The Prayer Waltz

by K. Z. Snow

  Only, Evan wasn’t making those assumptions.

  I rubbed my forehead. Just thinking about that whole postmortem clusterfuck wore me out, but now I had to wonder how much Evan McAllister knew and didn’t know… and why. If I didn’t put the brakes on my candor, it would become real clear real fast that the Catholic Church hadn’t orchestrated Frank Connor’s finale. I just didn’t have enough energy to convincingly alter the truth.

  “I told the authorities to contact Mr. and Mrs. Connor,” I said. “I arranged for a funeral Mass. Friends and colleagues set up a modest memorial service and wake. I had St. Vincent de Paul take away his belongings. None of his family made an appearance.”

  Evan’s eyes narrowed as he watched me. “You, with help from his friends and colleagues.”

  “Yes. Our friends, his colleagues.”

  “You’re obviously not a priest.”

  I coughed out a tired laugh. “Obviously.”

  “And his family didn’t show up for any of it.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus….”

  “Yeah.”

  Hell, I barely showed up for any of it. The inner me, anyway. I went through the better part of that month on autopilot, my mind programmed like a robot to methodically perform tasks, my heart a chunk of stone. At night, alone, I fell apart. As I slept, the pieces somehow reassembled themselves. By morning, I was once again an efficient mechanism.

  “Where’s he buried?” Evan asked.

  “He isn’t. He was cremated. Now he’s in a niche in an outdoor columbarium in a very pretty cemetery.”

  I’d wanted to keep his ashes, but the Church barely tolerated cremation, much less any “disrespectful” handling of the remains. So I’d done it their way. Regardless of the turns his life had taken, Frank had remained true to his faith.

  Evan, brows drawn, lightly nibbled his upper lip.

  I awaited the inevitable.

  “I’m not sure how to ask you this,” he finally said.

  “How about without mincing words?”

  Evan’s followed his initial, uncertain glance with a bolder look. “Okay. How close were the two of you, anyway?”

  “Very close,” I said.

  Evan blew out a lungful of air and scratched at his eyebrow. “Did he tell you why he left St. Jerry’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  I balked. “Evan, it really isn’t my place to—”

  “Are you gay?” he asked abruptly as color again painted his cheekbones. They looked even more chiseled in the play of light and shadow from the fire.

  I held his gaze. “Yes.”

  Evan lowered his head. “The congregation was told—”

  “I know what they were told. That he was transferred to another parish.”

  After a confirming nod, Evan propped an elbow on the armrest and pulled his thumb and forefinger over his closed eyes.

  “Evan? Did you know more than the rest of the congregation?”

  He answered without lifting his head. “I didn’t know. I suspected.”

  “What, exactly?”

  Wearily, he turned his eyes up to my face. “That he didn’t just leave St. Jerome’s. That he left the priesthood. Or got the boot.”

  “He left willingly. And that’s pretty extreme speculation for a person who hardly ever went to Mass,” I said dryly. The truth was creeping up on me now, and my last, thin line of defense was sarcasm. “Why did you ask me if I’m gay? Did you think Frank was gay? Is that something else you ‘suspected’?”

  “I didn’t just suspect it,” he said in a monotone.

  I swallowed hard, because it felt as if my stomach wanted to crawl up my throat.

  There were two ways to go with this. I followed the less daunting route, the one that would lead to ire, the one that would keep my feelings from being hurt.

  I swung my chair around to confront Evan and nearly knocked over the table. “Did you blow the whistle on him? Did you go to the monsignor or the bishop or whoever the fuck and say, ‘Hey, I have good reason to believe Frank Connor is a faggot, so you’d better—’”

  “Christ, no!” he shouted, his face contorted with anguish.

  I closed my eyes as my breath went shallow. After a few seconds, I swallowed to moisten my dry throat and wilted against the back of the chair. “What made you privy to Frank’s secret?” I asked, sliding a look at Evan.

  “I think you know the answer to that.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.

