I kicked off my dusty walking boots, quickly unfastening the button of my pants and pushing the stiff fabric down my thighs. I hunkered down under the comforting discomfort of my church-issued sheets, tremors of carnal lust wracking my body as I fought the physical taste of her in my mouth. Her flavor on my lips. The ghost of her body running its deadly hands along mine.
Every muscle in my body was tense, my cock standing against my cotton boxers before I did the one thing I hadn’t allowed myself to do in all the time that’d passed since I’d last had her.
I touched myself.
I defiled my body in her name.
Exchanged the love we shared for a lust-fueled fantasy as I stroked the flesh of my body, chasing a release from this incessant pain of missing her.
Losing her.
Walking away from her.
Leaving her.
Letting her go.
“Tressssssa.”
Tremors shook my muscles as I hurtled closer to a release I hadn’t given myself the pleasure of feeling outside of her. Wracked with spasms, I came in violent bursts of semen, thick seed coating the slabs of my abdomen, my sheets, even the pile of holy garb I’d thrown on the floor in favor of my truest form.
Pent-up shame and guilt rained down on me, propelled by the orgasm I’d allowed myself in her name. I wiped at the errant moisture escaping my eyes as I composed myself, sucking in shaky breaths of the humid Caribbean air.
I’d never predicted I’d land back on this tiny island after I’d escaped it in my teens.
I supposed this place still had more to teach me; I’d just rushed away before my education could run its course.
Sweat pricked my skin, silent shame still pulling at the corners of my mind as I hauled myself off the twin bed, divesting myself of my now-damp boxers as I walked to the en suite bath.
Running the hot water over my body for the next fifteen minutes felt like the best thing I could do for myself.
Coming to terms that I’d just sinned in the eyes of my God wasn’t something that sat easy in my heart. And now I’d shamelessly defiled the body God had given me to do work here on this earth. By the time I climbed out of the shower, I was feeling less forgiving and more desperate for penance.
Darkness cloaked the small room of the rectory, the single window overlooking the mountains in the distance, hundreds of acres of tobacco fields between me and it.
Me and civilization.
Me and her.
The diocese had known exactly what they were doing in sending me here to this lush and rural God’s country. The four walls of Santa Maria’s, for the first time in almost half a decade, were beginning to feel more like a prison that required planning to escape than a refuge and sanctuary for God’s children.
I lit a candle at the base of the small stone window, mesmerized as it began to flicker and dance, channeling another evening in a different rectory, her in my arms, my very heart nestled against hers.
I’d never forget the sweet gift she’d given me in those brief moments so long ago.
But I’d never defile myself in her name again.
I prayed that my love for her would abate, that I would cease to feel the touch of her hand, the scent of winter in her hair, the sound of her sweet giggle on the wind, but my prayers remained unanswered.
I recalled a practice revived among the Jesuit community centuries ago—corporal mortification, a way of getting closer to godliness through suffering. Self-inflicted suffering.
I pulled the worn leather belt from the loops of my trousers, running the tough material through my fingers, the promise of its punishment calling.
Pope John Paul II had believed in daily penance with self-flagellation.
Prickles of anxiety lifted my hackles.
The call to inflict lasting marks on my skin as a reminder of my sin, undeniable.
Just as Jesus carried his wounds for all to see, so I would mine.
TWENTY-TWO
Bastien
Adjusting the overly tight collar at my throat, I picked my way down the lane to the Martinez household the following week, provisions in hand. The island sun beat down uncharacteristically hot for this time of year, the black garb of my everyday uniform soaking up all the rays that bright ball of light had to offer. Perhaps this was part of the punishment for my transgressions, sweating out the sin until my head felt so dizzy with heat, all I could do was strip naked at the end of each day and lie against the scratchy bed linens, mind on one single night when getting sweaty between the sheets with another human hadn’t bothered me quite as much as this did.
But I would be lying if I said I’d enjoyed what happened physically between Tressa and me.
The physical release was mind-blowing, far more than I ever knew it could be, but the emotional guilt that rode me immediately after wasn’t worth the pleasure.
My fingers lingered on the worn leather of my clergy belt, the memory of its sharp sting enough to send tingles radiating across my skin.
I was still paying the penance for my transgressions that night.
I likely would the rest of my days.
A commitment wasn’t something I took lightly—not to another soul, nor to God Himself.
I vowed to follow and serve him to the best of my ability, and what happened that night was not for the best of anyone.
I was still coming to terms with how I felt about all of it.
The only thing I was beginning to understand was my real and vibrant love for this island and its people. Their ability to rouse my spirit and live a life of joy in the face of hardship uplifted me.
Dusty red dirt under my feet and giant leafy palms as far as the eye could see. Warmth so hearty I could feel it to the bones.
I could retire here in Cuba and live a life not unlike Padre Juan’s. Soak up my days to the tune of the red-throated parrots jabbering in the trees.
It hadn’t taken me long to realize part of the charm of this place was also part of its sorcery.
