[English] THE SAINT

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“Saint Monica? Was she a martyr or a mystic?”

“Neither. She was a mother.”

“Good. Hate the martyrs.” Stupid virgin martyrs. Between getting married and getting murdered they picked murder. She’d pick a dick over death any day. Why did no one ever offer her those sorts of choices?

“She was the mother of Saint Augustine. He, too, was a willful, disobedient child. He had a mistress and fathered a child out of wedlock. He partied and played and didn’t care at all for the things of God. But his mother—Monica—was a Christian and she prayed and prayed for him. Prayed with all her might her child would see the truth of the Gospel and convert. God granted her prayer and Saint Augustine is one of the doctors of the church now.”

“The church has doctors?”

“It does.”

“Why is it still so sick, then? They must be really crappy doctors.”

Her mother stopped talking again, stopped whispering, stopped praying. But still she didn’t leave.

“Elle …” Her mother’s tone was softer now, kinder, conversational. Not a good sign.

“What. Now. Mother?”

“Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”

“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.” The pillow was once more firmly planted on her face.

“And he rides a motorcycle.”

Elle pushed the pillow off her face.

“A motorcycle?”

“Yes.” Her mother smiled. “A motorcycle.”

“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece-of-crap crotch rocket from Japan, is it?”

Her mother shook her head.

“Something Italian.”

“A Vespa? Those are scooters, not motorcycles.” Elle giggled at the image of a priest in a collar on the back of a little Vespa scooter.

“No. Something that started with a D. Du-something.”

Elle’s eyes widened.

“A Ducati?”

“That was it.”

She knew about Ducatis but had never seen one up close. She’d kill to have a Ducati between her thighs. All that power. All that freedom. What she wouldn’t give …

Would it kill her to go to church one more day? One more hour? One more Mass? She could see the bike, maybe touch it, then get out again.

“Okay.” Elle threw off the covers. “I’m coming. But I’m doing it for the Ducati, not for God.”

Her mother slammed the door behind her and Elle got out of bed. Grabbing her uniform skirt off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. Mass or not, she would have had to get out of bed anyway. Her bladder had been about to explode while arguing with her mom.

She pressed her hand to the bathroom window and felt nothing but room-temperature glass. Good. A warm morning. She wouldn’t have to bother with tights under her skirt.

Her hair looked like it belonged on a crazy person since she’d fallen asleep with it wet. No amount of curling or brushing was going to tame it. She grabbed a bottle of tinted green hair gel and streaked it through her hair, taming the wild flyaways enough that she could pull it back into a high ponytail.

Elle shoved her feet into her black combat boots. Carefully she applied a thick swipe of black eyeliner around her eyes. She was short and her boobs were too big but at least she could pull off the makeup component of heroin chic.

In her bedroom she found her thickest flannel shirt and pulled it on over her Pearl Jam T-shirt. She layered her green army jacket on top of her flannel.

Elle jumped in the backseat of their old Ford and her mom barely let her shut the door before backing out of the driveway.

“I want you to say hello to the new priest if you get a chance. Father Greg had me doing the books since he couldn’t handle it. This younger priest might want to change things up.”

“I’ll say hi. And then I’ll steal his Duck and ride away into the sunset.”

“His what?”

“Ducks. Dukes. Ducatis. Never mind.”

“I’m attempting to be open-minded about the new priest. You could at least give him a chance,” her mother said.

“I’m going, right? But only for the motorcycle. I mentioned that part, right?”

Her mother gave a ragged sigh.

“You should be going to church for God, and no other reason.”

“I told you, I don’t even think I believe in God anymore.”

“God is everywhere. He’s in everyone. We’re all created in His image.”

“I haven’t met anybody who looks like God yet.”

“How many people would it take to get through to you? God told Abraham he would spare Sodom and Gomorrah if ten righteous men could be found in the city. Only ten.”

Elle thought about it, thought about the boys at school who were dicks in sneakers, the teachers who did nothing but punish, her father who couldn’t keep a promise to save his life, her mother who forced religion down her throat …

She saw God in none of them. Not even in herself.

“Ten? Mom, I swear I’d settle for one.”

If she met one single person who seemed holy, righteous, kind, self-sacrificing, smart and wise who kept his promises and gave a flying f**k about her? Maybe she’d believe then.

“Only one?” Her mother sounded incredulous.

“Well, one person and a little ‘St. Teresa and the angel’ action wouldn’t hurt, either.” Eleanor grinned and her mother shook her head in disgust.

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“You know, all I ever wanted was a daughter who loves God, goes to church, respects her priest and maybe even respects her mother a little. You think that’s too much to ask?”

Elle thought about the question one whole entire second before answering.

“Yup.”

Once her mother pulled into the Sacred Heart parking lot, Elle jumped out of the car. Her mom could make her go to church, but she wasn’t about to sit with her at church.

Elle entered the sanctuary and took a seat on the Gospel side—the left side of the church facing the altar. A visiting priest had explained the difference between the Gospel side and the Epistle side, or right side, a long time ago. He was also the same priest who taught everyone that Amen was best translated as “so be it.” That had surprised her. Until him she’d always thought Amen meant “over and out.”

Her usual pew had already filled up by the time she got there so instead of sitting beneath her favorite stained-glass window, she had to sit on the aisle. That was okay. She’d be able to get a better look at the new priest from here. And if she didn’t like the looks of him, she could “accidentally” step on the train of his vestments. Oops.

