“You’re not exactly innocent in this either.” She leveled me with a fiery glare.
“No need to tell me that. I’ve done my fair share of confessing.”
“Well, add this to your list—accomplice to a church cover-up.” She stood only feet away from where I gave my homily each Mass. The apse gleamed with precious relics behind her, all carried here by explorers from Spain and other far reaches of the holy world. The carefully sculpted chancel arch bounced light around the room from the stained-glass windows, creating an enchanting halo of rainbow light around her.
“Perhaps we can do this in a less…public place.”
“Now you have discretion? Last I knew you, it was the very last thing on your list of concerns.”
“Tressa,” I sighed, shoving a hand in my hair before stalking up the aisle after her. “What’s with the display?”
“No display, Bastien.” She shrugged out of my grip at her elbow. “But maybe you’re the one who should report this old guy for, oh, I dunno, spreading his semen among unsuspecting women?”
“Unsuspecting women?” I nearly laughed, hoping all of this was sarcasm. “I hardly think these women were naïve.”
“But you don’t know. What about Casey’s mom? Whatever happened there was seriously fucking traumatic. Pain like that can’t be brushed under the rug, and that’s why he targeted St. Mike’s all those years later, triggered by an unresolved past and willing to take all of us down with him.”
Her eyes tore up and down the nave, shaking her head when her gaze landed on the Stations of the Cross. “Forgive me, Father, but haven’t we all sinned? Where does the church get off covering up for these people who take advantage of other humans? Wouldn’t it be better to be open and honest, seek proper justice and treatment, and show what true redemption and honesty look like?”
There was that passion for justice I knew simmered just below the surface and motivated her in all things she did.
“Casey nearly killed Luce and her baby that day, two people’s lives would have been snuffed out, a string of tragedies set into motion due to how many bad decisions by Father Martin. He upended our lives decades later like phantom shrapnel. I don’t care if he’s my father. That’s not something I can hide when other innocent people are involved.”
I pressed both my palms over my face, all of her statements as true and valid as if God Himself had spoken them.
“You’re right,” I whispered, our eyes equally raw with emotion. “I’ll report him.”
Tressa nodded once, reservation still staining her features.
“But I don’t know if it will make a difference,” I added solemnly.
TWENTY-NINE
Bastien
I did for Tressa what I promised I would.
I submitted the report that very night and even went to the extra lengths of carbon-copying the cardinal and bishop from St. Michael’s and those from my local diocese now. A paper trail might incite them to action.
Once I hit send on the emails, that was it.
Just like that, the tension seemed to work itself out of our lives.
Until the following Monday.
Tressa had already decided she wouldn’t be doing my rounds with me this week, and I’d thought it was better that way anyway. While those in my flock were all respectful and hadn’t even asked a thing about her last week, I also didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to her and me.
I wasn’t even sure what our future held, exactly.
I knew only two things.
I loved being with her.
I hated myself without her.
Surely, church or no church, that accounted for something.
And it was with those thoughts in my head that I set off down the dusty road a week later, walking the short distance to Carmelita’s house.
By the time I’d arrived a few minutes later, I knew something was amiss.
Santiago sat on the brightly painted porch, head in his hands, puppy between his knees.
“Padre Juan is sick,” he said dejectedly upon my approach.
“Is he inside?”
Santiago shook his head, tears welling. “Mamá took him to the hospital this morning. She says it’s not so good if Padre Juan has to go to the hospital.”
I frowned, setting the basket of items on the porch and then taking Santiago by the hand. “What do you say we pay the hospital a visit and see what we can find out?”
His dark chestnut eyes rounded as he popped up, tucking his hand in mine with a smile. “And can we stop for ice cream too? The last time Mamá took me to the hospital was when Abuela was there. She got me an ice cream cone after to cheer me up.”
I nodded, chest aching. I thought of this little boy living the rest of his life without his father, even if he hadn’t known it was him to begin with.
With the scent of bougainvillea surrounding us, I replied, “Sure thing, kiddo.”
THIRTY
Bastien
Two mornings later, we were walking the same route. Only this time, Carmelita was on my arm, sniffling into a tissue as she mourned the death of her companion, Padre Juan Martin.
Tressa walked just behind us, tiny Santiago’s hand wrapped in hers, head bent as she silently mourned the passing of her father. I hadn’t even expected to tackle this hurdle, most especially not in quite this way, but here we were. Within weeks of her arrival to my island, Tressa had both found her father and lost him to this life.
All of his secrets, destined to die with him.
“Come. Let me bless you, child. I see many babies in the future for you. A woman must protect her fertility.” Carmelita waggled her thick eyebrows at Tressa a few hours after the funeral.
We were surrounded by the infectious Martinez family, and while they were gathered to honor the passing of a man so well loved in this community, he meant something extra special to this one.
I’d once wondered if the rest of Carmelita’s children were Padre Juan’s, but no longer did I have to. Just as Tressa had known, it became clearer to me too after spending the last few days with the extended family, very often assisting them into the wee hours, Tressa at my side, tucking children into bed and feeding babies with a bottle.
