With the Father

by Jenni Moen

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He spun on his heels, his expression that of a child who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, full of remorse and guilt – emotions of which I had intimate knowledge. He dropped the hose and quickly threw the shirt over his head, pulling it down to cover himself. However, he hadn’t been quick enough. I’d already seen all I needed to see.

  His body wasn’t that of a man who spent time in the gym for the purpose of seeking the attention and approval of others. There was nothing bulky or overstated about it. He was tight and trim, strong and sleek. His physique defied his age, which I now knew to be nearing forty.

  As soon as his shirt was in place, he retrieved the hose that he’d dropped and turned his back to me again to finish the job he’d started. He still hadn’t spoken, but there was nothing I could do to keep my mouth shut. “Do you do this every day?”

  A few long seconds passed before he answered. His voice was quiet and smooth in direct contradiction to his flustered appearance. “Not every day. I try to get here a few days each week though.”

  “Do you always come this early?” I’d never been here at this time of the day. Even during the worst part of the summer, I didn’t usually come until mid afternoon.

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “But you don’t do any of the others?” I asked, both breathless and accusatory. I could look around and see the answer for myself – I already had – but I wanted to hear it from his lips.

  “No. Unfortunately, we can’t really afford to water the whole property.” He continued to look straight ahead, purposefully refusing to look at me though I was still staring at him with my mouth agape.

  “But they can afford to water here?”

  “No.” Without further explanation, he walked to the truck.

  I had no option but to follow him. “Do you do this on your own then?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he began reeling up the hose.

  “Paul.”

  He abruptly stopped, turned, looked at me, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Grace.”

  “I just want to know why.”

  He scratched his chin for a second and then sighed. “I didn’t want you to sit in the dirt.”

  I blinked at him, trying to stave off the tears. It was pointless.

  His voice was quiet but sure. His eyes echoing their sentiment. “You were here every day. I watched you sit there. I watched you lay your face against the ground because you wanted to be as close to them as you could get. But I hated seeing you like that. I couldn’t bear it. So I did what I could to make it as comfortable as I could.”

  It was my turn to be silent.

  “The grass would have died without water. I couldn’t stand to watch you lose anything else. Every time I watch your heart break, I feel it, too.”

  Nothing else needed to be said. I understood now what Kate had been trying to tell me. Paul’s feelings for me were deeper than anything I’d been able to comprehend before this moment. Maybe I hadn’t seen it before because I’d been so lost in my own misery. Maybe I hadn’t seen it because I was incapable of returning them. But standing next to the man who’d been quietly taking care of me for months, looking after me with no expectation that he would ever receive anything in return, I knew what I wanted.

  And I realized that I had the power to change everything. The power to make my life into something different, something better than my current miserable existence.

  Whether I crashed into him or fell into him was irrelevant, but a fraction of a second later I was in his arms, kissing him with an intensity I’d never felt before. Not with Jonathan. Not with the few boyfriends I’d had before him. It was as raw and emotional as Paul was pure and irresistible. His hand found its way into my hair, clutching it as if he was afraid that I would suddenly slip away. To prove otherwise, I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling myself against him as hard as I possibly could.

  I didn’t know what any of it meant. I couldn’t qualify what I was feeling or so much as put a name to it. I didn’t know if it was real or another singular moment of madness. But I knew what I wanted in this instance, and it was him. I wanted him.

  I wanted Paul.

  Feeling more daring, I ran my tongue along his bottom lip. The hand in my hair relaxed as he focused all of his efforts on my mouth, matching my every move. I poured everything I was, everything I was feeling, everything I wished I could say but couldn’t, into that kiss. He matched my fervor, and we reveled together in mutual desire with the taste of my tears mingling between us.

  I realized then that for the first time in what seemed like forever that I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I wasn’t crying because life had punched me in the gut. I was crying because it was Paul, rather than life, that left me breathless. I was crying because I was overcome with relief that I was finally allowing myself to admit what I’d been trying to deny.

  I wanted Paul.

  And I wanted him to want me, too, no matter the cost. More than that. Though it was completely and utterly selfish, I wanted him to love me. I didn’t know whether I’d ever be able to return the feelings. I didn’t know if my mangled heart was even capable of doing so after everything it had been through, but I still wanted him to love me. I wanted him to love me because he was good and pure and perfect. I wanted him to love me because I wasn’t sure anymore whether my husband ever had.

  He covered my face with feather-light kisses that were both reverent and shameless. After kissing away my tears, he finally pulled his mouth away from mine. I immediately felt the loss of him, but his arms tightened around me as if to dispel any doubts the act might have created. I tucked my head into the crook of his neck, not ready to let go quite yet.

  He kissed the top of my head and drew in a long breath. We stood here silently until the morning church bell finally tolled. It’s melancholy tone reminded me that we would not be alone for much longer. My eyes traveled across the ground until they found the grey stone structure of St. Mark’s. They followed the line of the bell tower to the top where the sun was shining over it’s peak now. Soon people would be getting out of their cars and walking inside for mass. Yet, here I stood with the town priest wrapped around me. “What now?”