She wormed her way out of her jacket, picked up her missal and turned to the day’s readings. From her backpack she pulled out her copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and slid it in between the pages. She’d heard some girls in her German class giggling over a copy of it. One of them had stolen it from her older sister. Gross, they said. Nasty, they said. So dirty. They couldn’t believe people actually did this, they said. So of course Elle stole a copy of it from the public library. Now on her third reading, she still hadn’t figured out why those girls in her class had called the book gross and nasty. Elle had fallen in love with the story of ***ual slavery in a fairy-tale world of kings and queens. Even better, the main character—Beauty—was only fifteen, like her. Fifteen plus that one hundred years she’d been sleeping under the spell. Maybe Elle was also under a spell and didn’t know it. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and everything happening was a dream, a bad dream where her father was a thief and her mother wished she’d never had her daughter. Maybe someday a prince would come along and kiss her and make love to her, and she’d wake up to discover she’d been a queen all along.

As Elle turned a page the bells rang. She closed her books and rose to her feet.

A hymn began.

Elle looked back to the door of the sanctuary, and saw the new priest.

The dream ended. The spell was broken.

Elle woke up.

5

Eleanor

STRIDING DOWN THE AISLE BEHIND THE CRUCIFER and the deacon was a man—a man with blond hair and a god’s face. He looked forward with eyes so serious and solemn she followed his gaze to the altar to see if Jesus waited for him there.

As he stepped past her pew he turned his head and met her eyes for the briefest of eternities. The book within her missal fell from her hand and fluttered to the floor. She didn’t bend to pick it up. It lay there, forgotten, as forgotten as everyone and everything else in this world. Everyone and everything else but this man who now mounted the steps to the altar and stood before the church.

Underneath the collar of his vestments she saw the hint of black with the white square.

This man, this most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life, this man who was the incarnation of her every hunger, every desire and every secret midnight dream … This man was her new priest?

“Oh, my God …” she breathed, but whether she addressed the God in Heaven or the God before her, she didn’t know.

She crossed herself when the church crossed themselves. She remained standing as they remained standing.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the new priest intoned, and together with the congregation Elle answered.

“Amen.”

His voice, rich and resonant, echoed out to the very edges of the church and back again. His words wrapped around her like a golden cord binding her to him. The sanctuary brightened with each word he spoke as if the sun itself drew closer to hear his voice. Once in winter she’d seen a man on a street corner playing an old cello for coins. A cello on a winter night in the midst of a frozen city—that was what his voice sounded like.

She sat when the congregation sat and even as she sat down, her heart rose.

A woman read from the Old Testament.

A man read from the New Testament.

The priest read from the Gospels.

She heard none of the words. She heard only music. Even when the hymns had been sung and ended, she still heard music.

She knelt when the church knelt and prayed when the church prayed. And when it came time to rise for the Eucharist, she rose again.

On feet she could no longer feel she made her way inexorably toward the altar. Although she walked of her own volition, she felt drawn. That golden cord had wrapped itself around her heart and she would go wherever it led her. It led her to him.

With every step closer to him, the cord tightened, and yet the tighter it bound her, the greater her joy.

Visions flashed through her mind. A fluttering of white wings. A burning arrow. Stained glass under her feet. His hands on her face. His mouth on her mouth. His mouth on her br**sts. His skin against her skin. His body inside her body. His heart in her heart in his hands …

From the deacon she took the wafer, said her Amen and swallowed it whole.

From the priest, she took the cup of wine. As she raised the cup to her lips, the sleeve of her shirt fell back, baring her arm and the two red burns on her wrist. She met his eyes and saw something flash in them, something she couldn’t translate into words. It was as if he recognized her, as if he’d seen her before somewhere and now tried to remember where. She knew she’d never seen him before in her life. If she had, she would never have forgotten him.

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The golden cord knotted itself tighter.

“The blood of Christ,” he whispered, softer than he’d spoken it to anyone else, so softly she leaned in closer to hear him better.

“Amen.”

Their fingers touched as she returned the cup to him, and she soared back to her seat. She picked her novel off the floor, closed it and stuffed it in her backpack.

The Mass ended. All were exhorted to go forth in peace. But Eleanor felt no peace and she would feel no peace until she’d spoken to him.

Him? Him who? When she reached the lobby of the church, Elle realized she had no idea what the new priest’s name was. She had to know. Now.

She saw her mother whispering to a group of older women by the annex door. Probably talking about how the new priest was too young, too inexperienced, too handsome. As if there could be such a thing.

“It’s a nice day. I’m walking home,” she said to her mother and beat a hasty retreat before her mother could even say a word in argument.

The entire congregation surrounded their new priest. And yet she could still see him. He towered over most of them. He had to be six feet tall or more. Over the top of the crowd he met her eyes as if he’d been searching for her in the crowd. She mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”

She slipped out the side door and watched the cars filing out. Soon nothing remained in the parking lot but a gleaming black motorcycle. Even on the opposite side of the parking lot she could make out the lines of it, the chrome detailing shining in the March sunlight. She’d never seen anything more beautiful in her life except for the man crossing the pavement toward it. Careful to make as little sound as possible, she stepped from the shadows and followed him to his motorcycle.

He’d abandoned the vestments for black clerics. Father Greg had always worn a plain black shirt and black jacket over it, usually without the white collar in place. But this priest had on a more formal looking and heavier black clerical shirt. It looked European to her. She’d never seen a priest who looked so … She couldn’t find the right word. Elegant, maybe?

As he reached his motorcycle, he paused but didn’t turn around.

“I was wondering where you went,” he said, taking his helmet off the handlebars. He turned around and faced her. “You said you’d wait for me.”