The raw, natural beauty was unmatched, the rural poverty of its people a heartbreak.
This was beginning to feel like my home again, these people, mine.
I imagined a tiny cottage at the edge of a tobacco field, the Guaniguanico mountain range dipping into the horizon in the far distance and standing guard like the gatekeeper to the heart of the world. Some chickens and a pig or a cow to tend to keep me busy, dinners spent with genuine souls who were similarly called to this life. A life close to nature felt satisfying, and in some respects, I felt retired already. The primal side of me Tressa had flamed to life extinguished in favor of something simpler. Some on the outside might consider my passion dead, which was probably the point all along, but I failed to see it so dejectedly.
I found freedom in the fresh air and the laughter of Santiago when he greeted me each week.
It wasn’t that the pain of her ejection from my life didn’t still burn, but the flame required less keeping. In truth, the pain of her memory over a lifetime lost only grew if I allowed it. It was in thinking of her less that I forced myself to find absolution from the guilt of our wanton lust.
Life carried on, for her too.
If I hadn’t been isolated on this island, and instead sent to Schenectady or somewhere within driving distance, I would have sought her out. Of that, I was sure. I would have gone to her, confessed to my deep love and remorse and shame, and asked her to love me anyway.
But life didn’t lend us a map for the rest of our journeys, all too often our souls made the journey alone.
“More! A healthy man like you must eat!” Carmelita rubbed at her round belly as she goaded me into a third helping of what she called her famous lechon asado con mojo as I sat at her colorful kitchen table an hour later.
I chuckled at her insistence, always thankful for the cheery distraction and accepting another heaping pile of the marinated pork. She whispered she’d also be sending me home with a batch to eat the next week.
I thanked her profusel
y and took another bite of the succulent, slow-roasted meat. “You’re a master.”
Her cheeks warmed to a shade of pink before she sat at the chair opposite me, a warm bronzed hand covering mine. “You know…” Her eyes twinkled, and I immediately wondered what I’d gotten myself into when I’d accepted that third helping. “I taught my Margarita everything I know. She can keep a man very satisfied, if you know what I mean, Padre.”
My heart shrank in my chest.
“Oh!” Carmelita shot up from her chair. “Here is my eldest beauty now.”
She looped arms with the young girl, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen if I had to guess, and sat her down in the chair at my side.
“Beautiful like her mother.” I smiled awkwardly.
“No, no, mi Margarita has the fresh young look of youth. Her skin is so soft.” Carmelita set one of Margarita’s hands atop my own.
Firecrackers and alarm bells shot off in my body. Was it just anyone who could set me off like this? Or was it the way her dark hair fell over one shoulder in just that certain way that I was used to? The way she sucked on her bottom lip when she was nervous, or how her dark eyes clung to mine, naïve and willing?
“She won’t bite, Padre.” Carmelita tugged her daughter’s chair closer to mine. Our thighs almost touching, I chomped down on my teeth to quell the urge to what…I wasn’t even sure. “The Martinez family, we come from a long line of very devout Catholics, Padre. Please don’t mistake our love for something other than what it is.”
I let her words hang heavy, fearful she had in mind what I thought she did.
“For many, many centuries, it was not uncommon—not just in our village, not just in Cuba, but Rome, Brazil, Boston!—for even the most devout of holy men to…experience all the pleasures only a family can afford.”
Her chocolate-brown eyes hung on mine, the lechon asado con mojo settling like cement in my stomach. My head pounded and my chest ached. So many eyes trained on me at once made me feel like ants were marching their way beneath my skin, hell-bent on breaking free.
“I…” I searched for the right words.
But what the hell were the right words in a situation like this?
“I’m flattered.” My eyes bounced from Margarita’s wide innocent ones to her mother’s. “Margarita holds a beauty far greater than most.” I swallowed, fearing I might alienate what had quickly become like a family to me. “But I am a holy man—” I held a hand to my heart “—to the core.”
Carmelita tipped her chin up, running her eyes up and down my body before shrugging. “Maybe one day, you come around.”
She stood, tapping my face with her wide palm and then patting Margarita’s head before bustling down the back hallway and out of sight.
“I’m truly sorry. I mean no offense.” Margarita’s eyes widened farther, almost as if she didn’t quite understand.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t come around so much. I don’t mean to give the wrong impression about my time spent here.” The urge to stand was strong. Margarita’s brown eyes on mine felt more familiar than strange. The soft contour of her cheek, the way her top lip filled out her bottom with the perfect little Cupid’s bow center. I blinked, thinking she looked more like Tressa upon closer inspection than I’d first realized.
I had a flash of a moment where I imagined what it might be like to kiss Margarita. If she tasted like Tressa, winter and honeysuckle, coaxing me into a blissful calm.
Margarita sucked on her bottom lip, hand inching across the worn tabletop until her little finger crushed my own. “You’re a very handsome man, Padre.” She slipped her little finger under the knuckle of mine, forcing more contact than I could possibly stand. “It would be an honor to…” her eyes hung heavy-lidded with desire “…be yours.”
