Forgiveness 4 You

by Ann Bauer

  He paused and it roused me, the way the sudden absence of an engine sound will. “What took you to so many places?” I asked. “Was it a job?”

  Henry snorted. “Hardly. More the opposite. I kept leaving jobs, because I’d get this feeling and the only thing that would make it stop was moving. Somewhere, anywhere. Except it had to be new.”

  “What feeling?” I asked. I’d known people like this: priests who asked for assignments in remote locations, addicts who surfed from city to city always looking for something they never found.

  “Loneliness.” Henry had stopped cutting, and he stood stock straight behind me, his blurred reflection looming in the mirror. “I can’t explain it. But when I was in one place for too long—and I’m talking months, not years—I’d get this feeling like I was going to die. The only thing that helped was to pick up and go to a place I’d never been. Where I didn’t know a soul. I know it sounds backward, but that’s the way it’s always been for me.”

  He bent again and went back to the business of my hair, but he was slower, more deliberate now. “That’s how I ended up doing this,” Henry said, smoothing a section on my crown. “When I was younger, I worked construction and utility and docks. All hard labor. But a body can only do that for so long, and I knew this girl who taught at Aveda. We worked out a deal. You know.”

  “So now you stay in one place,” I said. Henry circled the chair and crouched directly in front of me, pulling strands down on either side of my forehead. “What changed?”

  “My parents died.” He sighed heavily, and his breath smelled like cinnamon gum.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So was I. But not for the right reason. All those years, they were the people bringing me back. I’d work until I had enough cash for a one-way ticket and maybe two, three, four weeks of fun. Then, when the money was gone, I’d call my mom and dad and tell them how I was broke and stuck in Jakarta or Port-Au-Prince or Istanbul, wherever I was. And they’d wire me the cash to get home.”

  He sighed again, from behind me, and I could feel the air on my neck in places that used to be covered. “When they died—my mom first, then my dad about six months later—there was nothing left. In fact, less than that. They’d taken a second mortgage on the house. It took me four years to pay it off.”

  “The bank probably would have forgiven that,” I said. I’ll admit, this was a test.

  He shook his head, and his ringlets swung; that hair had to have something to do with Henry’s getting this job. He looked like the man on the cover of the pornographic romance novels I sold—or rather, the way his much-older uncle might look.

  “It was my debt,” he said. “Mine to pay. The sad thing is, I didn’t get that ’til after they were gone.” Then he turned on a hair dryer and our conversation disappeared in its roar.

  When he was done, Henry holstered the hair dryer and handed me my glasses. “Have a look.” My reflection gazed back at me from underneath a neat businessman’s cut with an exotic fringe in front. “See? You look just like that guy on Mad Men,” Henry said, and I nodded, though I had only a vague idea what he meant.

  He removed my cape, holding it carefully to cradle the fallen hair. “You know, your parents …” I said, but Henry backed away and held up one hand. He had to let go of one side of the fabric in order to do this and dark wisps fluttered to the ground as he spoke.

  “I know what you do, Father. Isaac told me. And I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I know what I did, and I know I’d probably do it again. It’s how God made me, but that still don’t make it right.”

  I could find no hole in Henry’s logic, yet it didn’t make sense. But he was determined now. “Bill’s all paid, and I got a nice tip,” he told me, offering me his huge hand as I dismounted. “You can just go.”

  Walking the block to Mason & Zeus, I turned my face toward the pale sun. If I were about to go back into that room where I met Sandy, I’d need the memory of light.

  “Father Gabe?” Candy squealed when she saw me. “I didn’t think you could get even cuter. But I was wrong!” She rose from her desk in an outfit so tight and intricately laced I wondered if she’d have to be cut out of it at night.

  But instead of taking me to the eighth floor, Candy led me to the conference room where we’d met with the investors the week before. The large table had been shoved to one side and all but one chair removed from the room. There were lights on stands and large translucent discs like enormous Frisbees. Two of the younger people—including the girl, Joy, who’d recently driven me to work—sat on the edge of the table, waiting.