“You’re kind of an idiot. You know that, right?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrow at her. Elle dug her hands in her pocket and stared at him.

“Am I?”

He sat astride his motorcycle, and she stepped in front of it.

“Do you have any idea what it is you have between your legs?” she demanded.

“I’m well aware of what is between my legs.” He said the words without even breaking a smile. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped closer, straddling the front wheel with her knees.

“Then you know that this is a Ducati. A 907 I.E.,” she said.

“Is it?”

“It’s in black. Never seen one in black before.” She walked a circuit around the bike. “Do you have any idea how much this Duck is worth?”

“A small fortune, I’d imagine.” He put the helmet back on the handlebars.

“Yeah. A small one. So where’s your lock?”

“Pardon?”

“Your disc lock. You can’t leave a Ducati sitting in a parking lot without a lock on it unless you’re criminal stupid or you want it to get stolen. Which one is it?”

“Criminally stupid.”

“So you admit it?”

“No, I’m correcting your grammar. And I didn’t realize suburban Connecticut was such a high-crime district. Should I be afraid?” He asked the question in a tone that implied he knew what fear was, but only in theory, not practice.

“If I had something that valuable, I’d lock it up.”

He smiled at her.

“I plan to.”

“That’s good. Okay, then.” She stood there not knowing what else to say. The few things that leaped to mind were a little too forward. Like “I love you” and “will you marry me?”

“Tell me your name.”

“Elle.”

“Is that short for …?”

“Eleanor. Eleanor Louise Schreiber, at your service.” She grasped the ends of her skirt and gave him her most sarcastic curtsy. “Now who the hell are you?”

“Try that again. More politely please.”

She tapped the toe of her boot on the ground.

“Well?”

“Fine. What is your name, Father?”

He studied her face for a moment and didn’t answer.

“Don’t you know your own name?”

“I’m deciding how to answer the question. In the meantime, allow me to say this. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Eleanor.”

He reached out his left hand for her to shake. She had no choice but to give him her own left hand. As soon as her hand was in his, he gripped her fingers and pulled her toward him. He pushed at her sleeve and examined the two burns on her wrist.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, trying to pull her arm back. He didn’t give an inch, merely held her in place with his impossible strength.

“You have two second-degree burns on your arm and large scrapes on your knees. Care to tell me how those came about?”

“It’s none of your business.”

The priest studied her through narrowed steel-colored eyes. He didn’t seem the least offended by her language.

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“Eleanor,” he said. “Tell me who hurt you. And tell me right now.”

She felt the force of his will like a wall pressing against her.

“No. You won’t even tell me your name.”

“If I tell you my name, will you tell me about the burns?”

He let her hand go and she pulled her arm back and held it to her stomach. Her entire body fluttered from the touch of his hand on her hand, and the unrepentant way he studied her.

She stood still and silent while he stared at her face until she reluctantly met his eyes.

“Will you tell anybody what I tell you?” She wasn’t wild about telling anyone something so private about herself, but for some reason, a reason she couldn’t name, she trusted this man, this priest.

“Not a soul.”

“Okay. Fine. Name?”

He reached into the black leather saddlebag on his motorcycle and pulled out what appeared to be a Bible in some foreign language. He flipped opened the well-worn cover to a page where he’d written his name in thick black ink with strong legible handwriting.

Søren Magnussen.

She reached out and with the tip of her finger traced the letters in the name.

“Søren … Did I say that right?”

“You say it like an American.”

“How am I supposed to say it?”

“I like the way you say it. You should know, that’s not the name anyone here will ever call me. That’s what my mother named me. Unfortunately I’m forced to go by what my father named me—Marcus Stearns.”

“So no one here knows your real name?” That he wrote Søren Magnussen in his Bible seemed to hint that he considered Søren his real name, not Marcus.

“Only you. And now that you know it, I believe you owe me an answer to my question.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Eleanor—”

“I go by Elle, not Eleanor.”

“Eleanor is the name of queens. Elle is merely a French pronoun that means she or her. I will call you Eleanor. And now, Eleanor, tell me how you arrived at the burns on your wrist. Then we’ll discuss the knees.”

“Curling iron.”

“Self-inflicted or is someone in your home hurting you?”

“Self-inflicted.”

“Why did you do it?”

“For fun.”

“You enjoy hurting yourself?” He asked the question without shock or disgust. She heard nothing in his voice but curiosity.

She nodded.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“You seem quite sane to me. Apart from your clothes.”

“What? Not down with grunge?”

“Your hair is also a cause for concern.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s gone green.”

“It’s not moldy,” she said, laughing at the playful look of disapproval on his face. “That’s hair gel. I put green streaks in it.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen. But I’ll be sixteen in two weeks.” She felt the need to add that part at the end. “My mom says you’re too young to be a priest.”

“I’m twenty-nine. But I’ll try to age very quickly for her. I’m certain pastoring at a church you attend will age me considerably.”

“I’ll do my best.” She grinned broadly at him as she toyed with the cuffs of her jacket. Once more she fell into an awkward silence. He didn’t seem awkward at all. He seemed to be having the time of his life watching her be weird in front of him.

“Now for the knees. Those are impressive-looking wounds.”

“I fell,” she said. “**** happens.”

“You don’t seem the clumsy sort. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

She pursed her lips. Her? Clumsy?

“I’m not clumsy. Ever. My gym teacher said I move like a trained dancer.”

“So then where did the injuries to your knees come from?”

“I got in a fight at school.”

“I hope she looks worse than you do.”

