The Confessions(12)

“When I was 17, I got into a drunken bar fight in Liverpool. Broke a Scouser’s nose. Spent a night in the nick. St. Ignatius himself—”

“I know. He was arrested for street fighting.”

“Son, we’re all idiots when we’re teenagers. You’ve repented, been absolved. Don’t throw God’s forgiveness back in His face. Don’t throw Kingsley’s back in his.”

“You’re right. I know you are. I do accept his forgiveness, and God’s. The fear of doing it again, however, to her…”

“Sexual repression and suppression is the reason that we have priests in parishes who belong in prisons. I tell all my priests the same thing—vow of celibacy or not, you are a sexual being. God created you to be. Honor that part of yourself. Take care of your sexuality in a healthy way. If you’re having fantasies, have them. Enjoy them. Don’t fight them. Don’t deny them their place in your psyche. But don’t give them power over you.”

“Stuart, tell me the truth—if she and I become lovers at some point in the future, would it truly interfere with my ability to be a good priest?”

“Not if you don’t let it. I know far too many Protestant pastors and ministers who are married with children and do God’s work to believe that. There’s a reason the hierarchy is notorious for looking the other way when priests have lovers, but excommunicate those who get married. Half the priests in Rome have lovers—openly. The bishops don’t care who you’re f*cking as long as the Church comes first and they can still move you around like a chess piece. You get married and have children? Then the Church isn’t first in your life anymore.”

“Eleanor makes it so easy to wake up in the morning. Knowing there’s the merest chance I’ll see her that day compels me to church knowing at some point that day she’ll be standing in my doorway telling me off about one thing or another. I am lost in my love for her.”

“I want to stop you, find you, bring you back. And yet…” Ballard said, aching with sympathy for Marcus, for himself, for all the priests he knew who were good men who’d chosen the Church over their own hearts. “If I were your age and had it to do all over again…”

“Yes?”

“Well, let’s just say poor Miriam would wear out her knees from a certain activity that is not related to praying.”

“I didn’t need that image in my head.”

“Turnabout is fair play, my boy.”

They talked of other things all the way back to the church. Music mostly. Marcus had been invited to join a chamber orchestra. Ballard had been given tickets to an Aerosmith concert by a friend. Marcus asked him if he knew anything about a band called Pearl Jam. Better guitar-playing than Nirvana, Ballard informed him, but that wasn’t saying much. When they arrived back at church they stood in the narthex by the altar. Ballard lit a candle and raised it in a salute.

“For her. I’ll be praying for her,” Ballard said.

“I thank you on her behalf. I have yet to stop praying for her.”

Marcus lifted a match and lit a candle of his own.

“Who is that for?” Ballard asked.

“Your Miriam,” he said.

Ballard swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Miriam O’Donnell—red hair, blue eyes, a dirty laugh, a wide smile, and a heart that was born to love him. As much as he’d loved her, when he had to choose, he’d picked the Church over her. As much as he’d pined for her, questioned his choice, wished things had been different, when the time came to look God in the face, Ballard would say if he had to do it over again, he still would have become a priest.

“I dream sometimes about going back in time, marrying her, having children. When I imagine having a son, he’s very much like you,” Ballard said. “Only shorter. Less arrogant. Not blond.”

“So nothing like me then?”

“Not a bit. Now get out of here before I do something foolish like hug you and tell you I’ll always love you no matter what happens.”

“You have to absolve me first. Don’t forget that part.”

“I can’t absolve you until you actually tell me a sin you’ve committed. Wanting to commit a sin isn’t the same as committing one. Tell me something you’re sorry for even if you have to make it up.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Marcus said, and his eyes showed his sincerity. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for any scandal I might cause the Church. But I’m not sorry for finding her and loving her. I will never repent of accepting the gifts God gives me. Even if they do come with strings attached.”

Marcus stood up straight again and took a step forward. Ballard looked up and into his eyes.

“I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said, blessing the young priest who stood before him.

“Thank you,” Marcus said.

“Don’t thank me. I’m only doing my job.”

“Penance?” Marcus asked.

“No penance.” Ballard gave him a sad and knowing smile. “Something tells me that loving your Eleanor will be penance enough.”





The Confession of Eleanor Schreiber





The Lord is the keeper of little ones: I was little and he delivered me.