Midnight Mass (Priest #2)

by Sierra Simone

  Poppy was depressed. Her doctor prescribed her medicine, and for once, the way she was raised helped—she had no stigmas about psychotropic drugs after growing up around rich women swilling Xanax and Ambien with their chardonnay.

  A few more days passed. I made her move from the chair to the couch, which was closer to the fireplace, and I began reading books to her, finishing the Galbraith mystery and moving on to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy while I snuggled her on the couch. I heard her laughing at a couple parts, small little jerks of her ribs, and I kept reading as if I hadn’t heard, feeling like a man who’s encountered a wild animal in the woods. I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’d laughed, but oh my fucking God, she’d laughed. I hadn’t realized how much I craved that sound until it had been gone from my life, and now here it was, creeping slowly around the edges of our home, crouching low by the fire to see if it was safe to come back.

  At night, I crooned hymns low in her ears as she laid in my arms, the poor lamb shivering constantly even though we had quilts upon quilts piled upon us. I showered us together, washing her hair like a man might handle the world’s finest painting. I got really good at making lobster bisque and not burning dinner rolls. I plied her with whiskey, which she rarely drank but liked to hold. I turned on Christmas music. I started reading the Harry Potter novels when Hitchhiker’s Guide was finished.

  And then, the Sunday before Christmas, something happened. She walked into the kitchen wearing a skirt and blouse, makeup freshly applied.

  I, being used to our new hermit-like existence, was wearing a pair of boxer briefs and nothing else.

  “I want to go to Mass,” she said simply.

  It was the first time she’d volunteered to leave the house of her own free will and for something other than a doctor’s appointment.

  I felt the wild animal wariness again. I didn’t want to spook her with my open relief, my naked joy at seeing even this small stirring of life.

  “Okay,” I said evenly. “I’ll get dressed.”

  Midnight Mass.

  It started as a tradition in the Holy Land, where believers would gather in Bethlehem during the night and then, torches in hand, walk towards Jerusalem, making it to the city at dawn. A ritual that could fuse narrative into real life, where followers of Christ could stand in the same place He was born before making a pilgrimage to the Holy City.

  It’s changed over the millennia, morphed and warped into something different, but at its heart, it’s the same. A re-enactment. A retelling. A redoing.

  A liturgical creation of a new reality where Christ walks among us. At least, that’s what Scholar Tyler would say about it.

  In the few days since Poppy had left the house under her own steam, she’d gradually come more and more back to life. Singing along with Christmas carols. Yanking the book out of my hands when she felt like I was doing the voices badly. Even playfully pinching my butt in the kitchen.

  Our own liturgy was slowly unfolding between the two of us. Glimpses of happiness and easiness and the divine. And like a Mass, I knew it couldn’t be rushed, couldn’t be pushed along. It had to unfold at its own pace, take its own time. So I held space for my lamb. And at the same time, I learned to hold space for my own grief and my own guilt. The idea that I’d earned our miscarriage as punishment haunted me, tormented me.

  I read the annotations in my bible explaining that David and Bathsheba’s son probably died of natural causes, the act simply being ascribed to God’s will as so many deaths were in those days. And I read David’s own words in the Psalms:

  As far as the east is from the west,

  So far does he remove our transgressions from us.

  But nothing helped.

  I told you I was addicted to guilt. And like any addict, I needed to hit rock bottom. Which wasn’t, as I thought, our miscarriage. It was the few minutes after midnight Mass, when I looked over and saw Poppy staring at the Nativity scene in front of us, the life-sized mannequins of the wise men and the Holy Family.

  The life-sized baby Christ in the manger.

  And then the Poppy-shaped shell she’d built around herself cracked, the raw emotion of the last month punching through her cocoon of numb self-control, and she started crying. No, not just crying.

  Weeping.

  The church was mostly empty now, which was good, because Poppy wept loudly, her hands over her face and her body hunched over so that her face was above her knees.