“He,” she said with pride. “He looks fine. But he’s still walking funny.”

Søren’s eyes widened slightly.

“You fought with a boy at your school?” He sounded mildly horrified.

“It’s not my fault. There’s this girl at school—Pepper Riley. And if her name wasn’t bad enough, she has huge boobs. She’s scared of her own shadow and won’t fight back. So this guy, Trey, he was being a prick to her on the bus saying all kinds of gross **** about her body. So I told him to shut up. And then he starts saying gross **** to me. He was all, ‘I want your body, Elle.’ So I said he could have my body. Then I gave him my foot. Right in the nuts. It was kind of amazing. When we got off the bus he pushed me so hard I landed on my knees and ripped them open. Whatever. Typical Wednesday at your local Catholic high school. Your tax dollars not at work.”

He continued to stare at her. His eyes had widened even farther.

“Father Stearns? Søren? Whoever you are?” She waved her hand.

“Forgive me. I was utterly riveted by your story. I might have entered a fugue state.”

“Lucky for me, it all happened at the back of the bus and the driver didn’t see it. Otherwise Vice Principal Wells would have my ass. He told me if I got sent to his office one more time I’d be publicly crucified as an example to the rest of the school. I think he was kidding?”

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“Did you deserve such a threat?”

“Maybe. I said in class that St. Teresa didn’t have a mystical experience but was, in fact, having an orgasm. It’s not like I didn’t prove it. She said the angel ‘penetrated’ her with his ‘flaming arrow’ right to her ‘entrails’ and that it gave her ‘ecstasy.’” Elle used air quotes for emphasis. “That was not a mystical experience. That was a big O. V.P. Wells didn’t appreciate my theology.”

“I appreciate your theology.”

Eleanor opened her mouth and then closed it again. She had zero words. None. Nothing. She had no idea what to say to that.

“I’m going to go away now,” she said.

“Why?”

“You want me to stay?”

“I do.”

She looked at him askance.

“No one ever wants me to stay. You know, after I start talking.”

“I want you to stay,” he said. “And I’d like you to keep talking.”

“I’m not interrupting your golf game?”

“Golf?”

“All priests play golf, right?”

“Not this priest.”

“What do you play?”

“Other games.”

Something in the way he said the word games made Elle’s toes curl up inside her combat boots.

“Then I should let you get back to your other games.”

“Do one thing for me before I leave.”

“What?”

“Take your hair down.”

This time she didn’t even argue or ask why. She simply pulled the elastic out of her hair, ran her fingers through the messy waves and dropped her hands to her side.

“Give me your right hand.”

He held out his hand again and he took her unburned wrist in his fingers. From her left hand he took her ponytail holder and wrapped it around her wrist.

Slipping two fingers between the band and her wrist, he lifted it high and let it go, snapping the sensitive skin so hard she flinched.

“**** … Jesus, that hurt. What did you do that for?”

“Those burns on your wrist will take months to heal completely. There are other ways of inflicting pain on yourself that don’t leave scars. You should learn them.”

Elle looked down at her wrist. Her skin still reverberated with the pain of the vicious sting, but the redness had already started to fade.

“Did you … You just …”

“Your body is a temple, Eleanor. You should treat it like the priceless and holy vessel it is. I learned one thing and one thing only from watching my father’s wife. If you’re going to redecorate, either learn how to do it properly, or hire a professional.”

He took his helmet off the handlebars and started the motorcycle. Its impressive engine roared to life and Eleanor felt the vibrations from the ground up to her stomach.

“You’re not a normal priest, are you?”

He gave her a smile that hit her like a slap to the face and a kiss on the mouth all at once.

“My God, I hope not.”

With those final words, he put on his helmet and kicked out the stand with his heel. Eleanor took three giant steps back. He rode out of the parking lot and left her standing there alone.

She watched him until he disappeared from view. And then she listened until the sound of his engine retreated into silence.

“I’m yours, Søren,” she said to no one but God, and didn’t know what she meant by it. She only knew it was true.

She was his whatever the consequences. She was his.

Amen. Amen.

So be it.

6

Eleanor

ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, THE MIRACLE ELEANOR prayed for happened. Her mother had to go into work early. She’d be gone from five until midnight. Eleanor could leave the house for a couple of hours without anyone noticing.

She’d seen on the church bulletin that someone was holding a Lenten prayer service at six that night. Perfect excuse. For twenty minutes, she worked on her hair until it resembled human hair and not her usual lion’s mane. She put on clean clothes—tight jeans and a V-neck sweater. In all her life she’d never walked so fast to church.

When she arrived at Sacred Heart, she didn’t find anyone praying. She should probably ask someone where the service was. Maybe Søren would know?

Eleanor tiptoed up to the door and found it ajar. Inside the office she spied a lamp on the desk and shadows moving.

“Knock knock,” she said without actually knocking. The door opened all the way, and Eleanor took a step back.

Søren stood in the doorway clad in his clerics and collar. He didn’t seem displeased to see her.

“Hello, Eleanor. Nice to see you again.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

She peeked around his shoulder and peered inside. Books sat stacked on the desk and chairs.

“You’re moving in?”

“Father Gregory’s sister has asked for his things.”

Eleanor took a step back. Standing so close to him meant she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

“He’s really not coming back?”

Søren slowly shook his head.

“You have to understand that a stroke is a serious con***ion. Once he’s out of the hospital he’ll be staying with his sister and her husband.”

“Are they nice people?”

He seemed momentarily taken aback by her question.

“His sister and her husband? I haven’t met them, but she and I spoke on the phone. She seemed very kind and concerned.”

