by Claire Adams
“I don’t know. What about Connor? I haven’t talked to him yet about this. I should probably…”
“Mom, say yes, he loves you,” Connor said as he turned around from looking at the sunset and came to stand next to me.
“Thanks, man,” I said as I gave him a fist bump and pulled him next to me. “See, we are a team.”
“Well, then… if my little man here is on board, then my answer is definitely yes.”
“Yes?” I asked to verify. “Dude, did your mom just say yes to marrying me?” I whispered as I kneeled next to Connor and gave him a hug. “I think she really did say yes.”
“Yep, she did.”
“Yes. I said yes, you silly boys!”
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PRIEST
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
jace
I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my room at the church where I’d served as parish priest for the past two years. I stared at myself in my black cassock and thought about the days ahead.
It wasn’t moving to a new church that troubled me — it was moving forward with a crucial piece of my life no longer intact. I’ve been devout in my faith since I was a child. But as I gazed at my reflection…I was having doubts.
I looked at the man in the mirror and instead of seeing Father Jace, I saw the reflection of a frightened little boy. That little boy had been brought to where he was through the love and devotion of a woman — and now she was gone and I was questioning everything about my life.
My grandmother used to say, “Be humble and respectful to everyone, whether you are sure they deserve it or not.” She taught me not to judge people too harshly and that if you worked hard and did good things, you would always prosper.
When Grandma talked about prospering, she wasn’t talking about money. She taught my brothers and me that prosperity was about your family and your friends. The people that you kept within your inner circle said more about you than anything, according to her, and I had come to believe that myself.
She also always said if you looked hard enough, no matter how far you stray, it was always possible to find a path back into God’s good graces. That one I used to believe without a doubt, but those doubts had started to work their way in.
I had strayed from my faith the moment they told me she was dead. I had spent most of my nights since railing against God, instead of praying to Him. My grandmother didn’t need my prayers for her soul. She was the purest soul that ever existed. The irony is if she were still here, she would be the first to tell me to hit my knees and pray hard for forgiveness.
I was holding out hope I’d be ready to do that soon, but for the time being, I’d have to fake it. That day, repentance was not on the agenda. I knew that when I had to stand there and helplessly watch them lower her into the ground, instead of rejoicing for her soul, I would be agonizing over the pain in mine.
I was angry, but I was not supposed to be. I was a priest, but damn it, I was also human. My grandmother was dead. She was the light that always beckoned me home, no matter how lost I’ve been. I was angry and sad and confused, and no amount of praying would give me the answers to my questions. How was I supposed to find my way any longer?
It was just after 12 o'clock. The old church bells rang out, and from my second story room, I could hear the flock of pigeons the bells sent into disarray as they cooed and flapped violently away from the bell tower of the old church.
I heard the echo of each slow chime as I made my way through the cavernous inner halls on my way to the vestry. The sounds reverberated off the stones that held the sacred building together and bounced off the stained-glass windows and polished, oak pews.
With a heavy heart and a deep ache in my soul, I draped the white stole about my neck in preparation for the mass I was about to say, as was tradition. I begged God to give me on the last day the garment of immortality that was forfeited by our sinful first parents.
I was on autopilot. I was a priest; it was what I did, what I knew to do.
The mourners filled the church, and I believed I handled the mass with as much dignity as humanly possible. I had a hard time suppressing my own grief as I watched the broken faces of my brothers in the front pew. I managed to keep it together, and even remain pious in my thoughts, until we reached the cemetery.
When I stepped out of the black car into the brilliant sunlight and looked around at the vibrant colors of spring that surrounded me, my anger returned with a vengeance. My grandmother was dead and the sun was offensively bright and cheerful.
It was as if God and the elements were conspiring to show me that the world would go on just fine without her. It shouldn't, and that’s why I was so angry. As far as I was concerned, everything should be as dark and gray as my emotions were. The weather should have been damp and cold, and the birds should not have been singing in the trees overhead.
I walked through the cemetery like a silhouette of myself. I wished I was as insubstantial as the shadows. Shadows don’t have to feel the tangle of emotions that were twisting around in my gut. I stood near the freshly dug hole and waited for the coffin to arrive.
I was no longer apologetic to my Father in Heaven. I was pissed.
******
“Touching service, Father,” a young congregate said to me as she shook my hand after the funeral. I forced a smile and nodded at her.
“My condolences for your loss, Father. Your grandmother was a great lady,” the next one told me as he shook my hand.
“We’ll all miss her, Father…”
It went on and on. My head felt like it might literally explode and shoot off my shoulders before the last member of the congregation shook my hand and headed for their car. Finally, I was alone with my grandmother and my brothers.
“How are you doing, Jace?” My brother Max was at my side. He was the oldest and the one that would be counted on to hold us together with Grandma gone.
