Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  I walk toward Emeril’s, nonchalantly like a local, but find a dive bar that has a decent whiskey selection. No Kilbeggan, but the Atelier Vie will do. As does the second when I order an oyster po’ boy.

  By the time I get back to my car, I have a parking ticket. Fucking NOLA meter maids.

  I call a parishioner and ask a favor, telling him I have another who needs a tow and asking him to grab the Honda Accord and drop it off a block or so from Petites Fleurs and send me the bill. Told him I’d appreciate it if he could get to it tonight and personally deliver the keys in the morning.

  Me: Hope your scenic drive home was safe. There’ll be another Uber waiting for you in the morning to take you to work. Your Accord will be there. Keys will be dropped off to you by eight.

  The silence in response is deafening.

  Two days later, her mom is found dead.

  She was executed by the docks in Marigny, a pink gerbera daisy left on her body.

  If Sirona was dead at her father’s funeral, the post-mortem on this will be worse. Her black dress is hanging from her. Her honey-colored hair is limp. Her red-rimmed eyes convey nothing. Her empty beauty is haunting.

  She sits utterly alone in the front pew. Clara is nowhere to be seen.

  Enzo Calabrese looks none the worse for wear. His presence is notable since he, no doubt, ordered the hit.

  I spend the entire funeral with the urn holding Sylvie Dugas’ ashes to my left, alongside a single photo of her, beautiful and full of life. She wasn’t a parishioner. In fact, I don’t think she was Catholic which makes me curious why her service is here.

  I wish I could go to Sirona. I’m desperate to comfort her. Wishing more so I could give vengeance or love or help her in any way, in every way. Instead, my words are hollow. I’m ready for this to be over. I desperately need a break from this suffering.

  As I offer the last prayer before we disperse, Goon Three from the museum grabs his phone and begins typing. When Calabrese grabs his own and looks down, the first shiver of true fear in my life runs down my spine. His gaze locks on mine and tells me what I now know—Goon Three recognizes that I was with Sirona and now Enzo knows too.

  By the time I disrobe and make my way to the front of the church, Sirona is gone. Enzo’s back is visible as he meanders down the sidewalk, his swagger on full display. The church is empty save for the daisy at my feet.

  Twenty

  My trip to Petites Fleurs the next day has my gut heavy like lead. Sirona means something to me, of that much I am sure. Enough to want to save her, protect her, to laugh with her, to comfort her. Enough to be nervous about seeing her. More nervous since I know I contributed to her mother’s passing. No, it wasn’t my fault, but whatever we did hastened the outcome.

  My mind also can’t stop replaying that kiss. God!

  The bells are gone when I push the front door open. The sound that has come to give me the same elation my text tone did in college doesn’t greet me. The light is off in the glass case as well. Things look almost normal, but they feel wrong.

  Instead of calling out and making my presence known, I pad toward the restrooms and wait. Voices rise and loud arguing between a man and a woman reaches my ears.

  “No. No. I never agreed to this. I won’t—”

  “You will,” a man’s voice replies.

  “No. God, no. Please don’t make me. Isn’t it enough? Hasn’t all of it already been enough?”

  “Boss man says this is your job now.”

  What in the world? Sirona is an entrepreneur. She doesn’t have a boss. Who is this man? And why is she pleading with him so desperately.

  “I can’t. Oh, God, please don’t make me.” The breaking in her voice and the quiet sobs shred my resolve.

  “Enough.” What follows is a crack, followed by a wail of pain.

  I can’t listen to anymore and can’t make it known I was privy to their conversation. I crack the front door and close it too loudly and yell down the hall, “Hello? Anybody here?”

  “Be right there” wafts down the hall, only to be followed by a quick sniffle. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  “Thanks,” I holler back and give my attention to the glass case.

  When Sirona comes from the back hallway, I know that more is going on than even what I heard. She’s thinner than she was at the funeral yesterday and she has purple rings under her hollow eyes. She flinches when she sees me and that shreds me and fuels what’s becoming an anger roiling in my gut.