  It cut at me to see my lamb like this, cut at me and also filled me with relief because I’d known this had to happen, I’d known that she needed to truly mourn. I wrapped an arm around her. “I’m here,” I whispered quietly. “I’m here.”

  She said something into her hands, something so choked and teary that I couldn’t make it out, and so I leaned closer and she said it again. “It’s all my fault.”

  Four little words. Four dangerous, gangrenous, little words. Four words that—if you let them take root—would rot you away from the inside, would eat your soul and set decay festering in your heart.

  I—Tyler Bell, former priest—should know.

  “No, no, no,” I begged her. “Don’t say that. Tell me you don’t believe that.”

  She raised her face to mine, her eyes wet and her cheeks splotchy. “It is my fault, Tyler. I didn’t know if I wanted the baby! I said all of those terrible things about the baby changing my life, and what if God took the baby away because I didn’t love it right away? Or what if God was saving the baby from me being a horrible mother?”

  Jesus Christ, I thought, and the thought was half instinctive swearing and also half prayer. Is this what my own thoughts sounded like? Is this how dark and lost I was as well? When it came from my beautiful lamb, I could see how poisonous the guilt and shame were. How pointless.

  And suddenly I took a step forward on my path, advanced along my spiral several paces. Quitting my addiction to guilt wouldn’t be easy. It would probably be an emotional project for the next few years…maybe for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t help Poppy leave her guilt behind if I didn’t do the same with my own.

  So I took a deep breath, held my crying wife close, and…let it go. Loosened my hold and dropped it to the ground. No more guilt for me. And no more for her.

  “This isn’t punishment, Poppy,” I told her, with every ounce of certainty and love I could muster. “It’s a tragedy and it’s hard and it’s sad, but God doesn’t send pain to punish us or test us. Pain happens. Death happens. How we grieve and cope—that’s up to us. Of course you were nervous about having a baby. Of course you were ambivalent. We would never punish a bride for feeling ambivalent before her wedding, or a man for feeling uncertain on the first day of a new job, so you can’t punish yourself for how you felt about a child.”

  “But it took me so long to be happy about the pregnancy.”

  “Being unhappy or doubtful isn’t a sin.”

  No more than leaving the priesthood. The thought came from somewhere outside of me, a beam of light illuminating the darkest corners of my soul. And for the first time in a year, I felt it. The shimmering, air-crackling feeling of God nearby. I only wished I could take that feeling and wrap it around Poppy like a blanket.

  “I chose this religion,” she said, hugging herself. “I chose this religion where everyone has these huge families, where it feels like having a baby is the most important thing a woman can do. And what does it mean for me as a woman if I can’t do this one thing? What does it mean for me as a Catholic woman?”

  I winced. “Poppy, no one would ever think you were ‘less than’ because you—”

  “Because I had a miscarriage? Because I may not be able to carry a child? Look at the Bible, Tyler. Where are the godly infertile women in there?”

  “Well, Sarah—”

  “Ends up having a baby,” Poppy interrupted. “Same with Rebecca and Rachel and Hannah. Every infertile woman in the Bible is eventually able to give birth. What does it mean if I never ca
n? Does it mean that I’m not blessed or righteous? That there’s something wrong with my soul as well as my body?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  I took a minute to answer, because I was near tears myself seeing her so devastated and also because I was still working through my new understanding of my guilt and how it had colored the way I’d read the scriptures for so long.

  “The Bible was written in a very specific time and place, for a very specific culture,” I explained. “I think that in the biblical environment having a child was the ultimate sign of God’s grace and blessing. That Sarah ends up having a baby is the Bible’s way of showing God’s love and care for her—not God redeeming her through her womb, but through his love. That love can take any form. For the ancient Canaanites, it was children, but for us, it could be something completely different.”

  I gestured around the church, at the altar and at the crucifix and at the tabernacle. “All of this—the lengthy bible readings and the liturgical rigmarole and the Eucharist—what do you think it’s here for, lamb?”

