by Diane Kelly
When the food was ready, we plopped down at his dinette table.
He raised his wineglass. “Sláinte.”
I tapped mine to his. “Sláinte.”
We dug in. The meal was delicious. When we’d eaten all we could hold, Brendan stood to clear our plates.
“I could get used to this,” I told Brendan and licked my fork clean.
He didn’t respond, just watched me, his gaze on my tongue.
After sticking the dishes in the dishwasher, he turned the machine on and leaned against the counter, his eyes searching my face. “You haven’t mentioned Blarney. It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
Like Tammy, he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to my moods, able to read them no matter how hard I tried to hide my feelings. I nodded, finding tears in my eyes, yet again. “Brain tumor.”
“Oh, Erin. No.” He returned to the table and pulled his chair over to face me. He sat and put a warm, comforting hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry.”
In Brendan’s presence, the tears refused to stay back any longer, coursing down my cheeks, no doubt smearing my mascara and leaving rivulets in my makeup, revealing the freckles I tried so hard to hide. But it’s not like he hadn’t seen me cry before. Heck, we’d both cried when Riley had crashed on his skateboard, knocking himself unconscious, coming to only when the EMT’s arrived and snapped smelling salts under his nose. He’d also seen me cry when my father suffered his stroke, the family unsure whether he’d survive, wondering what we’d do without him, whether Ma could live without the man she’d loved since she was a mere lass, the only man she’d ever loved. Luckily, my father had pulled through.
Brendan used his thumb to brush away the tears and cupped my chin in his warm hand. Under different circumstances, his touch would have sent me for a loop. Now, it simply felt comforting.
“Can anything be done to help him?”
I nodded. “The vet prescribed some pills to shrink the tumor, but it’s only a temporary fix. He’ll need surgery.”
Brendan removed his hand from my face and sat up straighter, his face brightening. “So there’s hope, then?”
“Yes. But there’s no guarantee the surgery will cure him.”
“Still, there’s a chance.”
I gulped back a sob. “Brendan, the surgery costs five grand.”
“Jakers!”
Jakers, indeed.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got seven hundred in savings. You can have that. And I’ll take up a special collection at mass on Sunday.”
He’d taken up a special collection when one of the elderly congregants had fallen and broken her hip, another when one of the parishioners was severely injured in a car wreck, another when a flood forced a young family from their home. But as much as I considered Blarney to be an important part of our family, I knew there were people in the congregation who wouldn’t feel the same, who believed humans were somehow the most special of God’s creatures and that anything with fur and more than two legs was not as worthy.
No doubt someone in the congregation would raise a fuss about it. And no doubt it would be Stella Nagley. That busybody always caused problems, stirred up trouble, made mountains out of molehills. When the church board had voted to start a literacy program, she’d thrown a monkey wrench into the plans, insisting that “teaching English to Mexican immigrants only helps lawbreaking illegal aliens come to the U.S. and steal jobs from honest, hard-working Americans.” Never mind those born and bred Americans who’d never learned to read or write or those immigrants who’d come here legally, from all over the world, and hoped to assimilate. Stella Nagley would throw a hissy fit if Brendan suggested a special collection for a mere dog.
I shook my head. “You’ll get flack for it.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“You hate church politics. I can’t do that to you.”
His jaw flexed. “I’ll deal with it.”
“We’ve got a small, working class congregation. Even if we took up a special collection, it wouldn’t be enough. Matthew’s sending five hundred. I’ll find a way to get the rest of the money.”
“How, Erin? What can you do?”
Besides shake my tits in a wet T-shirt for a bunch of drunk, horny men? “I’ll get a Sunday job. Or maybe I can deliver newspapers before I open the shop in the mornings.”
Brendan’s back grew rigid, and his voice and face hardened. “That’s crazy, Erin. You already work ten-hour days Monday through Saturday fixing shoes, and you put in another five hours a week teaching dance classes at the rec center. You’ll wear yourself out.”
