Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  Instead of heading home, I drive west to St. Rose and park at the library, walking the mile and a half to the church rectory and knock. Terry is shocked silent to find me on his threshold.

  “Invite me in for a drink?”

  Startled beyond action, he merely steps aside, allowing me through, and the door clicks behind me.

  He passes me with an arc of his hand and tilt of his head. “Kitchen’s this way.”

  “Shitty fucking day today, Terry.”

  He stops mid-stride and turns, mouth agape. After his confession, no language should surprise him.

  “Same.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Well, I had to confess to a friend about some embarrassing behavior today.” His words form bile on my taste buds, but his cavalier attitude makes me stay.

  “And do you feel absolved?”

  He leans against his dining room chair, calculating. He simply nods, not wanting to verbalize anything.

  “Interesting choice of words — embarrassing behavior. I’d think heinous would be better. Or maybe abhorrent. Don’t you agree?”

  “Sean?”

  “Yes?”

  “I came to you in good faith. Repentant.”

  I stare at him, no motivation to speak, no will to look away.

  He pulls out the chair and slumps down into it.

  I pace.

  “How old?” I thunder.

  “What?”

  “How old were they?” I repeat.

  “I don’t want to get into this.”

  “Well, I fucking do. How. Old?” My voice goes steely. Holding my rage in check makes the words come out just above a whisper.

  “Various.”

  “Try again. Try harder.” I tower above him, one hand on the table, one on the back of his chair.

  He looks up, defiant. “Back off. I don’t owe you anything.”

  I drop my elbow onto his temple and take his momentary disorientation to grab a knife from the knife block on the counter. He holds his swelling, red eye and tries to shout just as I plunge it into his thigh. Blood squirts out over both of us.

  He screams in pain, grabbing his leg, his swelling eye holding mine.

  “Okay then. I’ll try another tactic. Girls or boys?”

  His snotty-nosed crying prefaces his one-word answer. “Both.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t—”

  I yank the knife out of his leg and kick the chair. He loses his balance and grabs for the gash in his thigh. A second plunge below his collarbone, right between the sternum and the rib, makes a wet sound. When I yank the blade back, blood blooms on his shirt and glugs out down his body.

  “You fucking do.”

  “I—”

  Another stab, this time to the chest. It’s shallow, for pain’s sake, not meant to kill.

  “I’m losing patience. Last chance.” I hold the knife aloft.

  “Young.” He pauses, sucking deep to get his breath, holding up a hand for a moment. “Okay. I—”

  For a split second, Clara’s smiling face flashes in my brain. And that’s it, I snap.

  “You’ll never touch another kid again, you sick fuck.”

  The knife punctures his throat and stands cocked there, the gurgling sound bringing peace to my angry, unsettled mind. I begin to recite that prayer and wonder if he’s even worth the wasted air. I’ve always felt it offers some measure of forgiveness for us both. God, I hope it does. By the time, I get to “Amen,” I watch as he fights for his last breath, I glare down at him.

  “And fuck you!”

  I wipe the knife of fingerprints with a tea towel I grab off Terry’s counter, careful not to step in his pooling blood. I’ve never had to consider that before, but I do in this case. It wouldn’t do to be found out due to bloody footprints. I use the towel to exit the back door, and stuff it into my back jeans pocket. A concrete sidewalk leads to an unlit street. Thank God because his blood is all over me. I care nothing of his life.

  Any fucker who would touch a child doesn’t deserve to live, and the death I offered was too kind. Truly. But I’m pissed as fuck I have to trash my Cubs tee.

  Twelve

  My morning run doesn’t do what it usually does: clear my head, dissolve the angry hurricane of emotion that churns in my belly, and flatten what threatens to become a friar’s gut from all the cupcakes I’ve been eating.

  I need the clarity. I need the time away.

  Terry was a sick fuck and, even knowing what I’ve become, I wouldn’t change last night.

  I pass Petites Fleurs and make my seven miles before the smell of urine and stale vomit turns my stomach and sends me back toward the rectory and to my shower. Rubbing one out will have to do for clearing my brain and setting the tone for my day.

  Fuck. If this were a mouth around my cock, it would be a thousand times better. My fist is fine, better than fine, actually. We’re monogamous. Not by my own choice, but out of necessity. But the thought of her mouth…

  Out of the blue, the following Tuesday, I get a call that changes everything. Evelyn buzzes me through the intercom that I have a personal call. Personal? I don’t have anybody “personal” and certainly none who call me at work.

  Out of habit, I write down the number on my screen—in case we’re disconnected. Old habits die hard.

  “Father O’Ryan? It’s Sirona Dugas.”

  “Hi, Sirona. It’s Sean. This is a surprise.”

  “I hate to ask this, and honestly I wouldn’t if I had any other choice, but since I don’t, here it goes.” She mumbles, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Clara has early pickup today from preschool. Normally I’m able to plan and today something unexpected popped up... an order pickup I have to wait on. My mom’s tied up, and my friend, Gwen, whose daughter Sarah is Clara’s best friend, can’t. Sarah and Clara—I know it’s ridiculous. Can’t foresee this crap when you’re hormonal and swollen and trying to pick a name and… Sarah doesn’t need a ride, just Clara, and, seriously, I don’t even know who else to ask and…” And right in the middle of her thought, she just stops.