It struck me two days in that, while Tressa may not have had much of a family life growing up, she settled into it with great ease. A complete natural.
“I don’t think there are kids in my future,” Tressa finally replied. “I have my godson, Luca. Hopefully, I can bring him down to meet Santiago someday.” She ruffled the little boy’s wavy hair with a smile.
“Does he speak Spanish?” the little boy inquired.
“Nope, he doesn’t yet, but I bet you’d be great at teaching him.” She spoke to Santiago in her own softly accented Spanish, something she’d obviously picked up since I’d last seen her. She’d had a passable understanding as I recalled, but since she’d set foot on this island, she’d slipped into my native tongue almost flawlessly. The way her tongue wrapped around some of the words made my dick throb. She was a gust of fresh air, the thought of living even a minute without her by my side already unbearable.
“Nonsense! You’ll have many, many good Catholic babies.” Carmelita worked an herb paste of lord knows what into a shallow dish and mixed it with some various ground powders before taking one spoonful and dumping it into a glass of red juice. “A little rain and tobacco water, a few herbs and ground plantain leaves, the white of one small egg from my prized Cubalaya chicken, and just a drop of holy water. Drink up. This helps awaken up the womb.”
Tressa’s eyes nearly burst out of her head as Carmelita pushed the concoction up to her lips, forcing Tressa to drink.
She did, swallowing it all as I watched from across the room, stifling my laugh.
“Ai, Mamá. Enough with that voodoo shit. She’ll be able to fly back to Santa Maria’s for as long as you steep that tobacco water. Leave Padre and Tressa alone.” Margarita swept through the room, backpack on her shoulder as she kissed he
r mother on both cheeks. “Tressa is coming to Havana to see me soon. I’m going to give her the real Cuban experience.” Margarita winked at Tressa. “How can I show her all the wonderful rum-soaked ways of our people if she’s growing one anyway?”
“The ways of our people.” Carmelita tapped Margarita on the cheek. “You’re too much for me.”
I stifled a laugh, wondering just when Tressa had planned on telling me she was hitting the streets of Havana with Margarita.
“Sisterhood.” Margarita shot a mischievous wink at Tressa, a look I could undoubtedly say I’d seen from Tressa on more than one occasion.
“Hush, niña.”
“It’s written all over the angles of her face, Mamá. Padre was a dirty old man long before he came to Cuba.”
Carmelita’s eyes watered with mourning. “Sí, but he was mine.”
Margarita kissed her mother again before wiping at her own set of tears. Once she’d composed herself, she turned and thanked us before quietly exiting the tiny little home, bustling with so much life, even amid sadness.
Tressa was still swirling the remnants of her juice glass around, eyes worried. I’d explained early on that Carmelita practiced a sort of hybrid form of Cuban Catholicism called Santería, a blend of African rituals and dance with holy Catholic saints and traditional prayers. Tressa’s eyes had grown wide, and she’d promptly spent the next few hours Googling everything she could about it. She had such a keen interest in culture and people that I imagined she was soaking up Carmelita’s little fertility recipe regardless of the consequences.
Tressa had already offered to watch a few of the kids in the village to give their parents a much-needed break, a notion many of them hadn’t really had the chance to consider before. I imagined the church would soon be overrun with rug rats, just like St. Mike’s had become with a little of her special brand of TLC. She’d also started taking a lot of photos and videos, sharing the side of Cuba many tourists never got to see and uploading to a new social media travel blog she’d started with the hopes of organizing humanitarian missions to countries in need, especially those hit by environmental hardship or suffering a depletion in natural resources.
Always ambitious and never at a loss for ideas, a rebel warrior, my girl was. She inspired me every day.
And that’s what I’d begun to think love was all about.
Finding inspiration in the world around you, tapping into it, cultivating a universe of good with the set of God-given gifts you’d been given. My view of God hadn’t wavered much in nearly forty years, but a few short weeks with her, and the very notion of love and religion itself was turned on its head.
And it was exhilarating.
Being with her had also brought me to the conclusion that a good relationship required each person to face honesty head on, in themselves and others. Without the individual growth born out of the ashes of our relationship, she and I would have carried on running from all the problems our fragile human hearts feared most. There wasn’t dishonor in vulnerability; there was power and courage in its admittance. Honor in direct confrontation of weakness. She brought out the crusader for humanity and truth that’d slept dormant inside me.
I’d found my sense of purpose right here, at this little table, in this tiny village, helping those with my hands dirty and my heart open. I’d been cautiously avoiding what the future looked like for Tressa and me. Could we do as Carmelita and Padre Juan had done? The same half commitment Tressa’s own mother had suffered through, only to end this life alone with a dream never fully realized?
If Tressa and I chose that path, these people would embrace us. And that sense of unconditional love brought me calm in the chaotic storm.
But I knew that life would never be good enough for Tressa.
I would never allow it to be.
Taking the easy road wasn’t something I was interested in as much as I might have been before. Our lives had changed, motivations altered, souls shifted into a new gear. My priorities were different now; that was the unavoidable truth.