“I’ve been better,” I said, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “How about you?” My other brother, Ryan, walked up as we talked.
“I’m hanging in there. I’m not sure what to do without her. She will be sorely missed.” I had no doubts Max would miss her, but he’d been independent since we were taken from the house of horrors that was our life and placed with Grandmother when he was 10. I was 6 at the time, and Ryan was only six months.
Ryan’s eyes and face were swollen and red. He still lived with Grandmother, and I had no doubts her death would leave the biggest void in his life. She coddled him a little too much, and at 25, he was more dependent on her than a man really had a right to be.
“Hey,” he said with a chin tilt. Even at a funeral he was still clinging to the cool-guy, motorcycle stud stereotype. I opened my arms and it all fell away. He folded into them and sought the strength of his big brother and priest. I could at least be one of those for him.
As soon as I closed my arms around him, his shoulders began to shake and he unloaded the grief that he’d been trying so hard to hold back. “I know that I’m not supposed to think like this,” he said between sobs. “But I’m so angry, Jace. We all still needed her. Why does God let things like this happen? She was nothing but good. Why does he take the good ones so soon?”
Ryan, out of all of us, had struggled with his faith the most. It was the first time I didn’t have answers for him. I’d been asking those questions myself.
“I wish I knew, Ryan. All we can do now is have faith and trust that she’s at peace and we’ll s
ee her again someday.” Such a priest-like thing to say…but I was at a loss.
My brother seemed to accept it. He nodded against my shoulder and then pulled back and looked at my face. His green eyes were so much like mine, and his sandy-blond hair fell down across his forehead the same way mine did when it got too long.
He was a younger version of me, but even priest compared to biker, he was a more innocent version. Ryan hadn’t known our parents long enough for the scars to take hold of him. Grandmother was all he’d ever known as a caregiver, and she did a stellar job.
“I have to take off,” Max said. “I have a meeting across town at four. Maybe we can all have lunch Sunday?”
“If it’s a late lunch,” I said. “I’ll be serving my first mass at St. Luke’s on Sunday.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re moving to Lexington tomorrow, I almost forgot. At least it’s only 30 minutes away.”
“Yeah, I’ll still see you guys a lot. Let’s plan on three for lunch at Mike and Patty’s. Will that work for you, Ryan?”
My little brother looked like I’d pulled him out from under the water as he refocused his attention. “Mike and Patty’s at three. I’ll be there.”
I hugged them both again and watched them go before I made my way back to the car the church provided for me. I climbed into the backseat and the driver said, “Back to the church, Father?”
“Yes. Actually, if you don’t mind, Mitch, can we swing by Albert’s Grocery on the way?”
******
Two hours after my grandmother’s earthly body was lowered into the ground, I sat in my upstairs room at St. Anthony’s parish, still in my cassock and scarf, sipping scotch out of the bottle.
I’d gone into Albert’s Grocery under the guise of buying my specialty tea. The driver had stayed in the car, so it was easy to slip the bottle of scotch into my reusable bag and take it through the self-check-out. A priest buying a bottle of scotch might cause some talk. A priest sitting alone in his room drinking scotch was not only pathetic…he was destined to be tortured by guilt.
At that point, I was willing to deal with the consequences when they arose. Being numb had its benefits.
Chapter Two
Daphne
As I walked into my new apartment with my arms laden with groceries, my phone began to ring. I kicked the door closed behind me and rushed to dump the bags on the table.
I had just left work; it was my second day at a new job, in a new town. I was afraid it was my boss. I was a little overwhelmed, and I didn't doubt that I’d forgotten to sign out on the register, or something silly like that. I finally fished the phone out of my work apron and became instantly sick to my stomach.
It was my father.
I shuddered as I answered. I would have just ignored it, but this was the fourth time he’d called that day, and I hadn’t answered the other three. He was bound to keep calling until he passed out if I didn’t pick up at least once.
“Dad, you have to stop this. You’re not supposed to be calling me.”
“What do you mean I’m ‘not supposed’ to call you? I’m your father. You’re my baby girl. Daphne, come home, baby. I need you!” His words were slurred, and I could tell he’d probably been drinking all day. He makes me nauseous, especially when he’s drunk.
“I’m not coming home. I have a restraining order, remember? Stop calling me, Dad, or I’ll have to notify the authorities.”
“Notify the authorities? When did you get to be such a little snot face? I’m your father, Daffy!” I hate when he calls me that, and he knows it. “Please, baby. Daddy’s sick. I need you.”
Daddy’s sick; how many times had I heard that before? “Dad, I’m going to hang up now. When you sober up, you’ll remember why you shouldn’t be calling me. I hope you’ve been going to see your counselor.”
“I don’t need a shrink. I need my Daffy.” His voice got low then, and I could tell he was letting his mind wander as he said, “Do you remember the good times we used to have together, baby girl?”