  I leaned forward, elbows set on thighs, and dropped my forehead to my hands. “Oh fuck. Why the hell did I invite you here?” As I shoved my fingers into my hair, I heard the other chair creak.

  Chapter Four

  EVAN dropped to his haunches in front of me. “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t seem to lift my head. It felt like dead weight in my hands.

  “I’m sorry. What happened between us… I didn’t want it to happen.”

  I chuckled heavily. “The fuck. What’d he do? Rape you?”

  “No, of course not.” Evan sounded appalled by the notion.

  “Then you obviously wanted it.”

  “I meant I never wanted… to be like this.”

  Frowning, I let one of my hands fall to my lap. “Like what?”

  He shook his head in a spasmodic way. “I didn’t want… to want him. But it wasn’t a choice.”

  Incredulous, I stared at him. “No shit, Evan.” Wanting men. Wanting a clergyman in particular. No, those weren’t choices. But he could’ve walked away from Father Frank Connor.

  Evan’s eyelids lowered beneath my flip scrutiny. I softened into sympathy as I studied his face. I was struck by how beautiful his black lashes were against the rose-tinctured ivory of his skin, how vulnerable he looked. And how much he resembled, at that moment, all the statues I’d ever seen in all the churches I’d ever been in. A perfection of sorrow.

  Maybe he hadn’t been able to walk away from this priest. There’d always been something passive-aggressive about Frank. I’d noticed that when we got involved. I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call him manipulative, but he had a distinct knack for getting his way without ever being pushy or obvious about it. Maybe it had to do with a natural, unassuming charm or an aura of goodness that seemed clean of ulterior motives. He was self-effacing, unfailingly gracious and soft-spoken, quick to smile, generous with understanding, compassion, forgiveness. People melted to his will without ever realizing he had a will.

  “Did you love him?” I asked Evan.

  The question seemed to pain him. “I don’t know. Maybe, in a way. Sometimes I hated him. I know I hated myself.”

  Ah. It wasn’t a lacerated heart resting in his loosely cupped hands; it was his soul, and he likely thought it was irredeemably soiled.

  His floor-cleaning ritual at St. Jerome’s had just taken on a whole new meaning.

  “You would’ve been way better off hooking up with Aaron,” I said.

  Evan laughed through his nose. After a moment he got up and went back to the chair. He slumped into it, hands resting on his flat belly and taut thighs spread wide. “Believe me, it’s crossed my mind. But he’s straight as a plumb line. Has a beautiful girlfriend and a new baby.”

  “You haven’t come out, have you.” I didn’t make it a question, because I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  “I don’t know what any of that shit means,” he said to the fire. “I guess I’m like some redneck who has a craving for gourmet food but is too ashamed to admit it. He has no clue how it’s made or what to call it or what kind of lifestyle goes along with it. All he knows is that he likes it.”

  I was right. Evan hadn’t come out. “You need it,” I said. “And you sure as hell know what to call it.”

  One side of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t look amused. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He snatched his beer off the table and drained the bottle.

  I had a million questions, some of which Evan couldn’t p
ossibly answer. I just plucked one of them from my mind. “How did you and Frank become lovers?” Maybe I was imagining it, but Evan seemed to wince a little when I spoke that final word.

  “We weren’t… you know….” He wasn’t just wincing now, he was borderline squirming. “I mean, it wasn’t like it probably was for the two of you. It was just… an occasional thing.”

  “That must’ve been hard to pull off.”

  “Or too easy,” Evan murmured. “And to think it started with something as innocent as my kid playing softball….”

  MOGIE had just executed a pretty damned gutsy dive at third to steal the base. Problem was, he’d caused a major collision between himself, the third baseman, and the plucky little shortstop who’d fielded, then fumbled, then scooped up the liner. Evan couldn’t even think of it as a line drive. The ball had kind of stuttered along, half on the ground and half in the air, which was why Mogie had immediately sensed opportunity in the hit. The kid had damned good instincts that way.

