Fine, fine, fine.
By the time the Mass had almost finished and it was time for me to deliver my eulogy, I’d torn my funeral program into tiny, frustrated pieces. I craved Poppy, Millie was dead, and the priest was terrible. What else could a man endure? When I stood to go to the front, Mom cleared her throat quietly and held out her cupped hands for me to dump my piles of shredded program into.
Good old Mom.
The walk to the front felt strange. I’d come down this center aisle so many times, robed and collared and processing behind a cross, and now I was in a civilian’s suit, walking on unfamiliar floors while unfamiliar lights dangled above me.
It should have been me performing her Mass, a petulant part of me thought. What good were you to Millie if you couldn’t even perform her last Mass? Was it worth it? Leaving the church?
Was it?
Well, was it?
I didn’t have an answer to that any more. Plus one degree, minus one wife. Net profit: zero.
I climbed up to the lectern and got behind it, looking out over the crowd as I pulled up my notes on my phone. “So…this feels familiar.”
Several people in the pews laughed despite their tears. Most of the people here had been my flock, and while I knew there was no ill will over my leaving or the way I had left, I still wished I could know what they were thinking as they looked up at me now, standing behind my old lectern.
“We all knew Millie well,” I started, gazing out at the mourners. “And I think no one was surprised to walk in and find a bright purple casket with the Kansas State Wildcat painted on the side. Millie, I know you can hear me from heaven right now, and rock chalk, Jayhawk.”
More laughter. I looked down at my notes, notes I’d written in Sean’s penthouse while gazing out at the gray winter sky. Notes that I’d written thinking about my last night with Poppy, when I’d told her I knew her better than any other person alive.
“Today is a day where we mourn and miss the Millie we all knew. But I want to take a minute and think about all the things we didn’t know. The things we’ll never know now. Whether she liked to keep her hand on the remote while she watched television. Whether she waited for her coffee to brew in the kitchen or whether she did other things while it brewed instead. Whether she preferred her crossword in the morning or at night. We might remember her favorite meal, her favorite hymn…which candidate she sent nasty letters to during the last election.”
Laughter again, because yeah, we all knew that one for sure.
“But a person is so much more than those big things. A person is a collection of small things, of tiny invisible moments, of thoughts too inconsequential to share, of feelings that are too petty not to hide. Of glorious epiphanies too perfect to taint by speaking them out loud. And the real tragedy is not just that we won’t ever get to know these things about Millie. It’s that we so rarely take the time to know them about each other.”
My throat tightened as I thought about Poppy.
“When you go home tonight, look at the people around you. And search for those secrets. Millie would want you to hold on to them, those fleeting insubstantial moments. That was one of her gifts: seeing people how they really are.”
I paused, because I was at the end of my notes, but looking out at the crowd—all crying again—I didn’t want to leave them like this. I wanted to leave this lectern with levity and with laughter. For Millie. So I leaned down and murmured, “And her other gift was casseroles,” which earned the loudest laughter of all, but I didn’t even care at that point because when I lifted my eyes to the back of the sanctuary, I saw a slender woman clad all in black with dark hair and red lips, and it was like lightening striking me where I stood.
Poppy had come after all.
By the time I left the lectern, Poppy was gone. Behind me, I could hear Father McCoy beginning the final prayers and farewells that would wrap up the service, and it would be disrespectful and rude to simply walk out of the sanctuary at this point, but I didn’t care. I had to find her, and I also knew that Millie would have wanted me to do the same thing.
The narthex was empty except for a couple of children chasing each other around the fonts of holy water. Their shouts and squeaks were incongruous with the heavy atmosphere just inside the sanctuary, but also perfect. Millie loved children; she would have wanted them happy and playing at her funeral, and so despite the fact that I was hunting for my wife with my heart jackhammering at a million miles per hour, I smiled at them. Smiled and wished that I could count on a future where I would have loud children running around a church, happy and playing, and ours.
I pushed the outside doors open, the bitter wind bringing with it tiny pellets of ice and sleet. Even though it was only four in the afternoon, the sun was setting, and already the Christmas lights along Weston’s main strip of antique shops and wineries were lit up. The glow gave the scene a homey, cozy feeling despite the desolate sky and the brownish river bluffs in the distance.
“Tyler,” came a quiet, shivering voice.
Poppy stood at the edge of the steps outside the door. Rosy spots had blossomed high on her cheeks and her breath came in large white clouds. She wore a black-netted veil, which hung down to her chin, pinned with small ruby-encrusted combs into the graceful sweep of her hair. With her tailored coat and heels, she looked like a femme fatale from some 1930s noir drama, and I wanted to lift that veil and kiss that deadly red mouth. I was too tired for anger or defensiveness any longer.
A kiss would be enough.
But I kept my physical urges under control. “I’m so glad you came. It would have meant a lot to Millie.”
She nodded, her eyes on the twinkling lights down the street. “And it meant a lot to me to be here. I cared about her too, you know.”