I hung up and dropped the phone on the counter. My hands were shaking, and I thought I might have to throw up. I moved to get away from him. I was probably going to have to change my phone number—again.
I pulled off the apron and picked up my purse and keys. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go for a walk…clear my head…have a beer, maybe—anything to get my mind off of him.
******
It was after eight p.m. on a weekday evening and people still littered the streets. Couples mostly—something I was depressingly aware I had never been a part of at the ripe old age of 22. They were all dressed up on their way to eat at a nice restaurant or meet friends for a drink at a bar.
I walked in their midst, completely alone in the crowd. I desperately needed something different in my life besides work and church.
Bethany, the friend who had gotten me my job and helped me find my apartment, was always trying to get me to go out. Even when I lived in Boston, she never gave up on trying to set me up with one of her boyfriend’s friends. In Boston, there was definitely no room in my life for socializing. Now that I was out of there and I had plenty of room for it, I had no idea how to go about it.
I turned down one of the main streets downtown and walked past a few bars that looked too “yuppie” or “hip.” I wasn’t in the mood to mingle with the business crowd; besides, I didn’t fit in.
I stopped and looked up at the pink neon sign of a place called After Hours. It looked and sounded like just what I needed. I pushed through the door and came face to face with a tattooed, bald, and muscled up God in a black t-shirt that said “Security” in bold, yellow letters.
He looked me up and down and said, “I’ll need to see your I.D.” I handed it to him and he used a flashlight to scrutinize it. Finally satisfied that although I only looked 18, I was in fact 22, he handed it back and said, “Have fun.”
I waited until my eyes adjusted to the subdued light and looked around. The place wasn’t exactly hopping, and I was happy about that. There was a group of suits sitting on one side on a set of low, brown leather couches. A few couples and groups of women and men were scattered throughout at tables and in front of the bar that glowed with the same pink hue the sign out front had.
With a deep breath, I smoothed down my black skirt and ventured towards the bar. I took a seat on an empty stool and tucked my pleated, A-line skirt underneath my thighs. I reached for a cocktail menu and started reading through it. I was not really a drinker; I had no idea what to order.
The bartender was suddenly hovering over me. I looked up at another large man; this one had on a white t-shirt with a V-neck that showed his chest was as tattooed as his arms and neck. In spite of all the ink, he had kind eyes and wavy brown hair that gave him an innocent look. He was probably a serial killer. I’m a horrible judge of character.
“What’ll it be?”
“Um…something sweet with one of those pretty umbrellas on top,” I said. I realized as soon as I said it how stupid it sounded.
The bartender smiled and said, “Coming right up.” The guy next to me was still laughing when he was gone.
I looked at him and my breath caught in my throat. This one had on a green t-shirt and his arms were completely ink free, but incredibly sexy and muscular. His eyes were as dark green as his shirt and his sandy blond hair had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that made a girl want to rake her fingers through it. I’d planned on chastising him for laughing at a stranger, but I couldn't find my words.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a smooth voice that I instantly knew I could listen to all day. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“But you did, anyways.”
“I did. I’m sorry.” He laughed again.
“You’re apologizing, but you’re still laughing.”
He looked directly at me and everything inside of me turned to hot liquid. “I’m sorry. You just sounded like you were ordering something from an ice cream truck instead of a b
ar.”
“I suppose you ordered a scotch neat,” I said, lowering my voice into a mock baritone.
He laughed again. “Almost, only I asked for it on the rocks.” I caught the little slur in his words that time. He’d already had a few.
Suddenly, I was reminded of my father. The bartender sat my pink drink down in front of me; I passed him a twenty and picked the drink up. The hot, drunk guy tried to slide my twenty back to me. “I got it,” he said.
“No, you do not. I can pay for my own drinks, thank you!” I looked at the bartender and said, “Keep the change.” Then I picked up my drink and carried it as far away from the laughing man as I could get. I tucked myself into a booth in the back where I could drink, watch people, and hopefully stay invisible.
The drink was delicious. I have no idea what it was, but it took me about three minutes to suck the entire thing down through a straw. I was about to try and get the waitress’s attention when suddenly I looked up into those jade eyes. He was holding a golden liquid in one hand and a pink one in the other. “It’s an apology drink,” he said.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’ve already forgotten the whole thing.”
He sat down. I scooted away from him. He sat the drink down in front of me. “I’m really sorry. It’s nice to know that not everyone practically lives in a bar.”
I was suddenly sweating. I never sweat. I didn’t know if it was the pink drink or the hot guy. Either way, it made me thirsty. I started sucking on the straw again. Hot guy downed his drink without taking his eyes off of me. I could feel the heat from them boring into my skin.
When I sucked down to the bottom of my glass he grinned and signaled the waitress. He had dimples…of course. “I think I’ve had enough, thank you.”