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“That’s good.”

Eleanor bit her bottom lip while trying to think of something else to say.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, sorry. I was going to go to this prayer thing but I can’t find it. I saw—”

“I mean with your lip.”

“I don’t know. I bite it sometimes. Habit.”

“Stop it. The only girls I’ve ever seen doing that are either not very intelligent or are trying to look not very intelligent. I refuse to believe you’re either.”

“Really? You don’t even know me.”

He smiled and took a step back into the office.

“I know you.”

Eleanor started to enter the office.

“What do you mean you know me?” she asked, but when she crossed the threshold, he held up a hand.

“Out.”

“Out?”

“Out of my office.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Eleanor took a step back into the hallway.

“I’m not allowed in your office?”

“No one under the age of sixteen is allowed in my office without a parent present. No one over sixteen is allowed alone in my office unless the door is open. These are my rules.”

“That’s kind of strict.”

“I’m strict.”

He pulled a book off the shelf and added it to a pile on the desk.

“Why are you so strict?”

He paused while removing another book from the shelf and gave her a searching look.

“Can I talk to you like an adult?” he asked, shifting books on the shelf.

“I’d be pissed if you talked to me like a child.”

He glanced at her as he put an empty file box on the desk and one by one started piling books inside.

“Last year an exposé was released regarding child *** abuse by Catholic priests and the churchwide cover-up by the bishops, the archbishops and even the Curia.”

“Mom says those people, the victims, they’re after the church’s money.”

“Your mother is wrong.”

“So the *** abuse is as bad as they say?”

“Eleanor, do you know why I’m here?” Søren asked.

“I know Father Greg is retiring, and there’s a priest shortage in the diocese so they had to call the Jesuits for a loaner. You’re the loaner.”

“It isn’t as simple as that. Recently, I returned to my community after my ordination. Things were tense. A Jesuit in our province had recently been convicted on *** abuse charges stemming from his assignment at an inner-city school.”

A chill passed through her body.

“He was messing with kids?”

“Rumors circulated that one of the school officials, another Jesuit, was attempting to hide documents from the plaintiff’s attorney, who was suing the school and others in civil court.”

“What happened?”

“I called the attorney and told them everything I knew, everything I’d heard and everything to ask for during the discovery process.”

“You ratted out another Jesuit to lawyers? Jesus Christ, how big are your balls?” Her father had “friends” who got themselves killed talking to cops or lawyers.

Søren laughed softly.

“I believe those were the exact words my superior said to me. But he didn’t smile when he said it like you did. I’m not telling you this story to impress you or shock you. I’m telling you this so you know why I’m here. I was to spend two weeks in New York visiting friends and family before being sent to India. Instead I’m here at this tiny parish in a tiny town in Connecticut.”

“Oh, ****. You got in trouble.”

“Me being here is the Catholic equivalent of ‘go stand in the corner and think about what you’ve done.’”

“So you’re not letting kids in your office because—”

“Of St. Paul and First Thessalonians 5:22. ‘Abstain from every appearance of evil.’”

“I guess having kids in the office could look bad.”

Søren rearranged some books in the box to make room for two more.

“It could. I’m afraid Father Gregory was slightly lax in those areas. Of course, from everything I’ve heard of him, he was a good and gentle man.”

“He was.”

“I’m an unknown integer here, however. Being alone with a seventy-year-old priest and a twenty-nine-year-old priest give two entirely different appearances.”

“Doesn’t help that you’re like the hottest priest on the planet.”

Søren looked up sharply at her. Eleanor went pale.

“I said that out loud.”

“Should I pretend I didn’t hear it?”

Eleanor thought about his offer as the blush stared to fade from her cheeks.

“I said it. I’ll go say some Hail Marys.”

“Finding another person attractive isn’t a sin.”

“It isn’t?”

“Desire is not a sin,” Søren said, sitting on his desk and facing her. “Fantasy is not a sin. Sins are acts of commission or omission. Either you do some act you’re not supposed to do. For example, shooting someone. Or you fail to do an act you should do. For example, not giving alms to the poor. Finding someone attractive is no more a sin than standing on a balcony and enjoying a lovely view of the ocean.”

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“What’s lust, then?”

“You ask excellent questions. These are the questions of a young woman who is not of the lip-biting variety.”

“I’m going to bite my lip out of spite from now on.”

“That is exactly what I knew you would do. Would you like me to answer your question?”

“About lust? Yeah.”

“Let’s go into the sanctuary. You can sit down there.”

“I don’t mind standing.”

“You’re wearing combat boots.”

“They’re comfy.”

“Where does a young lady in Wakefield, Connecticut, purchase combat boots?”

“Goodwill,” she said.

“You’re wearing Goodwill combat boots?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, Eleanor. Your footwear has achieved irony.”

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he stepped past her. She spun around on the heel of her Goodwill combat boots and followed Søren to the sanctuary. He opened the doors, putting the stoppers down to keep them open.

“You’re really into this ‘avoiding any appearance of evil’ thing, aren’t you?”

“I am. I wouldn’t want either of us accused of anything we hadn’t done.”

“What if it’s something we have done?” she asked, kneeling backward on one of the pews to face Søren, who was seated in the row behind her.

“That’s an entirely different situation. But we’re talking lust.”

“I’m lusting for your answer.”

