The Confessions(11)

“That it would be. That it would.”

“I was meant to find this girl, meant to love her. God is behind this. I don’t know why,” Marcus said, “but this I believe.”

“If you believe, then I believe. But don’t fail her.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Ballard shook his finger at him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I know you. I watched you eviscerate an entire room of novices during a theological debate.”

“It was a debate.”

“We were debating mercy. And you showed none. You have a capacity for arrogance that borders on cruelty. And not only can you be cruel, you enjoy your own cruelty while you’re inflicting it on another human being.”

“That was ten years ago. I have learned a modicum of humility and self-control since then.”

“Not enough. You are a dangerous man, Marcus Stearns. I’m most grateful you’re a priest because I’d rather have you with us than against us. At no point should you let yourself lose control of your impulses with that girl. Not like you did with your Kingsley.”

“I won’t. With her or him.” Marcus sounded sincere and Ballard believed that he was. But he’d seen Marcus lose his temper before, saw him reduce grown men to tears with a handful of well-chosen words. He would pray, Ballard would. He would pray for them all.

At last Ballard stood up and brushed the dirt of the dead off his shoes. He waved his hand and together they headed back toward the entrance of the cemetery.

“Will I ever get to meet this girl of yours?”

“Never,” Marcus said with finality.

“No? And why not?”

“You’re a flirt. Especially around well-endowed brunettes. I know you.”

“I do love a curvy brunette. But give me a ginger any day. Miriam had the most beautiful long scarlet hair.”

“Eleanor has long black hair. A mass of waves you could get lost in. And she smells like hothouse flowers. Black orchids and white oleander.”

Father Ballard breathed in deep and tried to remember… Miriam smelled like strawberries. Even her kisses tasted of them.

“Did she really get her rocks off on your desk?” Ballard asked.

“She did. And the first time we met, she called me an idiot.”

“She and I would get along swimmingly. Wanking and insulting you—two of my favorite things.”

“If you told me to list a hundred things I love about her right now off the top of my head…”

“Well?”

“I could.” Marcus glanced up at the fading sun. Was he praying? Ballard hoped so. Nothing and no one but God could help him now. “I have this fantasy of waking up with her and ordering her to make the bed. She would give me a dirty look. Knowing her, she’d growl at me while she fluffed the pillows. It’s not even an erotic fantasy. But the satisfaction that one mental image gives me of her glaring at me from across the bed… I have no words.”

Marcus took a ragged breath as if that confession, his fantasy about her, had taken more out of him than any other.

“What about the erotic fantasies?” Ballard asked, a question he’d asked dozens of priests he’d counseled. Only with Marcus was he ever afraid of the answer. “Are they troubling you?”

“Yes.”

“Why do they trouble you? Because she’s young?”

“Because they’re violent.”

Marcus glanced his way for only a shamed second and turned his gaze elsewhere. Anywhere elsewhere.

“I want to tie her up, beat her black and blue, and f*ck her until she bleeds. You know why that fantasy troubles me?”

“Tell me.”

“Because it’s the tamest one I have about her.”

“I see,” he said although he didn’t. Marcus had explained his predilections to him a long time ago but Ballard never asked for details. He didn’t need them. He certainly didn’t want them. “I believe you once told me those in your community engage in a consensual sort of violence. Is that the sort of violence you’re talking about? The consensual sort?”

“It’s fantasy,” Marcus said, his face a brick wall—hard and impenetrable. “You don’t have to play by the rules in a fantasy.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

“It’s a ‘no.’ ”

“Well…” Ballard began and shrugged. “Take out the part at the ending about f*cking, and you have most of my thoughts about Margaret Thatcher. Hate that woman, God forgive me. I also mentally decapitated a man who cut me off in traffic the other day. Good thing we’re judged only on our actions, not our fantasies.”

Marcus laughed a little. “Now I remember why I asked you to be my confessor.”

“Even the most intelligent people have to be reminded of the obvious sometimes. You are not judged by what you think, but what you do. We all have horrible thoughts, thoughts that shame us, thoughts we don’t even want God to see.”

“It scares me, Stuart. The thoughts I have about her. I acted on a fantasy once. The first time I was with Kingsley.”

“When you put him in the school infirmary for three days?”

“He could barely walk when I was done with him. He wanted it. He enjoyed it. He even thanked me for what I did to him that night and told me he loved me for the first time. Cold comfort…”