  “Spend the day with me tomorrow,” he said into my hair. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

  HEROIC

  Grace

  I opened the door to find Paul, grinning like a fool. He looked exactly like I felt, and my heart fluttered in my chest.

  I’d spent the last twenty-four hours, wondering what to expect today, not about the trip itself, but from Paul. After our first kiss, nothing had changed between us. When we’d seen each other the next day, neither of us had said a word about it. But this time felt different. At least, it felt different to me.

  I’d come home with my head in the clouds. I hadn’t shared my confusion, elation, worry, shame, utter happiness with Kate. Unlike the kiss that Kate and I now frequently referred to as the ‘black widow attack’, I didn’t feel the need to spill my guts to her this time.

  I ignored her curious glances as I floated around the house, content even in a now seemingly perpetual state of bewilderment. She did nothing more than roll her eyes when I put the movie in and watched it a second time. But, like a silly teenager in love, I just wanted to immerse myself in all things Paul.

  I took a day off from thinking about the mess Jonathan had left behind, and it was a relief not to feel like I should be sifting through bank documents or agonizing over the insurance policies again. It was a relief not to want to hole up in my room so that I could re-inventory my losses. Instead, I lounged in the living room with Aurora’s head in my lap, still swoony from the day before.

  I wasn’t delusional enough to think that this thing with Paul could last. The things he’d done for me without expecting anything in return left no doubt in my mind that he had feelings for me. However that didn’t change our circumstances. At the end of the best da
y I’d had in months, I’d still gone to bed a widow, and on the other side of town, he’d still gone to bed a priest.

  I worried though my concerns weren’t about me. I no longer cared what anyone would think about me moving on after having just buried my husband. I had Jonathan to thank for that. He’d unwittingly given me a get out of jail free card. The guilt I felt for being alive when he wasn’t was slowly subsiding though I knew it would never fully dissipate. I’d do anything to trade places with my kids. The loss of them negated any possibility of ever being whole again. However, Paul made me feel like survival might be possible even without my heart intact.

  I worried for Paul and what would happen to him if anyone found out. I imagined the archbishop sending him away. I imagined him losing his parish. I imagined him being excommunicated. Regardless of how he felt about me, regardless of what happened between us, I knew he didn’t want that. He’d devoted his life to the church, and there was no going back from that.

  And then there was our small-minded town. If word got out, he would be hung by public opinion. So even though I trusted Kate with my life, I didn’t tell her about Paul or the water truck or his admission of how my grief had affected him. I tucked the memory away so that it was all mine … to keep it unsullied by everyone who would try to destroy it like all of my others.

  Yet despite my concerns, I felt alive. Not only that, but I felt glad to be alive, and I knew I had Paul to thank for it. His words and his touch gave me courage, and I could now admit, even if only to myself, that I also had feelings for him. So even though I didn’t know what to expect from him on this trip, seeing him standing on the porch in the t-shirt and jeans to which I’d now become accustomed with a foolish smile on his face that was so contrary to the reserved man I’d thought I’d known, the few expectations I had about the trip were already exceeded.

  As I pulled the door shut behind me, his arm slipped around my waist, and he pulled me into his side. His breath on my neck caused my own to hitch, and my already pounding heart to race. “If I could kiss you, I would. But since I can’t, I’m going to settle for this.” His voice was low and husky, and his nose brushed lightly against my neck.

  Standing on my parents’ porch with goosebumps racing up my back, my heart battered haphazardly around my chest, ignoring the warnings that I’d issued to it during the last twenty-four hours. Don’t expect anything, I’d told it. Don’t wish for an impossibility, I’d cautioned. Despite my begging, my heart had no intention of listening to the utterings of my more practical side.

  Keeping his hand on my back, he guided me down the porch steps and didn’t remove it until we were next to his car. He held the car door open for me and, as if he could hear it beating in my chest, told me not to be nervous.

  The directive fell on deaf ears as I crawled into the small backseat of Paul’s car to find a portly grey-haired man in the front seat. He had turned in his seat to face me. His eyes were warm and welcoming, but I was instantly anxious. Unlike Paul, the man wore his priest clerics proudly, and it was a stark reminder of the impossible obstacle between Paul and I.

  “It is so good to finally meet you,” he said, extending his hand between the two front seats. The gesture dispelled a small portion of the unease that had me already wanting to bolt from the car. His eyes twinkled warmly at me as he introduced himself, “Father Russell Schmidt. You can call me Father Russell or just Russell. Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

  The man’s Bostonian accent was even thicker than Paul’s, and the words tumbled out of his mouth at a rate that caused me to strain to understand him.

  “Father Russell,” I said, nodding. “Grace Northcutt.” He took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he squeezed it.