“It’ll only be for a short time. Until the vet bill is paid.”
“Erin, please. Let me help. I want to help.” The pleading in his voice surprised me. He sounded desperate, frustrated, angry even.
“I appreciate the offer, Brendan. Really. But this isn’t your problem.”
“It’s not my problem because the church won’t let it be my problem!” Brendan grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and hurled it at the kitchen wall. The fruit hit the drywall and burst into red delicious shards.
I was totally taken aback. Brendan showed his anger only on rare occasions and only when it was justified. What did this mean? And what did he mean by It’s not my problem because the church won’t let it be my problem?
He put his elbows on the table, his hands in his hair, and looked down, issuing a mirthless chuckle. “That was stupid, huh?”
“We all have our moments,” I said, surprised to find myself in the role of spiritual advisor for a change. Brendan normally seemed so peaceful, so serene, taking life’s disappointments and setbacks in stride, maintaining an unwavering sense of hope and optimism. While his years at the dockyards had given him physical strength, his faith gave him strength of spirit. His spiritual fortitude, his confidence that things were never as bad as they seemed and that any problem could be fixed, was precisely why he was such an effective priest and counselor. His positive perspective was infectious.
But now he was clearly down and dispirited. He needed someone to pump him up. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task. But I had to try. I owed him. He’d always been there for me. I put a hand on his back, trying not to think about how strong and warm his muscles felt under my fingers. “What’s bothering you, Brendan?”
He remained staring at the table. “Lately I’ve been feeling very . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Very what?”
He was quiet for a moment, saying nothing, then he looked up, his gaze locking on mine, his face pained. “Torn, Erin. I’ve been feeling torn.”
“Torn? What do you feel torn about?”
He stared into my eyes for a very long time, as if debating whether he should tell me. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself. He looked down, shook his head as if to clear it, and looked up at me again. Whatever he was torn about, he wasn’t ready to talk about it. When he finally spoke he said, “Sometimes I wish we could communicate with God directly, you know? Just call Him up and ask for help. For guidance. For answers.”
“Too bad he has an unlisted number, huh?”
Brendan gave me a weak smile.
“He’ll send you a sign, Brendan. He’ll let you know what you’re supposed to do. You just have to keep your eyes, heart, and mind open.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. A wise man once told me exactly that, so it must be true.” Of course that wise man had been Brendan. My lips spread in a smile. “He’ll speak to you in a dream, or through his word. Or he’ll send some sort of messenger.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” I gave his back a small rub, reluctantly removing my hand after a moment or two.
Brendan sat up straighter in his chair. “About the surgery.” He begged now, his voice soft but insistent. “Please. Take my money. I want to do this for Blarney. For Riley. For you, Erin.”
For me? I chose to be flattered by his words even
though I knew in my heart this generous, caring man would likely do the same for any of his parishioners. I’d clearly hurt him by declining his offer, rejecting his gift. But it wouldn’t be right, would it? He might need those funds for his own emergency someday. Yet the look in his eyes was so dejected, so hurt, how could I refuse? “I’ll make you an offer, Bren. The vet said I’ve got a month or two before the point of no return. If I can’t scrape together the money by then, you’re the first one I’ll call.” I stuck out my hand. “Deal?”
His shoulders relaxed and a weak smile graced his face. He took my hand in his and shook it. “Deal.”
I gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back. Neither of us let go. It seemed we both needed to feel a connection then, needed the comfort a warm, gentle touch could bring. When I realized we’d been holding hands much longer than appropriate, I eased my hand back. “What’s for dessert?”
Brendan glanced down at the mess on the floor then back at me, flashing that roguish smile that sent my heart spinning. “Can I interest you in some applesauce?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAINTS AND SINNERS
After dinner, we took our usual places at either end of his couch with a fresh bag of Nutter Butter cookies, our mutual favorite, on the cushion between us. I sat cross-legged, facing him, while he propped his feet on the trunk.