I gulped, thousands of years of programming sending my body into hyperawareness.
I hated myself in that moment.
And the next.
“Sí, Padre.” Margarita’s hands worked around my neck, little fingertips sliding underneath my snow-white collar. “I can give you plenty of love—” her wide eyes caught my own “—and babies.”
My body raged at me to absolve myself of the pain and allow myself an escape, but every other logical cell in my brain reminded me that it would be no escape at all. As honestly and devoutly as she offered herself, I’d rather she serve herself and her fellow man by becoming a nurse or a nun, not the mistress of a holy man.
Realization snapped into place.
The way tiny Santiago’s laugh carried through a room, his personality boisterous and engaging, much like a holy man I’d met not too long ago at this very table.
I didn’t know how long Padre Juan had been retired, nor did it matter. I was sure Santiago was likely his child, but Margarita too? Had Carmelita held on to the love of a taken man for the greater part of the last twenty years? Or even a lifetime? Priests with families weren’t uncommon, many of them hiding in plain sight, and it had only been in the last few decades that most felt the need to hide it with increased secrecy.
“I promise, I won’t make any trouble for you.” Her voice cracked with desperation on the last words.
She was looking for her very own escape, only she was foolish enough to think I was her best target. She’d have to start aiming a lot higher.
Like a serrated edge was slicing through the ventricles of my heart, I felt my breath began to falter, the ants inhabiting my skin bursting through their barriers, my thighs rigid as I set her back in her own seat and shot to my feet.
“Please thank your mother for her hospitality, and…” I paused, her warm, puppy-dog eyes searching mine for answers.
Why did it feel like I was breaking this girl’s heart already?
My two experiences with the opposite sex were proof enough of my calling to enter the priesthood. I had a terrible habit of trampling on feelings and saying all the wrong things at the damn wrong times.
I pushed a hand over my head, frustration causing my hackles to rise as I sucked in a valiant breath, made the sign of the cross on her forehead and then mine, before bursting through the doors and out into the humid night air.
I ran the length of the lane before turning onto the old road that led to Santa Maria’s.
Two hours on my knees in devout forgiveness couldn’t begin to come close to absolving me of tonight’s sin.
TWENTY-THREE
Bastien
“And so James said to the apostles, ‘Is any one among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.’” I breathed the familiar passage in my native tongue, the richly inflected words a pleasant lullaby to my ears. A few mornings after my awkward trip to Carmelita’s had me feeling an odd sense of redemption—new clarity in my desire to impact the world and take greater hold of my place in it.
I turned the page of my hand-scribbled homily as I stood at the lectern, the words swirling around in my mouth like warm drops of honey, bringing so much comfort to my confused soul. I'd spent hours of my time after sunset poring over the pages of my Bible, committing passages to memory in my pathetic attempt at redemption. “After much reading,” I breathed honestly, “even I am reminded that Jesus himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sin and live in triumphant righteousness. By his wounds, you have been healed. We have all been healed already—he welcomes us sick, weak, and stumbling—we need only ask it of ourselves. It's essential we confess our sins to one another—that we pray for one another. The prayer of a righteous person has great power, my friends.”
I scanned the eyes of the small crowd, women fanning themselves with dried banana leaves, the men hunched and pulling at the frayed edges of their baseball caps. This tiny parish and the people who populated it had become a lifeline after all of the self-inflicted heartache.<
br />
Maybe the once-a-week love Padre Juan and Carmelita shared was enough for them. And I decided right then that no longer would I shame myself for my earthy transgressions and biological desires; my very peace required it.
Moving on without Tressa had proven itself nearly unbearable, the charged interaction with Margarita last night only proof that man was meant to love, just as I’d whispered in Tressa’s ear so many ages ago.
Adam and Eve were meant to explore each other, learn, and grow to another level.
“Sons and daughters, please never forget—we are already whole in His eyes. All the strength we need to walk through this life can be found in faith.” My eyes traveled across the quiet crowd, lingering on a form in the corner with long waves of chocolate brown over one shoulder.
A smile that reached my eyes washed across my face as I held up my hand for the sign of the cross. “Peace be with you.”
The murmured reply in Spanish brought me back to my time at the Jesuit seminary and the first few dozen homilies and liturgies I’d given in my young career. My time with the Jesuits had been short but left a lasting impression. Their dedication to education and social issues was unmatched by any other order I’d come across in all of my years practicing my faith. All that goodness rivaled only by the militant order they impressed upon their most dedicated practitioners.
As the parishioners began to file out, I exchanged meaningful nods with each of them as the sun began its slow descent over the mountains.
My palms began to itch for the familiar feeling of the woven ropes and leather belt that left a kiss not soon to be forgotten.
My mind wove back to the brief moments I’d seen the girl with the dark hair hovering in my Mass.
I swallowed, wondering if it could have been her.
If she was still here.
If I was crazy and she was only a mirage.
REBEL PRIEST Page 16
