

  Hell wasn’t a place or an idea. It was guilt. The realization of my sins and of the sins I’d committed against those innocent to my desires.

  And yet, even as I stood, even as I dressed for the second Mass and prepared myself to lead yet another ceremony, my mind raced with the guilty thoughts.

  Not for what I had done.

  Not for the vows I broke.

  Not for the woman I lost.

  But because no matter what prayers I whispered or confessions I gave, I’d never forget last night.

  She was a sin I would never regret.

  Honor

  “I really hope Jesus is tone-deaf.”

  Alyssa declared it after a particularly poor rendition of the Alleluia. Deacon Smith shushed her.

  Samantha giggled. “Was that blasphemous?”

  God only knew. Everything was a sin—or at least, it looked that way to a sinner.

  “Look, guys.” Deacon Smith sighed. “We have three weeks until the festival. Can we please pick a song so that we can practice said song so we aren’t humiliated at our own Battle of the Choirs? You know. The one we organized?”

  Alyssa sighed. “I vote Ava Maria.”

  Deacon Smith would pop a vein. “Everyone will sing Ava Maria! We need something stellar. Something that will really show up those other choirs.”

  Samantha giggled. “Amen.”

  I couldn’t fault Deacon Smith. We rehearsed a dozen different songs, but nothing felt right. And our latest piece was scrapped after we encountered a bit of…competition.

  “This is getting real,” I said. “The other churches we invited? They’re taking it a little too seriously.” I crinkled the paper in my hand. “The Lutheran Church down the road just stapled their set-list to our doors.”

  Most of the choir groaned and laughed.

  Samantha tilted her head. “I don’t get it?”

  Deacon Smith smacked the piano and ordered us to open our hymnals again. “We just need more practice. I’m thinking of scheduling another night.”

  The choir grumbled. I opened my phone’s calendar. Every day had an event or a crisis or a class or a job of some sort. Women’s group. Choir practice. Festival organization. Food Pantry. Classes. Part-time hours I’d begged to work at the library for extra money.