  “Ready for your photo session?” Joy came forward with her hand out, but I didn’t know where to look. Her breasts were high and mostly exposed, a thin gold necklace with a cross disappearing between them. I was afraid if I moved I might touch one. When I didn’t shake her hand she stretched up instead to kiss my cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be great. Have you met Ted?”

  A young black man with my exact haircut came forward. He wore a shirt striped like Joseph’s coat of many colors and a small diamond stud in each ear. I wondered what these dazzling people would have thought of the younger me, trading in his Levi’s and Freddie Mercury glasses for a novitiate’s robe. “Good morning, Father. Ted Roman. I’m in charge of interactive media.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ted,” I said, shaking his hand. “I have no idea what that is.”

  He grinned and clasped my hand with both of his. Ted was slender and boyish, but his grip was sure. “Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat. Basically everything that happens on a device.”

  I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t matter, Father Gabe,” Joy said, darting in front of Ted to take my arm. I sensed a tug-of-war with myself as the rope; if this was the case, I was hoping he’d win. “We’ll talk you through this.”

  But “talk” turned out to be not what this was. I was placed in a chair where Joy hovered over me with a container of makeup in her hand. “There’s really nothing to do here,” she said, wiping me here and there with a little puff. “The five o’clock shadow really works for you. Maybe just a little …”—she leaned straight over, and the cross popped out of her shirt to dangle in front of me—“right here around the eyes.”

  By the time she’d pronounced me done, there were three more men in the room. I reached for my glasses, but Joy put her hand out and said, “No, try these,” handing me a pair of frames with no corrective lenses. “Perfect!” she cheered somewhat too effusively, as I wobbled to stand. It would be a day of wandering blind as my blurred vision made the shifting glare of the lights even more intense.

  Across the room stood a grizzled wolf of a man, two cameras hanging on thick straps around his neck. The other two men—black-clad Ted-aged creatures from what I could tell—milled around with more enormous lighted shells. I was placed in the midst of these and blinked madly in the glare. The wolf came forward. “Try to stay still, Father,” he growled. “Just relax. You’ll get used to the lights.”

  My body was contorted into positions that seemed outlandish: one hand to my chin; head forward and arms behind me as if I were skiing; legs spread apart while my arms were crossed. “That’s great, just great, love. Sorry … Father,” the wolf said. He was lying at my feet, camera pointed up. “There! Hold that. Don’t. Move!!” His shutter clicked as fast as machine-gun fire. I grimaced and sweated in the lights.

  “I think we need something a little more natural.” I heard Madeline’s voice and turned toward it, but her body, her face, were veiled by light. “Here …”

  There was a shuffling as she came toward me, first just luminous movement and then, gradually, the form of Madeline emerging from the glow. When she got right under my nose, I saw she was in a pale blue dress that wrapped around her body in different, confounding ways. Why was every woman in this place wearing clothes that seemed like puzzles I wanted to solve?

  “Gabe, why don’t you try this?” Madeline pushed me gently to
sit on the edge of the table. Then her hands were on my tie, loosening the knot.

  I looked down and my lips brushed her hair. It was accidental, and no one seemed to notice—not even Madeline—but it was as if an animal in my body had woken up. It was more than just the hard ache rising against the front of my pants. That, I was used to. But this? There was urgency everywhere in me, my chest and legs and neck, pulsing with the desire to touch her. I crossed my arms, clenching my hands inside soggy armpits.

  “No, no. Let’s take these out.” Madeline began prying at my biceps, which only made me tighten my grip. “Gabe! This isn’t funny.”

  By this point, I was wild. The wolf and his assistants were watching me. Ted was pressing a bottle of water on me, asking if I needed to rest for a few minutes. Madeline stood close enough to lick, and I felt certain that if I let myself lose vigilance, I would turn and lift her off the ground, drive her against a wall, and rip through the maze of her dress.

