The Confessions(13)

Psalm 114:6





November 2014, New York City, St. Francis Xavier Parish



Father Stuart Ballard, S.J., was 81 years old, but even if he were 91, 101, dead, he’d still notice the gams on that gal. He paused in the hallway by the door to the men’s room and stared at the legs in question for a few extra seconds. Anyone who walked past him would assume poor Father Ballard needed to take a little breather. Getting on in years, wasn’t he? Well, let them think he was too tired to walk down a long hallway without taking a break. They didn’t need to know he had his eye on the nicest pair of legs he’d seen since the Clinton administration. Funny that no one ever told him when he was a kid that at 81 he’d still feel like a kid. In his mind he might as well have been 21 for the thoughts he had sometimes, especially when confronted with two shapely legs in black stockings and black high heels. He was sure there was a fancy name for the shoes she wore—slingbacks or stilettos or something like that—but it didn’t matter to him what brand they were or what style. He just knew he liked what he saw. Especially since it was late-November and every good pair of legs in the city was hidden under long skirts and boots. A woman who wore high heels in the snow—he liked her already.

Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, he prayed the old prayer in his mind. But only say the word and my soul shall be healed. And while you’re at it, he added, say the word and get my mind out of the gutter too, if you would, please.

Father Ballard reminded himself that even ladies with nice legs were beloved children of God deserving of all respect due God’s only Son. With that thought in mind, he straightened up and walked toward the door at the end of the hall. He tried not to look at the woman sitting outside the confessional—at her short skirt, at those legs that could make a man forget a few of the vows he’d taken over the years. Images became thoughts and thoughts became desires and desires became actions. Ah, who was he kidding? He was 81. He could look at a pretty girl if he wanted to and if anyone caught him staring he’d blame it on his old eyes (without mentioning his old eyes could still see 20/20).

“You here for me, Miss?” he asked, after unlocking the door.

She looked up from the book she’d been reading, took off her glasses, and smiled at him. No girl this one. Oh no, this was a woman, a grown woman, and a beautiful grown woman at that. Black hair pinned up in a style he hadn’t seen on a woman since he was a boy, dark eyes, and a full bottom lip that surely had survived its fair share of kisses. He guessed she was in her mid-30s but these days any woman between 30 and 50 looked about the same age to him.

“I think you’re here for me,” she said, gathering her handbag and coat.

“Am I?” he asked.

“Saturday, four o’clock, the sacrament of reconciliation, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Pull up your sins and make yourself at home.”

She followed him into the small room that served as the Church’s confessional. The old two-parter booths weren’t in use much anymore. It wasn’t “confession” so much anymore but “reconciliation.” Priest and penitent sat in chairs facing each other and Stuart had gone to great lengths to make sure his confessional was as comfortable and inviting as possible. Priests liked repeat customers after all.

“Leather chairs,” the lady said, nodding her approval. She ran her hand over the back of the chair, scarlet red fingernails stark against the chocolate brown. “Very nice.”

“Have a seat, please,” he said as he took his chair by the floor lamp. “Oh, could you put the sign on the door first? You can lock the door if you like, but you don’t have to. No one will interrupt.” As she walked to the door, he lit a handful of votive candles on the low altar of the prie-dieu and switched on his iPod.

“Mood music?” she asked. “Never had mood music played during confession before. What do you have there? Gregorian chant? Bach?”

“Enya,” Father Ballard said.

The woman burst out laughing. It was such a wide open laugh that it made him sit up straighter.

She pointed at him and shook her finger. “You surprise me. Takes a lot to do that. Now I have to revise a few mental pictures I had...”

“I like to make my penitents comfortable,” he said. “Plus, it’s pretty, relaxing, and masks our voices. Speaker’s by the door. If anyone wanted to listen to us, all they’d hear is music.”

“I like it,” she said. “I play music during sessions with my clients. It does help them relax. Never Enya though. I’ll try that next time.”

She took the sign off the back of the doorknob, read it, and raised her eyebrow.

“‘Do not disturb’, ” she read the sign. “ ‘Courtesy, The Sauveterre.’ That’s a five-star hotel, Father. What’s a Jesuit priest doing with a hotel sign from a five-star hotel?”

“Stole it,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ve confessed that sin and been absolved.”

“Met your girlfriend there?” she asked as she hung the sign on the outer doorknob. She shut the door and locked it.

“I wish,” he said, watching as she took her seat across from him. He tried not to watch as she crossed her legs.

But he did anyway.

“Yes,” she said with something like sympathy in her voice. “I bet you do.”