The Confessions(3)

“The cassock and eight inches of air,” Marcus said.

“I’m five-eight. That isn’t short.”

Marcus arched his eyebrow and looked down at him.

“Fuck the cassock,” Father Ballard said. “Kneel down. I want to break your nose.”

Marcus stood up straighter. “You’ll be threatening to box my ears next.”

“Bastard,” Father Ballard said. “Remind me again why I like you so much.”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

“Walk.” Ballard waved his hand toward the path. “Tell me about this girl.”

“You’ll hear my confession?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Ballard said, following Marcus onto the path. “I certainly don’t want you telling it to anyone else.”

“I never considered speaking to anyone else.”

“Then confess. I’ll be over here praying lightning strikes us both and puts us out of our misery.”

“I came to you for comfort and guidance,” Marcus said. “I can’t quite remember why.”

“Stop stalling. Get to the dirt.”

Marcus stopped in the middle of the path, faced him, and crossed himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been six months since my last confession.”

“What happened six months ago?”

“I met Eleanor.”

“Lovely name. I hope she’s beautiful enough to warrant ruining your life over.”

“She is.”

Marcus said the words simply and without hesitation. Father Ballard felt a pang in his throat and a stone in his chest. He hadn’t made love to a woman since becoming a priest. Forty years since he entered seminary. Thirty years since the last kiss, a kiss he bitterly regretted if only because it had been just a kiss…a kiss and nothing more.

“Well, that’s good then. Glad to hear she’s worth it.” Father Ballard waved his hand and set out walking again. “Go on. Tell me all about it.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Sorry, Bartleby. This is confession. No secrets here.”

“I’m a priest now, ordained. I hear confession every week. I know how much a secret weighs.”

“Ta, then,” Ballard said, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But I’m not going to absolve you if you hide things from me.”

“It’s called the sacrament of reconciliation, not the sacrament of interrogation.”

“If you wanted a nice easy confession, you should have gone to a Franciscan. I know some Franciscans. Lovely gents. Good confessors too, if you can get them to stop playing with their puppies and kittens long enough to bless you.”

“I’m confessing to you because I trust you and I care for you. I care enough to want to spare you the details.”

“Spare me your sparing of me. I can’t help you until I know what’s going on. You’ve told me a thing or two that’s turned my hair gray and shaved a few years off my life. You don’t get to clam up now, not when it matters most.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Marcus said, a rare note of apprehension in his voice. But then…then he smiled and laughed and for one second he looked like a boy, not a man. A boy in love.

“I’ll start then,” Ballard said. “Ten Commandments. Have you broken any?”

“I’m still not honoring my father.”

“Considering what I know about your father, that you haven’t murdered him in his sleep counts as honoring him in my books. You’re a priest so I’m fairly certain you’re keeping the Sabbath. I’m a little afraid to ask this question, but that’s why we’re here. Your Eleanor?”

“Yes? My Eleanor?”

“Are you sleeping with her?” Ballard asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sleeping with anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you since your last confession?”

“No.”

“Are you hurting anyone?”

“Once a week if I can make time for it. There’s no intercourse.”

Father Ballard exhaled. “That’s a relief. I can take a full breath now. Give me a moment. I’d like to have a few of them.”

“Take as many as you need.”

Ballard stopped mid-step and took three deep breaths. Thank you, Lord, for this small miracle, he prayed with each breath.

“I was afraid of this,” Father Ballard said when his heartbeat had settled into its normal rut. “You in a church in a small town. The women must fall all over themselves for you.”

“It hasn’t been like that,” Marcus said as they resumed walking again. “No one has tried anything, flirted to excess, or attempted to seduce me. No one but Eleanor.”

“She’s pursuing you?”

“Like the proverbial hound of Hell.”

“Passionate type. My kind of woman.”

“Girl.”

“Girl?”

Marcus took a breath. “She’s 16.”

Father Ballard stared at Marcus. “Please tell me you’re joking.”