  “Sirona?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can pick up Clara. Tell me when and where and if I need to do anything in particular.”

  She gives me the address and time and says she’ll call the school and put me on the list. This she says as if she’s thinking through a to-do list and not to me specifically.

  “Do you want me to bring her to the shop? Or…” I trail off because I don’t know where she lives and don’t know that she wants me to know.

  “The shop works. There’s free cake in it for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that, sweetheart. I’d do it for you and for Clara either way. Not that I’d turn it down, mind you,” I continue as she keeps her muttered to-do list going, missing my little joke. “See you in a bit.”

  “Okay. And thank you, Father.”

  This Father shit has got to stop.

  Or I’ve got to stop caring.

  After grabbing my cell and telling Evelyn that I am leaving early, I quickly head home, switch out of my blacks into jeans and a tee. I grab a ball cap on my way back to the car and take off for Clara’s school.

  She is waiting for me outside with her teacher, who insists on ID, when I come strolling up to the office. Never having done this before, it’s both secure in a random way and completely insecure in all the ways that matter. Clara proceeds to tell her teacher, whose name I can’t remember, all about how I like pretty flowers and the color pink and that I share cupcakes with her. I’m sure there’s more in there, but since she doesn’t take a breath, it’s hard to know. Eventually, amid the run-on sentences and breathless one-sided conversation, she tells her teacher goodbye and turns and grabs my hand. She tugs me toward the street and only then does she realize she doesn’t know what I drive or where we’re going next. “Where’s your car, Poppa Sean?”

  If my cold, dead heart could burst, it would be in a million pie
ces on the sidewalk outside Fleur de Lis Preschool in New Orleans. It takes a second of her tugging to realize I’m just staring, rooted in place, irreparably falling for this little girl’s charms.

  This kid cracks me up. I put her in the back seat, only after she tells me her mom says she’s too little for the front seat. Of course, Clara disagrees. Stringently.

  She has big ideas, which she tells me about as we take the long way back to Petites Fleurs. She tells me what she’s learning in school, the drama of her day, a story about unicorns and flying mermaids, and how her socks feel in her shoes. She likes school lunches. And she likes pink. A lot.

  “Poppa Sean, do you like pink?

  “Yes, but my favorite color is blue or maybe black.”

  “Nobody’s favorite color is black, silly.”

  “You think I’m silly, pretty girl?”

  “Sometimes I do. Your car has lots of buttons.”

  That doesn’t require a comment so I stay silent. Clara, on the other hand, continues her side of the conversation, only occasionally leaving room for feedback.

  As we near the shop and I can see the bakery in the distance, Clara begins again, “Poppa Sean, are you momma’s friend?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “Like the kind who nap at Petty Floors?”

  “What?” I ask, wondering if we’re back to fairy tales and unicorns.

  “Hey! It’s Mommy! Roll down my window, please, Poppa Sean?” I oblige just in time to allow her squeal to fly out the car. “Hey, Mommy!! I’m in Poppa Sean’s car and he called me pretty!!” she yells as she waves.

  Sirona makes good on her bribe for me. After I share a cupcake with Clara—at her insistence—and by share, I mean she ate all the peanut butter frosting and left me the stump, I leave with a gray and turquoise box filled with lemon squares, petits fours, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

  Bobby calls after I get home with the news that I’m officially a homeowner. It’s a house I’ve never seen before, a three story, brick row house in Charleston. The pictures are amazing and I hope one day I get to see it.

  He tells me it was a former fire station. Bottom floor is all garage, home gym, and bathroom with a shower. Second floor was gutted into one great room when it was remodeled. It is where the kitchen, breakfast nook, an office, and a huge living room are. From there, you can walk out onto the deck that rests on the back end of the massive first floor garage. The deck is lined with a wrought iron chest-tall fence and has an outdoor cooking area. The all-glass doors out onto the deck fold accordion-style on tracks to make for one huge outdoor area. It is overhung on the living room side with the balcony of the third floor, providing some shade and relief from the rain.

  Bobby laughs as he relays this. Apparently, the mosquitos in Charleston are similar in size and enthusiasm to the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys in Oz, so it’s mostly the idea that I can have the space. Whether I ever will or not is another story. The third floor is three bedrooms and two full baths. The walk-out balcony comes off the master and is deep enough to sit outside and drink coffee if I want to. Between the pervasive humidity and the damned flying critters, this is a dream scenario. One that Bobby’s realtor sold him—or me, rather—hook, line, and sinker.

  All in all, my thirty-fifth is the best birthday I’ve had in a while.

  Thirteen

  May rolls in to June and with it comes sweltering heat and the tangible pea-soup-like humidity Louisiana is known for. I hate running in the summers when it’s like breathing through a wet rag, but my mind is rarely more at peace than when I’m putting miles on the pavement.

