by C K Williams
There is also a large group of strangers assembled in the church this Sunday. A few of Alice Walsh’s classmates are back. They are standing with three adults, who I suppose may be their teachers. Horrendous crimes tend to drive people back to mass. No one is on their phone, which surprises me a little, until I remember that there is no signal at the church. Most of the congregation is doing their very best not to look Kate in the eye. I am afraid her practice may not exactly be overrun with patients tomorrow, either.
I am glad we are leaving tonight.
Father Daniel looks nervous as he steps in front of his congregation. He keeps glancing at me, as if to make it absolutely obvious to every single person in this church that we have been plotting something. I wish I could be annoyed by this, but now that it no longer involves a secret affair with Kate and thus no longer puts her at risk, I cannot help but find it endearing. He stutters his way through most of the appropriate words as he suggests that everyone take a moment, after partaking in the Holy Communion, to write down a few words for Alice. He even manages to point in the direction of the slips of paper and the pens he has placed at the far end of the first row of pews. He also strongly implies the slips of papers will be used at a memorial service, and that everyone should make sure to put down their names on the paper, so that they can be contacted and asked for permission should their words play a part in the final service. It is simultaneously the most awkward and the most charming speech I have witnessed in at least a couple of years. People are already fidgeting. I attempt to establish eye contact with Daniel, lest he forget that we talked about people having to write in capital letters. I even mouth the words to him.
When he sees me do this, I am fairly sure that he very, very nearly rolls his eyes. “And if you could write as clearly as possible, please,” he adds. “Capital letters when in doubt. Just to make sure that they are legible. For when they will be read out loud. Might be read out loud. At the memorial service. As I may have already mentioned.”
There is some shifting and grumbling among the congregation, but in the end, they all follow their priest’s suggestion, especially after Daniel goes first, writing a note before the Holy Communion begins. I watch, making a valiant effort to hide my glee, as the first member of the congregation, William O’Rawe, receives his wafer and then moves on to the slips of paper, reaching for the pen. I watch them, one by one, Florence, Megan, Patrick, face after face, one person after the other, like a line-up of suspects, and it is the same feeling in my gut, the excitement, the nerves, the triumph. This is going to go well. I can just tell.
“You coming?” Kate asks, shaking me from my reverie.
“Coming where?” I ask, confused.
She motions with her head towards the altar. Then she leans in to whisper into my ear, her red suit and black shirt soft against my throat: “Probably not clever to be the only ones seen not to do it.”
She is right. That is why I nod. And yet, the terror I feel keeps me rooted to the spot. I have not taken Holy Communion in years. Eight, maybe nine, perhaps even eleven? At a Christmas mass? I cannot remember. All I remember is that I am not allowed to partake in Holy Communion. There are mortal sins I have not confessed. Because by God, I am not only using his name in vain, my mortal sin is standing right there at the altar, offering his congregation their wafers, the holy body of Christ.
I want Daniel. If I cannot say it to his face, I have at least admitted it to myself. It is no longer just a thought, that I may also desire men. It is one specific man. He is standing right there.
What would it be, I wonder as I rise and follow Kate, operating on autopilot. What would it be like to actually do it? Not just to say it? When does something become true? Is it the thought that counts, as the Church would have me believe? Is it the words you say? Or is it not until I have touched another man that it becomes a proper part of my life?
Because I never have. Touched another man. Not like that.
I guess what I am wondering is, as our steps resound on the stone floor of the church aisle, is it too late to turn back?
I shuffle closer to Kate as we advance in the line. Before and behind us, the other churchgoers are keeping their distance.
They are whispering behind our backs.
And then we are already up. Kate goes first. Daniel speaks the blessing. She accepts the wafer and moves on, joining the crowd surrounding the pen and paper.
Daniel looks at me. I look at him.
I desperately want to ask: How do you do it? How do you look at me like that when we are at Kate’s house, and now, you are every inch the priest?
But all I do is smile awkwardly. He returns it thinly. “I should not,” I cannot help saying, pointing helplessly at the wafer.
“Why not?” Daniel asks.
“Mortal sin,” I reply, voice pitched so low that he only he will hear me.
He hesitates. “You know that I cannot give you this now that you have told me.”
I almost smile. “A little holier-than-thou after all?”
“No,” he says, and it is not until I look closely that I realise his eyes are rimmed red. “Holding onto what is already slipping away from me with all that I have.”
I nod, then I turn away. He is right, after all. Suppose somebody overheard us. Suppose somebody told his superiors. That would not go over well, it would end his career.
Daniel takes a deep breath. Then he smiles and turns away from me, to the next member of his congregation. He seems distracted as he hands over the next wafer. He looks back at me, just for a moment.
Slowly, I walk over to the far end of the front pew, where everyone has assembled around the slips of paper, some standing pensively, some scribbling furiously. Kate belongs to the latter group. She looks like she is pouring her heart out to someone who can no longer hear her. My chest aches for her as I reach for a piece of paper and a pen.