  I don’t know what would have happened next if I hadn’t been saved by Joy, who must have left the room unnoticed at some earlier point. Now, blessedly, she burst back in. “There’s white smoke! They’ve elected a new pope. Isaac says we should all go to the war room to watch. This will definitely affect our strategy going forward.”

  “Christ,” said the cameraman. “Fine, but you’re paying me for the time.”

  Madeline backed away a few inches, and my heart rate improved. “Shall we?” she asked. And I looked into her dark eyes, not at all sure what she meant. Everyone else was filing out. My relief at no longer being on display was too immense to contain. I loosened my arms and sat back on the table, reaching for the water Ted had left there and drinking half the bottle at once.

  I closed my eyes and recalled the smells of Vatican City. Seawater and the dust of old stone. The metal-and-earth scent of a thurible packed with incense. I could still feel the weight of the chain in my hands. I did not know if I was actually longing to be there, in St. Peter’s Square, or if I only wished to long for it. Whichever it was, yearning unfolded in me, and I felt the hope that I had during two previous papal elections: that this would be the man who could show me the lighted way.

  Years ago I had applied for a papal audience, believing I could finally unburden my soul. That was during the reign of Pope John Paul II. I showed up at the appointed time and had been waiting for three hours when handlers—Italians who looked and dressed oddly like Tommy Lee Jones in Men in Black—told me that the Holy Father had been called to Church business, and that I should come back some other day. The next available slot was nineteen months hence.

  Madeline came and sat next to me, hoisting herself primly up onto the tabletop—which made my heart pick up again. “This is ridiculously hard on you, isn’t it?”

  I considered her question carefully. To say yes struck me as unmanly, certainly unpriestlike. We were trained to remain as oblivious as possible to earthly things. Nothing mattered but one’s relationship to the Church and to God. I’d spent years “praying away” both lust and fear.

  But to say no would be a lie.

  “I have to ask. Why are you doing this, Gabe?” Madeline inched closer. “I know I started it, so that may seem like a strange question. But I’ve been watching for the past few days and this just isn’t … you.”

  I sat heavily. It was clear that Madeline was providing me with an escape. This time there was no need for tearful, confusing speeches. I could leave all this—the photography sessions and frantic cab rides, Isaac’s early-morning chirping from my phone—and I could go back to … what? I would continue to be haunted by memories of Aidan and hear the guilty stories of nearly everyone I met. But I would do so without these people who fed me Thai food and got me drunk and cut my hair like some madman on TV.

  “You’re right, this isn’t me,” I said to Madeline. And in the single bravest act I’ve ever committed, I took her hand. “But. Nothing is.”

  She clasped my fingers in her tiny, steely grasp. Then Madeline drew closer, her breasts grazing my side from inside that wonderfully perplexing dress. She tilted her face up, and this time I kissed her, just the way I had imagined a hundred times since that night in her car. Her lips were chapped, parted. She smelled of coffee and a peachy hair gel—or perhaps that was me.

  “Gabe.” Madeline stood to slip her arms around my still-damp chest. Then she leaned against me, her body tight between my legs, and I lost consciousness everywhere else. The room and its scatter of lighting equipment were gone. I was kissing Madeline slowly and it was wet, and I was feeling her swivel against the thing I had become. Hard, hot, huge to bursting. My mind was erased, filled with nothing but the need to be inside her. In the combined history of my mostly disappointing sexual encounters, I had never experienced this.

  “Father Gabe, they’ve elected a … Oh!” I focused as well as I was able on the doorway beyond the soft, dark hair in my hands. A blur that seemed to be Joy stood there, hand clapped to her mouth. Inside my arms, I felt Madeline curl in defeat for the briefest second then turn with determination to face Joy.