  “Hi. May I help you, sir?” she asks but mouths, What are you doing here?

  “I’d like a dozen cupcakes, please,” I reply. I had to see you. Are you okay?

  “Which flavors?” she continues. You should leave.

  “Whatever you have. Surprise me.” I follow that by What happened to your face? when I spy the red mark after she turns, grabbing the tongs.

  “An assortment then.” None of your concern, she continues our secret conversation.

  “Thank you. How much?” I’ll kill him. Little does she know I’m not exaggerating.

  Her eyes never change, never flare. The spark is gone. “Twenty-six ninety-eight,” adding, Please go. Nothing you can do. It’s done now.

  I hand her the cash and turn for the door and she wipes nonexistent sugar from the counter.

  When I hit the sidewalk, I grab my phone and dial the shop’s number.

  “Petites Fleurs. How can I help you?

  “How long will he be there?

  “Two dozen mini cupcakes and seven eclairs?”

  “Twenty-four seven? You’re never free?”

  “Sorry, not at this time. Thanks for calling.” Click! She disconnects. And she’s just told me she has round-the-clock surveillance.

  Twenty-One

  She’s engaged to that fucker? No. Nope. Not gonna happen. I know her. I know what makes her laugh. I know the dreams she has for Clara. There is no way that being married to the mob, living in fear, and always watching her back is the life she wants.

  It’s sure as shit not the life she deserves.

  It’s been just three months since her mom’s funeral. It’s not as if she’s had time to even get to know him. Much less fall in love.

  I smile a fake smile and lie while I congratulate her as I make my way down the receiving line. She won’t meet my gaze and her shoulders are rolled forward. She’s visibly shrinking, trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. She doesn’t want this fanfare. The attention makes her uncomfortable. It’s apparent.

  As we sit for the first course, I listen to the speeches being made. This might as well be an Italian wedding with all the pomp and circumstance. This isn’t what my Sirona would want. She recoils when Marco “Rocco” Rockwell puts his arm around her chair. She cringes when he rubs his hand down her bare arm.

  Her red sheath dress is too… everything. Too tight, too sequined, too short, too low cut. Sirona would be in Levi’s and Chucks given her preference. She’s certainly not an updo, diamond earrings, with red lipstick kind of woman. They’re trying to mold her into what they want. Rocco—I grit my teeth—leans in to kiss her neck and she flinches. She covers quickly by pretending it tickled.

  She’s not that good of an actress.

  When Enzo looks at his wife and clinks his knife to his champagne flute, I know I’ll regret listening. “I’ve known you a long time, Princupessa. I was friends with your father for years and watched you grow. Losing him killed me. Watching you lose him—and Sylvie—God rest her soul—cut me deep. It is my great honor to give you away at your wedding.” Sirona actually gasps and her body heaves but Enzo goes on, bold as brass. “And to welcome you officially to my family. To you and Marco,” he raises his glass, “may you have many happy years and many beautiful babies I can call grandchildren.” Self-satisfied, he smiles at his adoring audience, taking his bows, and sits again next to Zera, dropping a chaste, perfunctory kiss on her cheek.

  I excuse myself and head to the bar. “Whiskey. Neat. Make it a dou
ble.” I toss a five into the tip jar and nod at the bartender. He drops one in front of me and as I raise my glass to my lips, I grouse, “Another.” With one gulp I toss back the not-cheap whiskey and drop the glass to the rubber mat where he is placing the second. “Thanks,” I add as I turn and take in the room.

  Never in my dreams did I ever expect this. This being just about everything in this situation. Breathing the same air as Enzo Calabrese, hating an engagement party, envying the groom, wishing it were me. Everything. Fucking everything.

  I return to my table and smile and mindlessly speak with the guests there. We make small talk. No one asks me what I do; the collar says it all. The jokes are polite and clean. The waiter refills my whiskey, always cut now since I must be careful, and I join the conversation as I’m able while always keeping my eyes moving and my ears open.