  The baseman and shortstop bounced off one another like big-bellied, belligerent drunks, then tripped over and tumbled onto the helpless, sliding runner. Instant chaos. Evan rushed onto the field along with somebody’s mother and a pair of coaches. Other players jogged over. Voices rose, carrying frantic questions and instructions, loud words Evan didn’t bother trying to make out. As he knelt beside his son, another adult’s body slid against the side of his, nearly knocking him over.

  “Look out!” he snapped at the nice-looking man. One of the coaches, he dimly realized.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said sincerely. He laid a hand on Evan’s shoulder.

  Nothing else registered after that. Because Christ, something was wrong with Mogie. He wasn’t sitting up fast enough, wasn’t looking alert enough. Amid all the stridency and turmoil, he was alarmingly lumpish.

  The modest playing field at Coldspring Park became a blur of anxious hustle. Aside from his shimmering fear, Evan remembered little of what happened between the moment he felt that hand on his shoulder and the moment a doctor announced, “It’s just a mild concussion.” He must have functioned well, though. He was complimented about his composure afterward. The divorced mom of the third baseman, who’d come out of the crash with a dislocated shoulder, had even suggested they “get together sometime.”

  It never happened.

  Instead, Frank Connor breezed into his life.

  He appeared at Evan’s door two days later, bearing balloons and candy and handmade cards from the kids at St. Jerome’s Elementary, the school that had been Glenwood’s opponent that fateful afternoon. He appeared in faded jeans and a Bob Marley T-shirt, appeared with the kindest gray-green eyes and sweetest smile and most delectable body—well, nearly—Evan had ever seen on a man outside the Internet, and somewhere in the cellar beneath Evan’s soul, desire stirred. Again.

  It was the beginning of the end.

  “Mr. McAllister?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Frank Connor, the softball coach at St. Jerome’s. We’re wondering how Scott’s doing and wanted to let him know we’re thinking about him.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Evan said, which wasn’t too lame. “Come on in. I’m Evan.” An awkward handshake followed—awkward because Frank’s hands were pretty full—and within very short order, Evan’s not-too-lame greeting began to degenerate into full-blown babble. He knew what that meant. He found Frank Connor appealing.

  Frank stayed two hours longer than courtesy required. He spent about fifteen minutes of that time with Mogie, whose nickname, Evan explained, originated with their beloved mutt Smokey, the canine equivalent of the boy’s twin. Scott couldn’t pronounce the dog’s name properly when he was a toddler.

  The men then moved out to the backyard patio as Mogie slept. They had a couple of beers and more conversation, a lot more. Toward the end of the visit, their weightier messages were exchanged through lingering looks, not words….

  EVAN was sunk in thought. Light from the controlled gas fire danced in his eyes. I enjoyed looking at him. I enjoyed it more with every passing moment and every swallow of beer. The stubble on his jaw and throat seemed darker. I fancied he had more than the average man’s share of testosterone—he certainly looked like he did—and it fueled whisker growth as it charged through his bloodstream.

  Oh, brother. Torrents of testosterone. I didn’t have to wonder Shit, what is with me? The answer was obvious.

  “Where did you meet when you spent time alone together?” I asked, keeping my voice soft. I wanted to tap gently at the door of Evan’s reverie, not come bursting through it. “How did you even manage to get from wanting to doing?” It was difficult for me to imagine these accomplishments. When I’d met Frank, he was no longer a priest and no longer in Prism Falls, so we’d had no major hurdles to clear, no reason for secrecy.

  Evan sighed, sat up straighter, and took a drink. I hoped he understood my euphemistic questions. I really didn’t want to get crude and ask how they’d gone from talking to fucking and where they’d gone to fuck. I was none too comfortable already, torn as I was between guilt-stained desire and a kind of post facto jealousy. In fact, I was on the verge of feeling ill. But maybe I kept bulldogging along because I was tired of being in the dark.

  “It started with a kiss,” Evan said.

  “He was a good kisser.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Our voices seemed to drift out the windows and merge with the falling snow….