A few days ago, a whole host of angry responses would have been hot and waiting on my tongue, but not today. Instead I tore my eyes away from her face and pinned them on the salt-strewn steps. We need to talk about our future, I wanted to say. Or maybe the less threatening we need to talk about us. Or maybe simply can I buy you a cup of coffee?
She beat me to it. “I flew in this morning. I’d like to get a hotel room together, if that’s okay with you?”
A fragile needle of hope pierced through my grief-haze. “Yes,” I said softly. “Yes, that’s okay with me.”
We stayed for the funeral reception in the church basement, sharing stories of Millie and her life, and even Poppy spoke up a few times, although it was usually to add a small detail to what someone else was saying. After we ate our fill of potato-chip casseroles and pasta salads, we climbed into Sean’s Audi. He gave me a look after Poppy climbed in, a what the fuck is going on look, but I ignored him. Mostly because I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t be an asshole to Poppy in the car, but also because I didn’t know what was going on myself.
We swung by Sean’s place to get my bag, and then he dropped us off at an expensive hotel downtown. When I made a noise of protest, he interrupted. “I’m taking care of it,” he said firmly.
“Sean, man, I can’t let you do that.”
He shrugged. “I would like to see you stop me, given that I’m driving.”
I flipped him off.
He punched my shoulder as I got out of the car and went to grab our things. After I helped Poppy out of the car, we walked inside the lobby and rented a room.
She was silent the whole time, somber and inexpressive in her netted veil and black clothes, and when we made it up to our room, she took off her coat and kicked off her heels without saying a word.
What was I supposed to do now? Was I supposed to ignore her? Ask her what’s wrong? Tackle her to the bed and fuck her until we were both too tired to move anymore?
I didn’t want to do any of those things, however, even the fucking. I put our bags on the floor and walked over to her, noticing the way she both tensed and canted toward me at the same time. She had to be as conflicted as I was, as torn apart by warring feelings, and everything
about her screamed loneliness and unhappiness.
“Say ‘red’ if it gets to be too much,” I murmured.
“Okay,” she whispered. The first words she’d spoken to me since the funeral.
I used one finger to slowly lift her veil past her lips, past her nose, past her eyes. And then I leaned in and brushed my lips against hers.
Electricity, hot and tingling, spread from my mouth to the rest of my body, and she parted her lips, a small helpless noise escaping her as she leaned into my chest. I kept holding her veil up with one hand and then I slid the other behind her back, pulling her closer. But I didn’t open my own lips, I didn’t probe her tongue with mine. I simply kept our lips pressed together, sharing skin and sharing breath, until I pulled away and lowered her veil.
Her breathing was ragged, and I knew her body craved more, but I wasn’t willing to exploit that. It was her heart and mind I was after, and I was too worn out and depressed to settle for anything less.
I reached up to her hair and slid out the delicate combs that held up her veil. And then I gently tugged her black blazer from her shoulders, drawing a shuddering inhale from her when my palms brushed against her stiffening nipples. I ignored the sigh (and the nipples) and focused on untucking her silk blouse, moving to the back to work on the small pearl buttons at the neck, and then I helped her out of it, followed by her skirt. Her stockings and garter belt were next, and goose bumps followed my fingers wherever they went, but I never touched her where I didn’t need to. My hands and eyes stayed focused on the clothing, even when I unhooked her bra and tugged her silk thong down to her feet.
She stood completely naked before me, jaw set with the effort of controlling her breathing, and I left her for a moment, to get her bag. Setting it on the table next to me, I dug through it until I found what I was looking for: her makeup kit. I used the wipes and gently, methodically cleaned her face. I wiped off the kohl eyeliner and mascara, the bronzer she used because she was self-conscious about being so pale, the crimson lipstick. When I was done, I ran a thumb over those naked lips, sweet and full and parted ever so slightly by her teeth.
She blinked up at me, her face fresh and clean. “I thought when you said red that meant…”
I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
“Tyler.”
I pulled her silk robe out of her bag and slid it onto her, belting the sash securely. Once that was finished, I met her eyes and decided to be honest. She had to know why I couldn’t fuck her safely tonight. “If I let myself go right now, it won’t be pretty. I’ll use that sash to gag you and two of my belts to fasten your ankles to those table legs over there. Then I’ll lean you over that table and fuck you so hard you cry.”
She swallowed, her pupils wide.
I ducked my head so she was forced to meet my eyes. “Is that what you want right now? Is that what you want tonight to be? All of my hurt and my grief directed at you?”
She grabbed my hand and dragged it under her robe. “I’m so wet for you,” she pleaded. “Please.”
My dick jolted but I stayed the course. I picked her up and carried her to bed, tucking her under the covers while I toed off my shoes and shrugged off my coat and tie. I left the dress shirt and slacks on, however, wanting more barriers between Poppy and me. I didn’t trust myself not to exploit her arousal otherwise, even though I knew that fucking her would only complicate things more.
I crawled into bed next to her. “Remember to say red,” I reminded her. And then I pulled her into me, so that our bodies lay flush together, my body curled around hers.
“This is hardly red-worthy,” she said after a moment.
“You spent the last week avoiding me, lamb. I think letting me take care of you and then spending the night in my arms is a lot more difficult than being fucked.”