  When they bring out the cake, it’s too much. It’s too much like a wedding. I make my apologies and excuse myself to the lobby. I catch Calabrese’s gaze on the way out and the fucker smirks as he lifts his glass in a toast.

  And I’m done.

  I exit the ballroom, taking deep breaths, and make my way toward the exit.

  Just as I’m passing the other conference room door, it snaps open and Sirona is running for the restroom. I follow her, unbeknownst to her, and slip in behind her.

  She stands at the granite, both hands resting on the sink, head hanging down, tears streaming. Her head snaps up when I throw the lock home.

  “Don’t. Just don’t. I—”

  I rush her and turn her back to the wall, using my hand to wipe off the offensive red lipstick. “Hate this,” I mutter as I smear it down her face.

  “Sirona.”

  “God, please don’t—”

  But she doesn’t finish her sentence. I fall on her, devouring her mouth, rubbing my hands down her sides, feeling her ribs. She moans into my mouth and I kiss her, knowing she can taste the whiskey on my breath mingled with my desperation. I fold my arms around her lower back, pulling her flush to my body. My cock swells in my trousers, seeking her.

  Her arms are around me, pulling me into her, gripping me frantically.

  I yank my face from hers, peppering her face with kisses while I whisper harshly, “Did it mean nothing? Did our kiss mean nothing to you?

  I go back in, more slowly this time. It’s a kiss that promises more. I rock my hips into her soft belly, wanting everything, but pull back, knowing I can’t have it.

  “How can you marry him? Why, baby? Why would you marry him?”

  She holds my gaze. It’s the first time in months. Her stare becomes defiant. But she never answers.

  I pull away, letting my hands slide across her too-thin body one last time. Dropping my gaze, I sigh, defeated, and choke, “Be well, Sirona. I hope he makes you happy.”

  “Sean!”

  I turn from the door, my gaze snapping to hers, my eyes daggers. “Now you call me by name? Now, when I can’t have you, you choose to torture me?” I twist the lock, rush through the door, make my way down the hall, and out into the night.

  Twenty-Two

  The rain pours down. The popping, hollow sound keeping rhythm with my tumultuous thoughts. Fall thunderstorms in this part of the country are legendary. This one does right by my soul. Somehow, it’s cleansing.

  My red chair and I are one again. I play with the metal coin in my hand. I flip it over and under my knuckles, my fingers bending and flexing in a dance choreographed a long time ago.

  The Kilbeggan goes down smooth. I miss the burn it used to provide. I need something to focus on, like the sizzle down my throat after the tang on my tongue.

  Tonight, I need to plan. There are too many loose ends that need tying, but I can’t concentrate to see how they’re frayed or how they’ll come together.

  So, I sit and debate whether Rocco should live or die.

  Never have I taken a life for jealousy or anger or personal vengeance.

  Child abusers?

  Check.

  Rapists?

  Sure.

  Murderers?

  Of course.

  The man who has the woman I cannot?

  Never.

  That would make me something that I’m not. I am not petty or weak. I’ve come to see myself as “Justice” or “Righteousness.” It sounds corny. In truth, it is corny. But I have an opportunity to right some wrongs and provide peace to victims who should never have been on the receiving end of these maniacal fucks.

  I don’t get pleasure from the task; I’m not some psychopath who gets off on the kill. Hank Tremaine’s death has fucked with my head longer than he ever deserved to be considered. I don’t want Henry to have to live this life: dead father; worried, grieving mother, scared sister and now, after all of that, to feel he needs to man up to be the breadwinner. That kill sliced me deep. How does one choose between beatings and abuse or grief and repercussions for someone else? Not lightly, that’s for sure.

  As for Father Terry… Frankly, God, Himself, might not even mind that one.

  My ma, God rest her soul, I will get vengeance for her death. For my loss. For this fucked-up path I’m on. And for the choices I’ve had to make to get here and to make it happen strategically...

  Enzo Calabrese is a dead man. It’s just the date on his tombstone that’s left to be determined.