Looking at the slip of paper in my hand, it suddenly hits me. Alice Walsh is dead. I did not know her personally, but she was a young woman full of dreams and hopes for the future. Who was still trying to figure out who she was. Who could have been anyone, anything. An architect. A doctor. A lover. A teacher. A mother. She could have lived in a house in the Mourne Mountains, overlooking the sea. She could have moved to Paris and made a life for herself. Or gone on a holiday. Feasting on baguettes and croissants. Italy. Maybe she would have liked Italy. Or Thailand. Or Bali. Australia. A bar in Seventeen Seventy-Seven, where she could have made a friend for life. Or met a one-night stand. Or just had a good drink and a proper barbecue and a good flirt with the barkeeper.
I am startled out of my thoughts when Father Daniel speaks up again. Quickly, I look up. Kate is taking hold of my arm, steering me back towards our pew. The Holy Communion has been cleared away and everyone has returned to their seats. Daniel is standing in front of us, holding the slips of paper in his hands. He does not seem nervous anymore. In fact, he is smiling.
Maybe this is just wishful thinking, but I believe he may be smiling at me. Either way, I smile back. Life is too short. And he lied for us. He went through with it, even though he did not want to. I appreciate that. Before the day is out, we may know who the culprit is. And we’ll be safe in a hotel in Newry. Just now, we may have saved Kate from the worst.
“Thank you, everyone,” Daniel says, and it is clear that the official part of mass is over. “I am looking forward to seeing you all again. The next service takes place, as you know, on Wednesday. The church will then also be open for confession.”
Shuffling all around. I make to rise, too.
“There is one more thing I should tell you,” Daniel goes on.
Everyone settles back down. Daniel glances up at the ceiling. Then he looks at us. He is still smiling. “You will not see me there.”
No one is making even the faintest noise. I furrow my brow. He laughs a little. As if he could not believe what he is about to do. What God will watch him do. “I find that I am no longer capable of fulfilling my of
fice.” His voice is firm. “God has made me in a way which I only now have realised clearly means that I am not intended to serve Him this way. I realised this because I committed a mortal sin.”
I see the car crash coming, but there is nothing I can do but keep my hands on the steering wheel. There are no brakes to hit. All I do is prepare to rise. Because I do not know if Daniel is about to come out to his congregation, and if so, if everyone is going to stay calm and collected or if they are going to attack him where he stands. All I know is that this is his confessional.
And then Daniel says it: “I had an affair. I broke my oath of celibacy.”
I rise. I open my mouth, but it is too late. Daniel charges ahead. “I must tell you the truth. This is what I can do for Alice.” He looks up at the ceiling. He smiles. “I know you can see me. And I thank you for your trust, Alice, while you were still here with us. For your encouragement. I’d hoped I could encourage you in return.”
Then he looks back at us. “For Alice Walsh helped me see something. She helped me see that God makes us all differently.”
And then he is looking straight at me. “You must know that I am gay. And that that is how God made me.”
12:59
“It was you who told me to be honest!”
Daniel is shouting. I am trying to hit the sweet spot between shouting and whispering, and I am failing miserably. “Not like that!” I reply furiously. “Not in front of your entire congregation, including people who walk around with rifles in the night!”
We are back in the rectory, the door slammed shut and locked, the air thick with dust and our voices. I basically used my body as a shield to get Father Daniel away from the congregation and safely into the sacristy. I saw Megan Walsh’s face, and Patrick Walsh pale as the wafer, and William O’Rawe with his mouth open and his face turning red, and the only reason why I did not call the police right away was because there was no signal, and because I knew it would take them too long to get here to provide any sort of meaningful protection to the priest. Megan Walsh came very close to assaulting Daniel before we made it into the sacristy. Kate came into the sacristy with us, then used the connecting door to go into the rectory and make sure all doors and windows are locked.
Daniel is struggling out of his Messgewand, which I believe is a chasuble in English, followed by his Stola, his stole, white and gold. It irks me that I still remember the names for these clothes. I have not been an altar boy in almost thirty years, and yet here they still are, the memories of kneeling and breathing the stale air and the shame, unbearably hot and heavy. Staring up at the high ceilings and feeling like you are nothing, not even worth the dust under your knees.
Daniel tosses his stole onto the chair in front of his impossibly cluttered desk, so many slips of paper, some of them printed, others covered in his handwriting, neat capital letters, Bible quotations, arranged in a sort of mind map. I recognise parts of today’s sermons as I reach for him. “What were you thinking?”
“Why do we always end up shouting at each other?” he asks. He has not shaken me off. Not yet.
“Because you keep doing incredibly stupid things!” I have not let him go. Not yet.
“You, on the other hand, are the voice of reason.”
“This is not about me!” I insist, trying to make him see. “This is about you. Do you know what they will want to do to you? They will make you a target. They may even begin to think it was you.”
“Me?” Daniel looks at me as if I have gone mad. “What reason would I have to hurt Alice Walsh?”
“People don’t need reasons!” I step closer. I am an inch away from shaking him. Shaking some sense into him. “Look at what they’ve done to Kate! They will come up with one and tell it to themselves until they believe it’s true!”