  She blinked, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s to remind us of our shared humanity. Of our quest to do better. And most importantly, of the fact that God loves us and helps us during that quest. Let Him love and help you now. Let Him give you grace.”

  The shimmering God-feeling intensified, and Poppy lifted her face to the crucifix. She tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear.

  The bright overhead lights came on and a vacuum started running somewhere in the distance. The smell of smoke indicated the snuffing of candles in preparation for closing the church for the night, and still we didn’t move.

  Finally Poppy turned to me and said, “Okay. I will.”

  And then, holding hands and with tears still drying on our faces, we walked out into the biting cold of early, early, early Christmas morning. Up ahead the stars winked, like the Star of Bethlehem, and somewhere a baby was being born.

  Maybe one day it would be ours.

  But one hour into Christmas morning, a new beginning was being born for Poppy and me, and for now, that was enough.

  Poppy

  one year later

  Three a.m. Christmas morning. You have me sitting at the edge of a pew, my hands folded in my lap. I wanted this, I remind myself. I asked for this. But still, I’m nervous. Nervous that we’ll get caught certainly, (although it’s Jordan’s church and I know he won’t be back inside until dawn.) And I’m nervous about why—why we are acting out this fantasy or memory or whatever it is. It makes me nervous how much I want it, how much I dream about it. And it makes me nervous how aroused I am right now, doing nothing more than waiting for you in a dark, empty church.

  When you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I’m sure this wasn’t what you expected to hear.

  Your footsteps echo throughout the lofty sanctuary, loud and clear in the silence, and then I feel it, the gentle tap of two fingers on my shoulder, and I look up.

  I practically come just by looking at you.

  The flickering glow of candles illuminates your cheekbones, your square jaw, your nose that’s bumped slightly in the middle from the time your brother pushed you face-first off a trampoline. Your face is scruffed with a day-old beard, and your hair has grown a little longer than you usually wear it, just long enough for me to slip my fingers through and grab onto. A small smile is on your wide mouth, just a hint of that dimple I love so much, and as always, you’re so hot and intensely fuckable that I have to restrain myself from diving for your dick.

  But it’s what you’re wearing that sets me off: belted black pants, long-sleeved black shirt, and—God help me—your collar.

  Your collar, snowy white against the black of your shirt and setting off the strong lines of your throat. Your collar, which looks so natural on you, as if you’d never stopped wearing it. As if you were born to wear it. Did you know that you walk differently with that collar on? Stand differently? As if you’re bearing both a burden and a joy at the same time. It’s fascinating and beautiful and so fucking magnetic.

  “I’m Father Bell,” you say, as if we’re meeting for the first time. “What brings you to the church today?”

  Role-play. We haven’t done it very often, so even though my heart is already racing and my thighs are already squeezing together at the sight of you in your collar, I feel a little self-conscious when I say, “I’ve never really been in a church before. I guess I’m just looking for guidance.”

  We’re play-acting a version of how we first met. Me, lost and vulnerable, wandering into a church. You, intelligent and friendly and trying not to notice how your body responds to me.

  You sit down on the pew, keeping two careful feet between us. For propriety. For morality. If this had been five years ago, I would have looked down, abashed at my own desire for you. I would have tilted my body away, trying to preserve your vows as I battled off the strongest attraction I’d ever felt in my life. But five years ago, we were in a church to pray.

  Tonight, we are here to play.

  I slide closer to you, making a show of adjusting my skirt so that you can see the top of my stocking and the clip of my garter belt. Your breath catches and our gazes meet momentarily. Then you blink away and clear your throat. “I’m happy to give any guidance you might like.”

  “And company too?” I let my hand drift over yours for the barest second before pulling it away. “I’m so lonely.”

  “Your loneliness can be cured through worship. And discipline.” Your voice goes dangerous on that last word, and I shiver.