  “I have heard so much about you. I met your sister the other day, but I was beginning to think I wasn’t going to have the pleasure of meeting you before I left town.”

  Butterflies beat their wings mercilessly on the walls of my stomach. “You’ve heard a lot about me?”

  “Of course.” His knowing tone made me squirm on my seat and wonder what exactly Paul had told him. I looked at Paul, who’d taken his place in the driver’s seat, but he remained silent.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about you.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry dear. By the time we get to where we are going, I promise you’ll know more about me than you need or want to. I have a tendency to overshare, I’m afraid.”

  “Remember, you wanted to get to know her, old man.” Paul grinned at Father Russell, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared. The sight of his smile made me swoon again. The effect he had on me continued to take me by surprise.

  The two men bantered back and forth for a few minutes. From the easy familiar way they had with each other, I could tell that they had a long history together. As Paul pulled out onto the highway that would take us to the city, it hit me that Father Russell was the priest from the story – the one who’d found him eating a grinder in the confessional. I had a sudden urge to reach forward and hug the man who’d saved him from whatever awfulness he’d been trying to escape.

  Being in the car with someone who knew Paul so well put a million questions in my head, but Father Russell had other ideas of how we should spend the forty-five minute drive to San Antonio. He used the time to very sneakily pull as much information as possible from me. Though his questions were nearly non-stop, he sprinkled in little tidbits about himself and gave me glimpses of Paul’s life before he’d come to Merriville. He never asked about my family, leading me to believe that Paul had already told him my story.

  It made me wonder if he also knew that I was the cause of Paul’s recent disobedience to the church. That unasked question was answered when I asked another instead. “So what brings you to Texas, Father Russell?”

  “You, of course.” He said it definitively. Though there was no apparent disapproval in his answer, the abruptness of it silenced me. Even if it hadn’t, Paul’s response would have.

  He shot Father Russell a sharp look. “Later.” The reprimand made me anxious, but more than anything it made me curious. What had Paul told Father Russell about me, and why was I the reason he’d come to visit? Had my disruption to Paul’s life caused him to seek the counsel of his older and wiser friend?

  “Speaking of later,” Father Russell said, seemingly un-phased by Paul’s disapproving glare. “I checked my flight before we got on the road, and it’s been cancelled. However, there’s an earlier flight that leaves at 4:30. I called, and it looks like there’s a good chance that I can get on that one. So I’m afraid all I have time for is the Alamo. You two are going to have to do the Riverwalk without me.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” Paul said. “We could have left earlier.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Father Russell answered. “I can see it next time. However, I am excited to see the church before I go. It dates back to the late 1700s, and it’s a piece of U.S. history.”

  “Russell is a history buff,” he explained as he parked the car.

  Since I’d grown up 50 miles away, I’d been to the Alamo more times than I could count. I’d always thought of it as more of a battlefield than anything else, but looking up at the stone structure with its ancient yet impressive entrance, its history was undeniable.

  My unease grew. I hadn’t been in a church since the funeral. Sightseeing with two priests didn’t change the fact that I had no desire to set foot in one, even one with a past but no future. As we joined the line to get into the complex, I was already planning my escape.

  Father Russell refused any kind of tour, preferring to meander through the Barrack Museum at his own pace. By the time we reached the last part of the museum, the walls were caving in on me.

  Even though it was a Monday morning and the temperature outside was about a million degrees, the crowd was dense. It was summer, and vacationing families were out in abundance. Mothers chased their children through the throng of people. Fathers carried
toddlers on their shoulders. The parents laughed at their kids. They scolded them for their minor infractions. It was all so very normal. For them.

  A little boy who could have been no more than five popped out from behind a display case containing a musket. Shockingly blonde hair stuck out from his behind his mask, and crystal blue eyes shone bright through the small holes. He bore no resemblance at all to Trey, who’d had light mousey brown hair and rich, saddle brown eyes. It was the costume that ripped me to the core.

  “I’m Batman,” he said. He stuck his arm out and flung his cape dramatically. His laughter stilled my heart.

  His mother smiled meekly at me. “I’m so sorry. He got away from me.” She turned toward her son and took him by the arm. “Come on, Caped Crusader. Leave this nice lady alone.”

  She whisked him away, and I was left standing frozen in the museum. I could feel myself spiraling.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asked. “You don’t look well.” Though I could hear his voice, my vision was grainy, and I could barely make out his form though he was standing right next to me.

  “I have to get out of here,” I said, dashing in what I hoped was the direction of an exit. I didn’t stop running until I was standing in front of the parking lot across the street. Faced with nowhere to go and no way to leave, I walked toward the line of trees that surrounded the perimeter of the parking lot and collapsed beneath the first one I came to. I slid to the ground and leaned back against the tree. Closing my eyes, I focused on taking deep breaths.

  “Grace?” I opened my eyes to find Paul squatting in front of me. Father Russell was nowhere in sight. “Was it too much?” he asked.