“You aren’t, actually.” He gave her a steady gaze with his unyielding eyes. “You’re simply desiring my answer. Lust is overwhelming or uncontrollable desire that leads to sin. A man might desire another man’s wife. It happens. The question he has to ask himself is, given the chance, will he act on his desires? Will he try to seduce her the first time they’re alone? Will he attack her? If she came on to him, would he give in? Or would he honor her marital state, politely tell her no and suggest she and her husband go to counseling?”

“So it’s a matter of how much you want something that’s the difference between love and lust?”

“Partly. But it’s not only a question of degree of desire, but what you do with it. If I were to find a young woman stunningly attractive, intriguing and intelligent, then I will not have committed a sin. I could take that to my confessor, and he’d laugh and tell me not to come back and see him until I had something worth confessing. Now, if I acted on my attraction to this young woman, then we might have a problem.”

“Or a really good evening.” She grinned at him. Søren ****ed an eyebrow at her. “I mean, a really sinful evening.”

“Better.”

“So it’s okay to desire someone as long as you don’t act on it?”

“There are many situations when acting on one’s desires is not a sin.”

“Married couples, right? They can have *** all they want.”

“Married couples can certainly engage in ***ual acts with each other.”

“And …” Eleanor waved her hand, hoping for more to the answer. “Nobody else? The rest of us are screwed? I mean, not screwed?”

“I believe that is a question for your own conscience. I’m not dogmatic when it comes to ***ual behavior in the modern world. The church can proscribe anything and everything it wants to, but the church is still made up entirely of human beings. Heaping rule upon rule on our congregations isn’t going to make anyone holier. It’ll serve only to add to the guilt that is endemic in our churches.”

Eleanor pointed at the sanctuary doors.

“You said five minutes ago you were imposing new rules on the church.”

“The rules are not for the church. They are for me. If I were to allow you and I to be alone together in my office, I would be breaking the rule, not you.”

“So what are all these rules?”

“Nothing burdensome, I promise. Actually, you might be able to help me with one of them. I have a feeling it’s not going to go over well.”

“Oh, no. What are you doing?” Eleanor knew her church well enough to know any sort of big change would be met with fear, anger and confusion. She couldn’t wait to see everyone freak out.

“The rectory. I’m closing it off to parishioners.”

“Whoa. Wait. You’re closing the rectory?”

“No church members will be allowed inside it.”

Eleanor’s eyes nearly fell out of her skull.

“I take it from you look of wild-eyed horror that such a declaration will ruffle a few feathers?” Søren asked, a slight smile on his lips. He didn’t seem the least bothered by the prospect.

“If you turned the church into a McDonald’s, that would ruffle some feathers. This is going to ruffle the whole f**king turkey. Pardon my French.”

“Pardoned.”

“Why close the rectory? The church uses it all the time.”

“This church has a sanctuary, a chapel and a large annex. There’s no need to use the rectory for church services. I, however, will need a home. I’ll no more hear confessions in my bedroom than I’ll take a bath in my office.”

He said the words without a hint of flirtatiousness, but that didn’t stop Eleanor from mentally conjuring the image of Søren lying wet and naked in a bathtub. Or was it laying wet and naked?

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“Eleanor?”

“Sorry. I was trying to remember when you’re supposed to use lay versus lie,” she lied.

“Lay requires a direct object and lie does not.”

“Oh, that makes perfect sense. Thank you. Also, no. You can’t close the rectory. You’re going to piss off the entire church.”

“I had a feeling. Your prayer service you’re supposed to be at is meeting at the rectory right now. A sanctuary, a chapel, and for some reason neither of those will work.”

“The rectory is cozier. Father Greg always had snacks.”

Søren tapped his knee. “That’s unfortunate, but I’ve made up my mind. It’s important for a pastor to have strong boundaries with his church. I’ll do my best to explain my logic to them.”

“Logic? You’re going to use logic on Catholics?”

“Do you have a better idea?” From anyone else, the question would have sounded sarcastic or like a challenge. But instead from Søren it sounded like a genuine question. If she had a better idea, he wanted to know it.

“Look, I know these people. I grew up with them. They don’t really like outsiders. Everyone’s already freaking out that you’re a Jesuit instead of a regular priest.”

“They’re afraid of Jesuits?”

“They say Jesuits are really …” Eleanor waved her hand to beckon Søren forward. He leaned in and she put her mouth at his ear. “Liberal.”

Søren pulled back and looked her in the eyes.

“I have to tell you a secret.” She leaned in again toward Søren and inhaled. In that inhale she smelled winter, clean and cold, and briefly she wondered if someone had left a window open. “We are liberal.”

He sat back in the pew again and brought a finger to his lips.

“But you didn’t hear that from me,” he said and gave her a wink. Eleanor’s body temperature, already running a low-grade fever from being in the same room as him, shot up even higher. “But that’s beside the point. You were going to give me a better idea than logic.”

“Yeah … no. Logic won’t work. What might work is if you trick the church into thinking closing off the rectory was their idea.”

“How so?”

She shrugged and raised her hands. “I don’t know. Tell them you heard from concerned members of the church who want more rules and safety procedures or whatever?” They were always talking about safety procedures at school. “And you can say you heard the cry of the people and have decided to take their advice and add some new rules so you can keep everyone safe and avoid all appearance of evil. Nobody wants to be in a church with a scandal, right? You’re doing what they asked.”

Søren raised his fingers to his mouth and slowly stroked his bottom lip. It seemed an unconscious gesture, as unconscious as her lip-biting. But whereas her lip-biting apparently made her look like an idiot, his lip-caressing made her want to straddle his lap, wrap her arms around him and put her tongue down his throat.

“So you’re telling me I should manipulate the church into thinking that closing the rectory was a suggestion they made me?”