The fact that, overall, this tradition had burned more than redeemed both of us was an unavoidable truth too.
“Mamá!” Santiago sang, pulling me into the present moment. “Look what I found from Papi!”
Tressa’s gaze flew to mine, the knowledge that Santiago knew Padre Juan was his father rocking both of us more than a little bit.
Carmelita rounded the table, taking the small tin can filled to the brim with old, hand-rolled cigar stubs and an empty bottle of rum from the little boy’s hands.
A soft smile lit her cheeks as she shook her head. “Ah, mi padre.”
Tears brimmed so heavily, she set both items down on the table and rushed from the room, soft rag drying the edges of her eyes as she went.
Santiago shrugged, smiling brightly at us before turning on his heel and hustling out the door, little dog hot behind him.
“Kids are the best,” Tressa whispered, eyes hovering on the bright yellow door he’d left swinging in his wake.
My own eyes shifted to the can of cigar stubs, an idea dawning. “If you had a question about your paternity,” I said the next words, unsure of how they’d land, “I think now would be the time to take action.”
Tressa’s gaze followed mine down to the tin, realization lighting her dark irises. “I should take one.”
I nodded, swiping a napkin from the table and waiting.
She sucked her lips between her teeth, working her fingers back and forth before quickly plucking one of the charred stubs from the tin and plopping it on the napkin. I rolled it gently and tucked it into the pocket of my jacket.
“That could answer a lot of questions,” she murmured.
“It could generate a lot of them too.”
She hummed, standing with the now softly sleeping baby in her arms. She walked the chubby baby across the room and nestled it in a pile of hand-woven afghans on the old couch. Carmelita breezed back into the room then, face fresh as ever, smile stretching both cheeks.
“Sit, sit, sweetheart. That tea needs a few more minutes for full effect.” She waved Tressa back to the kitchen.
“No, no, thank you. I’m not feeling so well. I think I just need to go to bed early tonight.”
“Ah.” Carmelita’s eyes burned up the space with mischief. “I like this plan. A lot of late nights in bed, huh?”
A blush the shade of the bougainvillea outside bloomed on my dove’s cheeks.
“Perhaps my tea is a little too late and already we’re expecting a new little one in the Santa Maria familia?” Carmelita’s grin stretched the expanse of her cheeks, glancing from me to Tressa then down to the sleeping baby on the couch.
“No!” Tressa shook her head quickly, backing toward that yellow door as fast as she could politely manage. “Thank you again. I’ll come back soon. I just…I need a minute.”
I stood from my seat at the table, meeting Carmelita at the front door and placing a gentle kiss on the side of her cheek.
Carmelita’s hands held my shoulders, soul shining like star fire in her eyes. “I want the best for you, Padre, but you can’t keep a girl like that chained. She was born to fly.”
I nodded, warmth radiating from the old woman straight into my soul. “I know, Ms. Carmelita.” I couldn’t fight the contented smile that tipped my lips. “And I’ve found everything I need alongside her.”
Carmelita tapped my cheek, smile softening. “Good. Then go do it differently.”
THIRTY-ONE
Bastien
By the time we left Carmelita’s, long after the sun had set the evening of Padre Juan Martin’s funeral, I’d come to some decisions. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t briefly considered a life with her hidden up in the mountains just like my Jesuit brothers. Secluded areas had a way of keeping secrets close. But that life would only be a dishonor to her, never good enough, considering she was destined for the moon and stars.
But as far as I could tell, that left me with one last option
.
Leaving.
I’d joined this order at the age of seventeen after my mother passed and the very roof over our heads was taken. I’d cried the day I packed up the iron crosses and priceless relics my family, generations of priests and holy men throughout the centuries, had collected and protected. Our pride in this faith was strong, something passed down and just as cherished as the relics I held in my hands.
Having a holy title attached to the Castaneda name felt natural.
And still, the nature of my time here felt iffy at best. From the receipts I’d presented to the cardinal in Philadelphia, evidence there was perhaps a history of negligence and abuse at St. Mike’s in some form, had rattled me so very much that I’d gone to the lengths to install an alarm especially for the children to use. It was a small step but just one of the things I could think of that offered a sense of safety and spirituality to grow long after I’d made my exit.
And perhaps it’d only been a few days since I’d made my formal complaint about Padre Juan’s actions, but I hadn’t heard a word from any of the officials I’d copied on that message.
To say my time with organized religion had caused a case of harsh spiritual disillusionment was putting a positive spin on the matter. In truth, I’d found more God in loving Tressa than decades spent on my knees in prayer.
With her, I sought God in life. In nature and people and compassion and community and family.
Family.
For the first time in my life, family was on my mind. She filled me up with so much love, my cup overfloweth, the generosity of it suddenly big enough to feed an entire army. Or heal a whole country. Loving a wild, reckless, rebel heart of a woman was the very best decision I’d ever made.
The notion of a family with Tressa shook me to my very core, and like a revelation, a quote paraphrased from the book of Esther entered my mind.
Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created.
REBEL PRIEST Page 20