I twisted the cookie, removed the peanut-shaped top, and peeled off the disc of peanut butter cream. “How was confession today? Any bank robbers or axe murders?”
You’d think the joke would have grown old after fourteen years, but somehow it hadn’t. It had become a ritual of sorts, part of our standard repartee. I stuck the creamy center in my mouth and held out the brown wafers to Brendan.
“Sadly, no.” He took the cookies from me and popped one in his mouth. “Three men confessed they’d skipped mass to play golf, two women confessed to lusting after George Clooney, and one boy admitted to feeding his meatloaf to his dog.”
I knew Brendan was making those stories up. He’d never violate the sacred confidentiality of the confessional by giving me actual details.
He sighed, resting his head against the back of the couch, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked at me. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m making a real difference at Saint Anthony’s. Sometimes it feels like I’m just going through the motions, listening to petty offenses, issuing get-out-of-hell-free cards.”
What?!?
My brows shot up. This was big. I’d always thought Brendan loved being a priest, had felt called to serve God, believed it was his life’s purpose. Hearing this, I felt conflicted. Part of me was deeply concerned for him, knowing he’d never say such a thing lightly and that the issue must have weighed heavily on him for some time. Yet another part of me was thrilled by the fact he trusted me with such a private, potentially damaging admission. Sharing such a secret implied an intimacy between us, one that, until now, had been primarily one sided.
“What about performing mass?” I suggested. “And baptisms? And weddings? Those are important.”
“To be sure. But any priest can do those things. They’ve become so routine I could do them in my sleep.” He set the other half of the cookie on the trunk, a sure sign he was upset. He never passed up Nutter Butters. “Do you know that when I pass out the Eucharist I look into people’s mouths and count their fillings to make the time go faster? What does that say about me?” He threw his hands up. “Communion is supposed to be a blessed sacrament!”
I nudged him gently with my toe. “C’mon, Bren. Give yourself a break. You may be a priest, but first and foremost you’re a human being. It’s normal to grow bored with your job. Everyone does. I bet even the Pope wakes up some mornings thinking if he has to wear that ridiculous pointed hat one more day he’ll leap from the Vatican balcony.” Okay, so eloquence isn’t one of my virtues. Still, I think I made a valid point.
Brendan slid me a small, grateful smile. My pep talk appeared to be working. Rah-rah-rah! If only I had a pair of pom-poms.
I leaned toward him, jabbing a cookie in his direction for emphasis. “The congregation adores you, Bren. That’s what really counts. Hardly any of the high school kids showed up for the teen activities before you came along. Now we’re mobbed. We can barely fit them all in.”
It was true. Brendan was great with kids, especially teenagers. He gave them wide latitude, allowing them to wear their ripped jeans to youth group, to play Christian rock on their electric guitars, to create and perform silly skits and songs they entertained the younger kids with and uploaded to YouTube. He kept his lessons short, simple, and relevant, showed them a Christian life could be both fulfilling and fun. He was more about teaching kids to find joy in God, in the life he offered them through His son, than he was about setting restrictions or unrealistic standards for them. Still, he encouraged them to seek spiritual guidance in everything they did, to live the life God wanted for them, to be grateful for Jesus and his sacrifice. And, on the rare occasion when the teens got out of line, he knew how to set them straight with a discreet but firm correction.
In addition to leading the youth programs at the church, he volunteered as a counselor at the juvenile detention center. He’d made amazing breakthroughs with some of the toughest kids, ones other counselors had long since given up on. He related to these children. He was a priest, sure, but he wasn’t a saint. As an adolescent he’d put his mother through hell, smoking cigarettes, skipping school, getting into fistfights with other boys. And given what he’d experienced during his teen years . . . well, he could certainly understand their screwed-up worlds, their confused feelings, their anger. Their feeling that God had forsaken them.