“Or just flat-out lie. Or lay. Whatever.”

“I could lie. That would be a sin, but I appreciate that suggestion.”

“You don’t sin?”

“I try not to.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t sin?” Søren sounded so skeptical she would have been insulted if he weren’t entirely right to be that skeptical.

“No, I don’t try to not sin.”

Søren closed his eyes and shook his head.

“What?” she asked.

He held up his hand, indicating his need for silence.

“What?” she whispered.

“Do you hear that?”

She tilted her head and listened.

“No. I don’t hear anything. Do you hear something?” she asked Søren.

“I do.”

“What?”

“God laughing at me.”

Eleanor rested her chin on her hand. “You hear God laughing at you?”

“Loudly. I’m quite surprised you can’t hear it.”

“He’s laughing at you, not me,” she said.

“Excellent point. And you made another excellent point about handling the church. I’ll consider your suggestion.”

“You will?”

“It’s a wise and Machiavellian strategy.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It’s biblical. Matthew 10:16. ‘Behold, I send you forth as a sheep among wolves—be therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.’”

“Sheep among wolves. That makes the church sound dangerous. You think we’re dangerous.”

“I think you’re dangerous.”

Eleanor sat back on her heels. They’d been joking the entire time they’d been in the sanctuary, but what he’d said and how he’d said it? That was no joke.

“Me? Dangerous?” she repeated.

“You. Very.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to be. That’s part of the reason.”

“I also want to be six feet tall and have straight blond hair, but wanting something doesn’t make it real. I’m not dangerous.”

“I’d explain my reasons for saying you are, but I have to get back to packing. I promised Father Gregory’s sister I would have all of his things ready to pick up tomorrow.”

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“You know there are like a million old ladies in this church who would have packed up the office for you.”

“I know, but I said I would do it, and I feel only another priest should take care of his personal things for him.”

“That’s really nice of you.” She winced. Really nice of you? Could she sound like a bigger suck-up or idiot? “I should go home, I guess. Mom might call and wonder where I am.”

“Where is your mother?”

“Working.” Eleanor followed him out of the sanctuary.

“She works this late often?”

“This early. She works the late shift a lot. It pays more.”

“Does your father not help out financially?”

Eleanor stood in the doorway of the office again while Søren got back to work packing the boxes.

“Mom won’t take a cent from him even if he offered, which I doubt he would. He says he’s broke.”

“I take it the divorce was not entirely amicable.”

“She hates him.”

“Do you?”

“Hate Dad? No way. I love him.”

“Why does your mother hate him? If these questions are too personal you don’t have to answer them.”

“No, it’s okay.” She liked answering Søren’s questions. They were personal but not embarrassing. “Mom and Dad got married when she was eight months pregnant with me.”

“Eight? Talk about waiting until the last minute.”

Eleanor tried to smile but couldn’t.

“What is it?” Søren asked.

“She waited that long because she was hoping she’d have a miscarriage.”

Søren dropped the book on the desk with a loud thud.

“Surely not.”

“It’s true. I overheard her talking to my grandmother one night about some guy named Thomas Martin. She said she felt bad about thinking it, but she had once wished God would handle the pregnancy the way he handled Thomas Martin, whoever that is.”

“Thomas Merton,” Søren corrected.

“You know him?”

“He was a Trappist monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Bardstown, Kentucky. He’s arguably the most famous Catholic writer of the twentieth century. When he was a young man, he fathered a child out of wedlock, but the mother and child were both killed during an air raid in World War II, which allowed him to eventually become a monk without the familial obligations of fatherhood.”

“Makes sense, I guess. She was hoping God would kill me so she could be a nun.”

Søren gave her a look of such deep and profound sympathy she couldn’t stand to look at it.

“Eleanor … I’m so—”

“Sorry. I know. Don’t be. She loves me now. I think.” Eleanor laughed. “Anyway, it was young lust with Dad. She was seventeen. A year after she had me, she found out what my dad does for a living. They got divorced. She didn’t want any of his money because she said it’s all dirty.”

“Dirty money? What does your father do for a living?”

“He …” Eleanor paused and considered the best way to say it. “He’s a mechanic, sort of. Works with cars.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“They’re not always his cars.”

Søren nodded. “I see.”

“He’s been in prison a couple times.”

“Does that trouble you?”

“No,” she said. “Not too much anyway.”

They looked at each other a moment without speaking. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but a meaningful silence.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to packing.” Eleanor wanted to stay and keep talking to him. But she didn’t want to be a nuisance either, and wear out her welcome.

“I’ll see you Sunday?” he asked.

“What’s Sunday?”

“Mass? Church? Holy Day of Obligation?”

“Right. Sunday. I’ll check with my secretary,” she said. “You know, see if I’m free.”

“Do you have the office number here?”

“It’s on the fridge.”

“Call my number when you get home. I want to know you’ve arrived safely.”

She stared at him.

“Seriously?”

“How long does it take for you to walk home?”

“I don’t know. Twenty minutes?”

“Then I’ll expect to hear from you within the half hour. Please be safe.”

She gave him a wave and took a step back. It hurt walking away from him. That cord she felt last Sunday, she felt it again now, felt it in his presence, felt it even more when she moved to leave him.

“Three more things, Eleanor, before you go.”

“What?” She turned back to face him. Once more he stood in the doorway to his office.

“One.” He held up one finger. “Earlier you said you wished you to be six feet tall and have long straight hair. Don’t ever wish that again. God created you. Don’t argue aesthetics with the Creator. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I guess,” she said although she didn’t.