He works up a smile. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”
Finally, I let go of his wrist. “Why take this lightly?” I ask him. “What is wrong with you?”
“What else would you have me do?” he asks.
“Take it seriously!”
“You think I am not taking this seriously?” Daniel sits back against his desk, still in his Messhemd, an alb. He looks at the stole he so carelessly threw across the chair. “This is my life! My whole life. And in a few hours, it will be no more.”
“Maybe it was a shit life,” I say, and think of my life, the girlfriends I’ve had, who stayed with me for years, whom I allowed to stay, although I always knew there was something I’d still need to figure out. Suddenly I am furious with me, for living a lie all this time. I am furious with me for preferring the lie to the truth myself, because it was more comfortable.
“No.” Daniel shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.” He breathes in, closes his eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t strong enough for it.”
And suddenly, I cannot bear that either. Does he also feel like he wasted ten years, twenty? What am I doing chastising someone for telling the truth? “What is supposed to be strong about living a life that is dishonest?” There is fervour to my voice. “How is that strong?”
Daniel looks at me. “I don’t know,” he says calmly. “Maybe to prove to yourself that there was a higher calling, and that you could follow it? That there was more to life than your whims? That you are a little more than a selfish bastard?”
“This is not a whim,” I tell him, with all the certainty I can work up.
“The doubt shows,” he replies.
“This is not a whim,” I repeat more firmly. “Telling the truth is not selfish.”
Daniel looks at me. “Why not?”
“Because the truth is worth fighting for.”
“Not justice?” Daniel asks.
“There can be no justice without truth,” I say. “How can there be justice without truth?”
“But whose truth?” he asks, glancing back at the ceiling.
“No,” I say. “No, no, no. There is truth. It is true that we are here. It is true what you are feeling. It is true that Alice Walsh is dead. That we are alive. And that life is too precious to waste on lies. And if we have not found the truth yet, it is because we have not looked closely enough, we have not understood well enough, we have not asked enough people, we were too lazy, or frightened, or righteous.”
“Because we did not want it,” he says under his breath. “Maybe I still don’t.”
“But the truth doesn’t care, does it?” I ask, taking an urgent step towards him.
He watches me approach. “A moment ago you were chastising me for telling the whole truth. What’s it going to be?”
“Don’t make the bisexual choose,” I say.
It startles a laugh out of him. A real laugh. And that, in turn, makes me laugh. It is only the third time that I have said it out loud. It is the first time that the reaction was laughter, not shock or gentle comprehension.
“So you get not to be principled?” he asks, turning towards me as I inch closer. I feel stupid inching like that. Instead of just coming out and saying it. Asking him. If he wants to touch me as badly as I have been wanting to touch him.
“I am just worried,” I say. “I am worried about Kate, and that is why I say stupid fucking things.”
“While we’re being honest?” he asks.
“Well, what can I say, you inspire me.” It is supposed to come out deadpan. I am shocked to hear it sound sincere.
“Do I now?” He smiles a little. “How much, I wonder?”
“Why not try me?” I ask. This is as close as I dare come to asking the question: Do you feel what I am feeling?
He hesitates. Then: “Do you desire Kate?”
I could roll my eyes. That is what I did whenever Annette used to needle me about Kate. Whenever anyone did.
Instead, I think about it. I make myself face it. “Not in the way that anyone might think.”
“Then in which way?”
It feels like I need an eternity to form every sentence. Or not to form it, but to allow myself to utter it. “I want to watch our fing
ers intertwine.” I swallow. Give myself permission to go on. “I want to run my knuckles along her cheek when I lie next to her.” Go on. “I want to listen to her breathe.” Go further. “I think I want to kiss her.” Even more closely. “But I think I would not want to sleep with her. I could. But it is not a… need.”
I may have just ruined this. But I promised the truth. So the truth is what Daniel got.
Daniel straightens slowly. “Now I know what’s special about you,” he says.
“Right,” I say. My breath is coming in bursts. I almost make myself laugh at how ridiculously I am behaving. How much I want this.
“It’s that you say what you think.” Daniel is observing me closely. “Most of the conversations I have work very differently. It feels like people are increasingly unlearning how to tell each other the truth.”
“Because it fucking hurts, the truth, that’s why.”
“See, that.” Daniel smiles, and it looks incredulous and a little dazed. “You just said that.”
I smile back, completely by instinct. “You are easily pleased, Daniel.”
His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Am I? Allow me to make this harder then.”
For a moment, I am actually terrified. And that is because, for a moment, so is he.
“Do you desire me?” Daniel asks.
And I am still terrified. The words take too long. They take too long to leave my mouth.
The truth, I remind myself.
“Yes,” I say.
He is simply looking at me. I find I can no longer look at him. Too vulnerable.
“I have never asked anyone this question,” Daniel says. “Much less a man.”
“Maybe we should just kiss, like real people do,” I say, breathless, glancing up at his face.
His mouth twitches. “You know that’s from a song, don’t you?”