  “We’re going to need a few minutes here,” she said. “Could you get the door? And please, sweetheart.” She paused to draw a breath. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  I was frozen, waiting to see what would happen next. Humans have free will; it’s one of the first things young priests grapple with. You can never assume where choice is concerned. But Joy backed away, still watching us, dragging the doorknob in one hand. When finally the door clicked shut Madeline—now facing out—slumped back against me and lay her head on my chest. “Oh, we are in a world of shit,” she said, rocking gently from side to side. “That girl is telling someone right now. I guarantee.”

  I adjusted myself discreetly then reached up to stroke Madeline’s hair. I’d deflated to a degree that was, in one sense, more comfortable. But I could tell what had happened before was imminent. My body was lying in wait. Should Madeline turn to face me or put her hand on my thigh I risked pushing her up against the door and lifting her skirt. Just thinking about it, my breathing became ragged. I calculated her weight and whether I could lift her sufficiently to enter her while standing. I decided I could.

  “Gabe?” she said, and I heard something lonely in the word. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to fix ourselves up and go out there,” I said, pulling her in closer until the friction made me nearly lose the thread of what I was thinking. “We’re going to find out who has been elected to lead the Church. Then what happens is up to you. But I’m hoping we’ll go somewhere together and find a bed.” My mouth was so near her ear I had lowered my voice to a whisper, which made me braver. “Or, it doesn’t have to be a bed. A couch. A car seat. A park bench. Anywhere but here.”

  Madeline laughed, and I was elated. There was a flicker of my old self, counseling the new; this predicament was of the earth, utterly human, hardly dire.

  “What a story that would make,” she said. “Ex-priest and local executive arrested for public indecency. I don’t know if that would kill our business or help it! You could get a bad boy reputation: the Anthony Bourdain of forgiveness.”

  I tightened my arms around her and placed my chin on her shoulder. I felt more at peace, more certain of my place, than I had since my early days in the priesthood. But I knew this was a fiction. As soon as we stepped out of this room, the pressures and constraints of the outer world would come upon us. I reminded myself that God was with us, He had made us this way. It was our duty to find grace in freedom.

  “You’re right,” Madeline said, as if she could hear what I was thinking. “We need to go out there.”

  She pulled away to check herself, running her hands over hips, breasts, and hair to make sure everything was smoothed down and contained. Once she was satisfied, Madeline shook her body slowly from her pointed high heels all the way up to her shoulders, rolling them back as if marching into battle. I imagined her doing exactly that move naked under me, and before I
could think of something else, something somber or gruesome, every drop of blood in my body surged toward my loins. “Ready?” she asked.

  “You go,” I said faintly. “I need … a little time.”

  Madeline was wearing her CEO face now. “But you were the one who said …” Her voice was strained, her mouth set and verging on grim. “All right, fine. I think it’s important that you make an appearance though. Go on about the day. We’re launching in forty-eight hours, you know.”

  “I know.” I looked down at my lap, which I realized ten seconds too late looked weak. Like avoidance or betrayal. When I was really only doing the thing I remembered so clearly—so painfully—from adolescence: looking to see if the tent in my pants was obvious. Waiting sweatily for it to collapse.

  As a young Catholic boy, I had taken the warning against masturbation to heart. But in my late teens, I’d run like a freight train over all the lessons of my youth, jerking off two, sometimes three times a day between hazy hours of getting high. It was brilliantly effective. A couple quick strokes in a men’s room could relieve me. And there were half a dozen times I’d reverted to this out of necessity as a priest: before a baptism or a dinner party when I could not crouch or stay seated. I assumed that God in all his wisdom would understand.

  Madeline, however, did not seem to. And shame over my lack of control, my arrested, still-adolescent approach to sex, made it impossible for me to explain.

  “All right.” She walked away, and the distance grew between us. “I guess I’ll see you later,” she said softly as she opened the door. And then she was gone.

  Reuters

  Breaking story …