And I was right. Because at some point in the night, a few hours after we’d fallen asleep, I woke up to the sound of her soft crying. She’d turned, so that her face was pressed against my shirt, and I cradled her there, running my hands through her hair and across her back while her tears spilled on my chest. I didn’t ask her what was wrong, I didn’t ask her anything, I just held her and stroked her until her crying grew quieter and quieter and she eventually drifted back into sleep.
I didn’t go back to sleep, though. I stayed wide awake, wishing I knew what she’d been thinking about, what had made her cry, what had caused her sudden shift in temperament last week.
Maybe I’d never know. Maybe this was how I lived now, on the outskirts of her emotions, too close to leave but too far away to help.
I held her tighter at that thought. No. I wouldn’t be on the periphery. I had to know whether she wanted me back inside…or if she wanted me gone altogether.
We had lunch with my parents, and then we were flying back home. She was just as quiet as she’d been yesterday, although she sought out my touch more—holding my hand while we waited to board and leaning against me on the plane. When we got home, I did the same thing I did in Kansas City. I helped her undress. I helped wash her—in the shower this time—and then I held her in bed. I knew that the shower had aroused her since she kept rubbing her thighs together as we snuggled in bed. But I also knew that letting me tend to her required more trust than letting me fuck her. And so I persevered. Even though we were both aware of my massive erection and her pained sighs.
It worked though, because the next day, a Tuesday, she asked if we could talk that night after she got home from work.
“Of course, lamb,” I said. And then she came over of her own free will and kissed my cheek.
It was a start.
I went to my final teaching sessions of the semester, proctoring their finals and making wild overestimations of when I’d have their tests graded. After that, I hit the gym and then the shower, and went home to make Poppy dinner.
I didn’t cook—I’ve never been interested in anything more complicated than grilled cheese—but I found a recipe online for bisque and did my best. Add in some wine and lightly burned dinner rolls, and it was a respectable meal, and I was rather proud of myself. When Poppy came home a few minutes later, I was just pulling my bisque splattered T-shirt over my head.
“Is it naked dinner?” she asked.
It was the most lighthearted thing I’d heard her say in almost two weeks.
“It can be if you want.”
She smiled. “I do want.”
We sat down and began eating, Poppy choosing hot chocolate over wine. The evening was clear, sprinkled with stars, and outside the snow-covered graves looked peaceful. Pretty even.
“So,” Poppy began, looking down at her soup. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Anywhere you like.” I tried to pour every ounce of my loving her into my words. I wasn’t sure where we’d gone wrong or how to fix it, but I wanted her to know what I was willing to do whatever it took.
She must have sensed this, because she looked up from her soup and met my eyes. “Okay.”
I reached for her hand and squeezed it.
She took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”
“What?!”
I exploded out of my seat, practically tackling her. She let out peals of laughter as I picked her up and swung her around, burying my face in her neck.
Oh my God, I thought dizzily. I’m going to be a father.
A father.
To a baby.
My baby.
I spun her and spun her until we fell onto the couch with her on top of me, me making sure that her fall was gentle and safe. She raised up on her arms and looked down at me.
“I love you,” I said and I meant it more than I ever had before.
“I love you,” she said back with a huge grin. But then that grin faltered. “I know I’ve been…difficult these last two weeks. And I’m sorry. I am also sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“You’ve known?” I didn’t want to sound accusatory or make her feel badly, but this seemed like the kind of th
ing I should have known about seconds after she did.
She sighed and pushed herself back so that she was sitting in between my legs. “I found out the Monday before Thanksgiving. My period was a week late, and I remembered that I’d had the stomach flu the month before, and I thought maybe that had affected my birth control. So I took a drugstore test while I was at work and it was positive.”
The Monday before Thanksgiving. The text message she’d sent me flashed through my mind.
Come home early tonight. I am excited to tell you about my day!
I thought she’d had a great day at work or something like that. Guilt crushed into me as I realized she’d been about to tell me that night. And then I’d been late.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” she continued. “And I wanted it to be the right moment, you know? Just the two of us, here in our home. And then it kept not happening, and then I began to suspect that it would never happen. And then I began to think, ‘Oh my God. If he isn’t even around for me to tell him, how the hell is he going to be around to raise a child?’”
My eyes burned hot and I squeezed them shut. “Poppy…”
“And then the gala happened and you were late, and I panicked. It wasn’t even about the gala itself, it wasn’t about the reason you were late, it was just about how I didn’t know if I could trust you to help me with this. To be there for me.”
The entire conversation replayed in my mind. “But Anton knew,” I said quietly.
“Anton knew. He went down to the deli and bought me Sprites and ran interference for me while I napped in the office. He’s been great.”
I couldn’t be angry about that. I couldn’t be angry about Anton when the only one I had to blame was myself. But it still stung. It still scratched and scrabbled at the thin skin of my heart.
“But after Millie’s funeral and your eulogy about knowing people and how sweet you’ve been to me this weekend, I realized something. That it wasn’t you that made me scared. It was me.”
Midnight Mass (Priest #2) Page 10