“The kids are great,” Brendan said. “That’s my favorite part of the job. Get to act like a goofball. Keeps me young. Yet . . .” His voice trailed off and a faraway look entered his eyes.
“Are you suffering a crisis of faith, then?” It wasn’t unheard of. He’d told me himself occasional doubts were common among the clergy. But he didn’t seem to be questioning his belief in God. He seemed to simply be suffering a disconnection from God, a lull in their relationship, a lack of job satisfaction. Maybe his dissatisfaction with his work explained why he’d decorated his kitchen with apple shrapnel. Unfortunately, given the small size and limited funds of Saint Anthony’s congregation, hiring a second priest to handle the more routine matters was out of the question. Brendan could ask to be moved to a larger parish where he could focus more on the aspects of his job he enjoyed, but if he were promoted he could end up anywhere in the world. Call me selfish, but I wasn’t about to suggest he relocate.
Brendan shook his head. “No, it’s not a crisis of faith. Not exactly. Besides, what I’ve told you so far is only part of the problem.”
“Well, what’s the rest of it?”
He stared at me for a few seconds, saying nothing more. He turned away and closed his eyes for a few seconds as if trying to shut out the problem. When he opened his eyes again, he spotted my gift on the trunk and changed the subject. “May I open my Valentine’s present?”
Clearly this conversation wasn’t over. But no point in pushing him now. He’d tell me eventually. He probably just needed time to think things over himself first, get a handle on his feelings.
I picked up the gift bag and handed it to him.
“What have we here?” He pulled the red tissue paper out of the bag, reached inside, and removed a DVD. “The 40-Year-Old Virgin?”
Brendan groaned. I chuckled.
“Let me guess,” he said. “This was Riley’s idea?”
“Of course. He said he’d be glad to have ‘the talk’ with you when you’re ready to learn about the birds and the bees.”
“One date and the kid thinks he’s Casanova.”
“Gotta admire that kind of confidence.”
Riley had recently gone on his first date with a pretty brown-haired girl named Britney from our dance class. Brendan and I had dropped the two of the
m off at the movies while we went shopping for groceries together. We’d pretended not to notice the quick peck the two had exchanged on her front porch when we dropped her off at home after the show, though knowing I was no longer the number-one lady in Riley’s life had ripped my heart to shreds. He was growing up, I had to face that. Soon he’d be grown, gone, and I’d be . . . alone.
“I’m not, you know,” Brendan said, holding up the DVD and pointing at the movie title for emphasis.
“Not forty?” I said. “Sure you are. Tammy and I dressed all in black and took you bowling to celebrate your birthday. I dropped the ball on your foot and broke your pinkie toe.” What a klutz. Luckily, Brendan was forgiving. “You couldn’t dance for two weeks afterwards. I felt awful about it. Remember?”
Brendan looked at me intently. “I remember. You made me a vanilla cake with black frosting and little tombstones on top.”
“Right.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you mean that’s not what you meant?”
He rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I know I’m forty, obviously. I meant I’m not a—” Brendan pointed at the DVD box again, this time putting his index finger under the word “virgin.”
I gasped and sat bolt upright. “Not a virgin? But you’re a priest! How can you not be a virgin?” Brendan had slept with someone? Oh, God! My heart seized up and I felt breathless, like I’d been sucker-punched in the gut.
How could he do something like this? How could he betray the church? How could he betray me?
No, I reminded myself. He hadn’t betrayed me. We had no official bond. But the church was an entirely different matter. He’d taken vows. Sacred vows. He could be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out he’d slept with a woman.
Was she—whoever she was—what he was torn about? And if he were going to break his sacred vows, why hadn’t he broken them with me?
Surely I was going straight to hell for that thought.
Brendan cocked his head and eyed me. “I wasn’t always a priest, you know. At one time in my life I was a cocky eighteen-year-old boy loading freighters by day and making the rounds of the pubs by night, looking for a fight or . . . some other physical release.”