  I don’t want headphones or AirPods today. I don’t want noise in my head. Just the sounds of the city waking up, the pace of my breathing, and thwack of my shoes as they slap the asphalt. My path takes me by Petites Fleurs. I’ve begun varying the time I begin, so no one paying attention would notice, but it’s always on the path. Today, I mix it up and run behind the shop. That random white box truck is there again, but by the time I make the block, it’s gone.

  I pound my way home. Seven miles now, adding the bake shop into my path means a longer daily run.

  In what has become a daily event, I fist my cock in the shower and think of the blonde with chocolate-colored eyes and a beautiful ass.

  My work day flies by and soon I’m home. After dinner, I sit in my red chair and thumb the doubloon in my left hand. I stare at the brick wall and drink my Kilbeggan.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m lonely.

  This is a solitary life and I’m accustomed to it. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had constant company or conversation. But, by the time I finish the first tumbler, I can feel the unease of aloneness rattling in my chest. It’s a low vibration, an antsy-ness for more.

  And I don’t get more. I never get more.

  I have one mission and it does not include a dinner partner or, better yet, a bed partner. I appreciate the beauty of vengeance, but it is a lonely art.

  Me: Thankful for you, Bobby.

  Bobby: Same. You okay, man?

  Me: Just fine. Just wanted to say thanks.

  I turn my phone facedown and continue sipping my whiskey. The doubloon eventually makes its way to my pocket and I let the amber liquid soothe the lonely corners of my empty soul. I’ll regret it in the morning. Right now, I’ll have another finger or two in honor of my fucked-up life.

  I know better than to drink that much. I do. Why I did it is beyond me now.

  The gurgling in my belly is only surpassed by the throbbing in my head. It’s that dull pounding that wraps from my eyes to the back of my head, as if this baseball cap were two sizes too small.

  My pace is sluggish. My breathing uneven. It’s a hellish three miles so far this morning and I bought it all with my ridiculous melancholy.

  The moisture in the air and the smell of warm urine combine to make me want to gag.

  As I turn onto the street where Petites Fleurs lies, I see the white box truck pulling away and heading toward me. Thank God for the sunglasses and ballcap. The same two goons are in it. Squished between their hulking frames is a young boy whose presence sobers me instantly.

  Henry.

  I don’t change my stride. But as they pass, I make a split-second decision.

  I go around Petites Fleurs to the back alley and see Sirona’s car. I jiggle the handle and am pissed the back door is unlocked. Bad idea at six in the morning to be lax with security.

  I yank it open, pulling off my shades, and pop into the back hall, the cold air assaulting my hot, sweaty skin.

  “What now?” a voice huffs angrily from the office.

  Sirona, hair flying wildly behind her, comes around the corner with fire in her eyes.

  “I said—”

  “You said…?” I motion my hand in a circle for her to continue.

  “Father?”

  “Sean.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Was out for a jog and saw your lights on. Saw a couple of meaty-looking guys leaving and wanted to check on you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” She stares at my bare chest and then her eyes trail to my abs before they snap back up to mine. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Everything okay, Sirona? Your back door was unlocked. You know it’s not safe in this city to do that.”

  “Delivery guys screwed up orders.”

  She’s lying, and I know it. I hold her gaze and wait. Nothing! She wants me to buy her story. I don’t but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Shame. When are they coming to make it right?”

  She fumbles over her words before becoming defiant.

  “I told them to fix it immediately.”

  She’s still lying but I can’t do anything about that now.

  “Well, so long as you’re good… I’ll be on my way. Have a good day.”

  I pivot and slide my glasses back on and hit the bar on the back door to exit. My
sunglasses fog up immediately when I hit the humid air and start my run on pace again.

  I still feel like shit. The churning in my gut steps up a notch as does the slow thudding in my head. But to add to it, I know two things. One, Henry is messed up in some bad shit, and two, Sirona is lying about her involvement.

  Fourteen

  I have UberEats deliver lunch from Camellia Grill, a greasy spoon and Big Easy staple. It’s been a New Orleans icon and a local hangover cure since the forties.

  I get the turkey, bacon, and corned beef sandwich and an order of their breakfast hash browns. I’ll surely regret this tomorrow, but today, it’s delicious. Besides, the smell of alcohol oozing from my pores is enough to gag me. Might as well experience the trifecta.

  I chug as much water as I can during the day to flush away the bad decisions I’ve been making. It doesn’t work, but my head no longer pounds.

  I fix a salad and tuna steak for dinner. It’s a simple meal, but healthy, and I grab a book off my shelf and settle into the red chair. Stephen King never misses the mark and his twisted mind is a great place to visit, though I’m sure I wouldn’t want to live there.

  I’m sucked into Bag of Bones and Mike Noonan’s venture to Sara Laughs when my cell phone ringing interrupts.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Father O’Ryan?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “This is Sergeant Cox with the New Orleans Police Department. I have a detainee who requested you be their one phone call.”

  My pause must herald his confusion because he begins again before I can reply.

  “Henry Tremaine said you would post bail for his B&E.”

  “Henry? Yes, of course. Where is he?”

  “You know this Tremaine?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Cox. He’s one of my parishioners. I can be there in the next thirty minutes, if you tell me where and how much his bail is.”