  That last one is my conundrum, and it’s two-fold. One, it will happen. Period. End of. Two, it only cements that I am my father’s son and that, well, that is the ultimate fuck you on my life. That the very thing I’ve despised, the man who disgusts me, will be looking back at me in the mirror every day.

  The metallic clinking of the doubloon hitting the hardwood floors during my melancholy just doubles my anger.

  Sirona isn’t mine. I can wish. But, when it comes down to it, I have no claim to her and she’s made her decision. Not only does she not want me, she’s making a conscious choice to marry that man, to bring him into Clara’s world, to build a life and a family with him.

  At that thought, I drain the dregs of my whiskey and hurl the lowball at the exposed brick wall in my rectory. It shatters into a thousand crystal shards that mock me from where they land.

  That’s it—she’s chosen him. And for that reason, he’ll live. Removing him from the picture won’t make her want me. So be it.

  I grab the decanter and, without a second thought, turn it to my lips. Turns out you can feel the burn, it just takes enough. And there’s enough here for me not to give a fuck that my life begins and ends with Enzo fucking Calabrese.

  Twenty-Three

  I wake the next morning with a hangover the likes of which I haven’t had since college. And, even then, I don’t remember my head rebelling and my stomach roiling as it is now. How does a priest call in sick?

  I don’t. I sit in my misery all day during confessions, sipping water as I sweat out the alcohol drenching my robes. A peppermint is my constant companion for the nausea and smell oozing from my skin.

  The regulars come and go and I give them the peace they need. Who am I to judge? I mean, technically, they asked for that, but I’m chief among the sinners and today I can easily offer absolution for their transgressions.

  For the first time that I can remember, Henry’s mom, Gloria, comes to confession. I wish my brain weren’t so fuzzy so I could process all she says. It’s not good. It’s so not fucking good that my anger and my alcohol-infused brain can’t make sense of it all.

  He’s not coming home. At times for days. When he does, he hands her cash and speaks in riddles. She’s over his cryptic language and came here, not to ask for absolution, but to ask for help.

  “Need you to see what you can do to help my boy.”

  “Mrs. Tremaine?”

  “Gloria. Call me Gloria.”

  “Gloria, Henry and I have a special bond. I love him like a brother. I’ll do everything I can to help with this.”

  She thanks me and, after a few pleasantries, she leaves.


  The dread I feel when I think of Henry, of what I’ve done, of the course I chartered for him is too much. I must do something, but how the hell do I extricate him from this situation without putting my own mission in jeopardy?

  “Oh, God. I killed him,” a woman’s voice says.

  No preamble.

  No “Forgive me, Father.”

  No “hello.”

  Just “I killed him.”

  “Back up a moment. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, you are sealed. Okay, continue. What’s going on?”

  In a rush, the whole story comes out, through the hushed words in her cracking voice.

  “I’ve had enough. Enough I tell you. I can’t handle any more of Enzo. Or I didn’t think I could anyway,” she begins.

  “I’ve had enough fear. I’m tired of being scared. I’m over his threats. At some point he either will make good on them or not. It’s like he enjoys me living in fear. Disgusting man!

  “On top of that he’s having affairs. Plural. He’s threatening me while he’s cheating. The PI confirmed it last week,” she continues in a rush. “Apparently my inability to get pregnant is license for him to take a lover or two or five. Five! Cheating bastard!

  “I’m over always worrying. I’m over crying all the time for real or because he needs to see my sadness at my challenges conceiving. He doesn’t know it’s not my problem, but still. I am tired of faking the desire to be pregnant when he should never have another human to make miserable, to destroy with his words.

  “I’m so over it that I wanted him dead. Still do, in fact. Enzo has stopped acting like I’m his to protect, and I can’t help wondering if he plans to eliminate me. It’s why I hired the investigator.

  “I hate that it has come to this. But, anyway,” she continues. “I found his revolver in his nightstand. I don’t know anything about guns but I Googled it to see how they work and how to know if it was loaded. It was. So, I made a plan. Don’t judge me please, Father. You don’t know what he’s like.”