“Two.” He held up a second finger. “Don’t be troubled I said were you dangerous. It wasn’t an insult.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And three.” He took a step back into the office. “I’ve been at Sacred Heart four days and already half the parish has made it abundantly clear to me that I am not wanted here. Father Gregory is much beloved. The parish is not ready to let him go and accept a new pastor. You aren’t the only one who knows what it’s like to feel unwanted.”

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Eleanor felt something funny in her throat. It burned so she swallowed it. The burn remained.

“The church isn’t your own mother.”

“No, it isn’t. And I won’t minimize your pain by pretending the church’s distrust of me compares at all to your pregnant, terrified seventeen-year-old mother making a desperate wish that her problems would magically disappear and the dream she lost would be hers again. But I will say that it doesn’t matter anymore if your mother wanted you at the time or not. Nor does it matter if this church wants me here or not. We’re here, you and I. We’re not going away. We’re here, if for no other reason than God wants us here, and He gets the final say.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I want you here.”

Søren picked up one of Father Gregory’s books again.

“That does make me feel better.”

“Thank you … Søren.” She still couldn’t believe she was calling a priest by his first name, no “Father” attached.

“Good night.”

She turned and started to walk away from the office.

“Thirty minutes,” Søren called out, and Eleanor allowed herself to give free rein to the ear-to-ear grin she’d been holding back for the past hour.

The second she entered her kitchen, Eleanor picked up the phone. She had to stretch the cord all the way to the fridge so she could read off the office number to Sacred Heart.

Søren answered on the first ring.

“I’m home safe,” she said.

“Good.”

“Thanks for talking to me tonight.”

“I enjoyed our conversation, Eleanor.”

She smiled at the phone. Usually she hated being called Eleanor. Why did it sound so right coming from him? Eleanor … sounded so classy the way he said it, so adult.

“Can I ask you a quick question?”

“Of course,” Søren answered, and she heard the sound of books dropping into boxes.

“Are you dangerous, too?”

She held her breath waiting for his answer.

“Yes.”

“Thought so,” she said. Søren said no more.

“Good night, Søren. See you Sunday.”

“Try to avoid doing anything to prove I’m right about you being dangerous between now and Sunday, please.”

Eleanor would have laughed, but she knew he wasn’t joking. She wasn’t joking either, when she answered.

“No promises.”

7

Eleanor

FRIDAY NIGHT CAME AND ELEANOR STAKED OUT THE bathroom. Ever since meeting Søren she’d thought about him nonstop. She woke to him, fell asleep to him, wrote his name on scraps of paper and whispered it under her breath when no one was listening. Tonight she had to deal with these feelings. Thankfully her mom had already gone to bed.

Elle cleaned the bathtub and pulled out two candles from her secret stash. They lived so close to the railroad tracks that the entire house shook when the train rumbled by. Her mother had banned candles after one near miss during Thanksgiving. Thank God turkeys weren’t flammable. Unfortunately, the tablecloth was. At least the firemen had been nice to her. But the next train tonight wasn’t due for an hour, so Elle lit the candles as she filled the bathtub with hot water. Once it was full and steaming, she stripped naked and sank into the bathwater. She needed her alone time in the water tonight. Over the past year her body had turned on her. Almost overnight she had developed br**sts that felt huge to her and the spread of her hips made her feel fat most of the time. And she could have lived her entire life very happily without pubic hair. Floating in the bathtub made her feel weightless and buoyant. The water surrounded her body and cradled it like strong arms. Something about sinking into the water always turned her on. Being naked in the bath made her hyperaware of every inch of her body—what it did, what it could feel.

Elle lay back in the water and let it hold her up. The heat penetrated her skin, tickled her sensitive ni**les and lapped between her legs. She let her mind wander to a thousand erotic fantasies. She’d love to take a bath with Søren. Maybe then it wouldn’t be bathwater licking her br**sts or slipping through the folds between her legs.

She opened her eyes and picked up the nearest candle. Sitting up in the water, she lifted her left arm into the flickering light. Holding the candle steady in her hand she tilted it and let the wax drip onto the inside of her wrist. Søren had told her to find a new way to hurt herself. Candle wax seemed to work. It hurt, it stung but it never scarred. The wax hit her flesh and she winced as the heat seared the delicate skin that covered her veins. Another dollop of melted wax fell onto her forearm. She’d be sixteen this month. In honor of her impending birthday she adorned herself with sixteen wax burns from her wrist to her inner elbow. With each burn she felt herself growing more and more aroused. The fire and the light and the heat seemed to come as much from within her as without. She breathed through the pain, conquering it, mastering it. Taking the pain made her feel stronger, powerful even.

After the final burn, she dipped her arm into the bathtub and rinsed off the solidified candle wax. She stared at her skin, now raw and bright red from the burns. Lying back in the water, she slipped her right hand between her legs and found the tight knot of her clitoris. Clitoris. She loved that word. She’d been reading a magazine in the doctor’s office waiting room the first time she’d discovered it. It wasn’t a word she heard often or ever got to say out loud. Nobody used real words at school when talking about *** except during those embarrassing girls-only lectures in gym class. Even then it was menstruation and uteruses. No one ever talked about the clitoris, which seemed crazy to her. It was the most amazing thing. When hers got swollen like this she could rub it between her fingers and these incredible feelings would wash all over her. She couldn’t believe her own body could make her feel this good. Every time she touched herself she became aware of an emptiness inside her, a hollowness in her hips. That hollowness ached to be opened up, explored and filled.