  TWO weeks after Mogie’s accident. The upstairs deck of Ron and Shelley Dougherty’s secluded chalet. Evan showed up to feed the couple’s birds and tropical fish, and Frank was already there. He’d come to bless the animals as well as the house. Ron and Shelley were on a weekend anniversary getaway. Ron had told his caretaking friend where he hid the house key. Shelley had told their parish priest the same thing.

  It was a strange, accidental meeting, fraught with strange, prickling tension and barely restrained excitement.

  “Did you know I was going to be here?” Frank asked with a curious, bemused expression.

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not at all. I’m finished. I won’t get in your way.”

  You’re already in my way. You’ve been in my way for two weeks. And I kind of like it.

  The birds squawked and chirped around them, a demanding racket. Even the fish were agitated. These creatures knew that human beings were their waiters. Evan felt sorry for them, having to depend on an unreliable species for their survival. He wanted to get them fed. He felt responsible.

  But Frank Connor was there.

  “What’s in the bag?” Evan nodded toward the satchel on the floor.

  “My clerical garb, a crucifix, an aspergillum.”

  “Aspergum?” Evan asked, brows drawn in confusion.

  “No,” Frank said with a light chuckle that carried no ridicule. “Aspergillum. It’s a holy water sprinkler.”

  By this time, Evan had of course learned that Frank wasn’t just a coach; he was also a priest at St. Jerome’s. Evan never thought of him in that context because Frank never dressed or acted the part. He wasn’t starchy or sanctimonious. They’d seen a lot of each other since Mogie’s misfortune on the baseball diamond, but always with at least one other person present and always when Frank was in his civvies and in casual mode. Besides, Evan had never been a religious person beyond believing wholeheartedly in the Golden Rule, so he’d never developed either reverence or contempt for ministerial types. Only televangelists and other hardcore thumpers made any kind of impression on him, and it wasn’t a good one.

  As far as he was concerned, Frank Connor was an ordinary guy with a slightly unusual job. A really nice guy, actually.

  And there was something about him….

  “I’m thinking of hiking around the property,” Frank said. “That’s why I brought a change of clothes. I was just about to go upstairs and scope out the lay of the land.�
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  A change of clothes. It took Evan a few seconds to remember Frank had said something about “clerical garb” being in his bag. He was starting to feel distracted, edgy.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  They looked at each other longer than they needed to. Then Frank headed up the spiral staircase while Evan tried to keep his wits about him and remember exactly what and how to feed the Dougherty pets.

  When he was finished, and he finished quickly, he went upstairs and opened the sliding glass doors leading from the loft to the deck. His gaze didn’t take in the lay of the land but rather the landscape of Frank Connor’s physique. Frank was shorter than Evan, his body as tough and slender and graceful as a white birch.

  “I’m not sure which way to go,” Frank said as Evan stood beside him. His hand lit on the small of Evan’s back.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you out. I’m not too familiar with this acreage.”

  They seemed sandwiched between the flat blue of the sky and the frothy green of the surrounding trees. At first, Evan tried to ignore the hand on his back. Frank was a touchy-feely kind of guy—not in a suggestive way, but in a caring, appreciative way, as if people were precious to him. Evan didn’t want to misinterpret that kind of contact.

  Then Frank’s hand slid a little lower.

  Since he and Evan were becoming friends, Evan figured he could do some touching too. He laid a hand on Frank’s upper back, then gave it a light, fraternal rub.

  Frank’s arm crept around Evan’s waist, his hand conforming to its contours.

  Evan slid his fingers up to Frank’s nape and began massaging the tendons, stroking the ends of his fine, fawn-colored hair.

  They continued to stare silently into the bright, bi-colored distance. Evan hoped Frank couldn’t hear his shallow breathing or feel the accompanying rise and fall of his ribs. He parted his lips. Had to, because he couldn’t seem to draw enough air through his nose. The mild breeze was ferny sweet, as much a taste as a smell.

  Sensing the approach of something unavoidable, Evan licked his lips and swallowed, the movement of muscles sluggish in his throat. One side of his body was against Frank’s now. Their skin, separated by two layers of cotton, exchanged heat. A maddening, tight fullness gradually packed Evan’s groin.