The Confessions(4)

“I haven’t touched her. I promise.”

“But you want to. And she’s 16.”

“I’m not an ephebophile, Stuart. If she were my age I’d be a much happier man. But she’s not. That doesn’t stop me from wanting her anymore than it’s stopped her from pursuing me.”

“You’re being sexually pursued by a 16-year-old girl.”

“Yes, and she’s quite tenacious.”

“How tenacious?”

“She snuck into my office and masturbated on my desk.”

Ballard whistled, impressed.

“That’s tenacious.” Father Ballard considered his options. He could laugh, cry, or punch Marcus in the face. He decided to laugh. “Is this the worst of it? She’s 16, she’s tenacious, and you want to f*ck her.”

“I’m in love with her.”

“That scares me more than anything,” Ballard said.

“Love scares you?”

“No. You being in love scares me.” Ballard led them down a shady path. “I remember those first few months after you joined the order. Marcus Aurelius himself could have learned a thing or two about stoicism from you back in those days. In public. In private, however? In my office…”

“I was a shipwreck,” Marcus admitted. Good. Marcus had a bad habit of forgetting he was mortal. Good that he remembered his past moments of weakness. Even better that he’d admit to them.

“You told me about your father and your sister and what he did to her and what she did to you. You told me about your mother, about what happened to her and how she was taken from you. What happened to you could have destroyed you, could have destroyed any man. But none of that broke you. You fell in love with a boy at your school, and he left you—”

“And I fell apart.” Marcus said the words simply, but Ballard knew it took superhuman effort to say them. The ghost of old pain lingered in his voice. He’d never met the boy Marcus had loved, but he knew so much about Kingsley from Marcus’s confessions that Ballard fancied he could identify the man in a police line-up if he had to. Getting the truth out of Marcus had been like prying a stone from a child’s hand only to force the fingers apart to see the diamond on his palm. Ballard remembered prying those diamonds from Marcus’s hand…

I never in my life dreamed I would want another boy. Then I saw him—his dark eyes, dark brown hair, and olive skin…

Father Ballard…what if I never see him again?

Kingsley kissed me first. I punished him for it, because I was too scared to kiss him back. I thought if I started kissing him, I would never stop.

What if I never kiss him again?

Kingsley used me as a pillow. I loved waking up to find his head on my chest or my stomach or my back. He has long dark hair and he laughs when I pull it. That’s how I’d wake him up, tugging on his hair. The best days were the days his laugh was the first sound I heard.

What if I never hear it again?

I was cruel to him because he liked it and because I loved it. When I told him he was beneath me, I only meant…I wanted him beneath me. Always.

He left me. And he never came back.

“I know you fell apart,” Ballard said, the echo of Marcus’s long-ago confessions still ringing in his ears. “I’m the one who put the pieces back together. I loved you then. I love you more now. I can’t bear the thought of seeing you go through that again. The only thing greater than your ability to inflict suffering is your capacity to experience it. You are taking a huge risk. I’m not talking about your career now. I’m talking about your heart.”

“What isn’t a risk? Birth comes with a death sentence. Every breath I take could be my last. I know loving her is a risk,” Marcus said, his strong jaw set and determined. “But I can’t walk away from her. No one is taking care of her right now. Someone has to.”

“So you are going to sleep with her?”

Marcus paused. “Not until she’s older.”

“Glad you’re thinking this through so thoroughly,” Father Ballard said. “I feel much better now. Let’s wrap this up and have tea.”

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. You’re in love with a 16-year-old girl in your parish, and I’m not supposed to be angry?”

“That isn’t why you’re angry.”

Ballard turned and faced Marcus. “Don’t do this to me. Keep your eyes out of my head. I know you. I know what you are.”

“You know what I am because I told you what I am. And I can’t turn it on and off with a switch. I can read you the same way I can see the tree to our left and the graves on our right. You’re angry because I’m going through with it and you didn’t.”

“I’m not discussing her with you today,” Ballard said, meaning every word.

“You are, whether you mean to or not. She’s in everything you say to me. I hear her like you’re speaking with her voice. You loved her. She loved you. You chose the Church. She left. And you have never forgiven yourself. You can take your regret out on me if you want, but don’t pretend it’s your piety talking.”

Father Ballard prayed for a miracle. All he needed was eight more inches of height so he could properly finish Marcus off. They were in a cemetery already. Good place to commit murder.