  “Discipline?” I say in my breathiest voice, the one I know drives you mad.

  “Spiritual discipline,” you clarify sternly.

  I unfasten the top two buttons of my sheer white blouse, reaching past the expensive fabric to run my fingers along my neck. You watch those fingers with intensity, swallowing as I dip my fingers lower to trace along the lacy edges of my bra. I let my legs uncross and begin to fall open…

  “Enough,” you say, truly stern now, those green eyes flashing. “Do you think it’s acceptable to tempt a man of God? To torment him?”

  Torment him, torment him.

  The words reverberate throughout the room, furious echoes coming back to rebuke me. Searing rage rolls off you in waves and you abruptly stand, the outline of that delicious cock straining against your pants. You grab my wrist and yank me roughly to my feet, dragging me away from the pew and into the wide center aisle, where you throw me onto my knees.

  This is part of it, I know, a part we had discussed and set boundaries for. But your anger feels so real right now, and my blood is pounding with equal parts adrenaline and lust, and I can’t help but wonder if this fury you’re summoning comes from a real place, real memories. Did you feel like I was some sort of Jezebel come to torment you back when we first met? I often felt like I was, and sometimes I still feel like that. But as you’ve told me, where there’s guilt, there’s grace, and right now my grace is fisting a hand in my hair and forcing me to look up.

  I smile—I can’t help it. You’re so fucking handsome and strong right now, so forbidden in that collar, and I love that you’re mine. I love it so damn much that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.

  You frown at my smile. Your face is kinglike, displeased and radiating with power, and your pulse jumps on the side of your throat. “Is this amusing to you?” you demand, pulling my hair harder.

  I wince but my smile recovers. I can’t help it, really. “I’m just happy,” I confess.

  For a moment, your authoritative veneer thins and the sweet, tender man inside shines through it like a light. I know what I said has nestled itself against your heart. You give me an almost imperceptible wink followed by a swift grin, and then you’re back to business, back to your role as my personal sex apostle. “Are you happy to be on your knees?” you growl.

  I nod, licking my lips.

  You growl again, this time without words, the
hand not in my hair reaching for your belt buckle. With a few deft moves, your buckle and zipper are open and your fly is parted. Now my mouth really is watering, and you tease me, drawing out your cock but at first only tracing the tip along my lips, rubbing the underside of your shaft on my face. “Open,” you say, and I do. You shove in rough and hard, and I moan at the silky feel of your skin, the way my tongue can trace the wandering paths of your veins.

  “You’re enjoying this,” you accuse. “Slut.”

  Oh God. My panties. So wet at that one terrible word.

  You withdraw, your cock jutting up wet and dark from your pants. “What to do with a bad girl who enjoys her punishments, hmm? I could fuck your mouth, but I already know you like that too much. I could fuck your cunt, but a whore like you would get off on that, wouldn’t she?”

  Slut. Bad girl. Whore.

  Awful words. Disrespectful words. But when the man I love calls me these things in private, my body responds enthusiastically.

  You squat and reach under my skirt, impatiently nudging my knees farther apart with your hand. And then a finger is there, pushing aside my soaked panties and probing up. I gasp.

  “So wet,” you say, disgusted. You add another finger, your thumb working on my clit, and I can feel how slippery my pussy is, how it’s making your skin slippery too. You know what you’re doing as you crook your fingers and press into my secret spot, but you still glare at me as my cunt clenches around your fingers and as I ride out the waves on your hand. Your dick is practically carved from granite right now, stone hard and darker than the rest of you. I can see beads of pre-cum leaking from the tip. I want to lick them.

  You notice where my eyes are going. “No. You can’t have it.”

  It’s hard to manage a pout while my body is still coming down from climax, but I do it, and I see the ghost of a smirk on your lips before you regain control. You stand up and grab my elbows, forcing me to my feet as well.

  “It’s time to confess your sins, little one,” you say ominously. And then we’re going toward the confessional.