TWO
Tressa
“Thoughts can weigh more than quicksand if you allow them the room.” The accent in Bastien’s voice curled around the words, my heart strumming along to the tune, regardless of their meaning. “What’s caught your attention, Tressa?”
I shifted away from him, an attempt to gain some sort of distance from the heat spreading between us.
I didn’t know if he was feeling it, but I sure was.
But I couldn’t tell him that, could I?
“‘Imagine,’ by John Lennon.” I blurted.
His eyebrows rose, shock registering for just a minute on his face before his bronzed features settled somewhere between human and holy.
“That song was on the radio before the lights went out the other night. I’ve had it in my head ever since.” I inhaled, wood smoke, leather, and incense invading my senses. Funny, I’d never thought of those three things as so…intoxicating before now. “I was the only kid with Beatles posters on my wall in middle school. The day I graduated seminary, Fidel Castro unveiled a statue of John Lennon in Havana.” I snort-laughed at his admission, it was so unexpected.
“He praised Lennon and drove out the Jesuits. A rebel and a tyrant, Fidel was. It’s funny, I always thought that statue was a sign that I would go back someday.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling the tension that seemed ever-present easing slightly.
Bastien shrugged, the rugged lines of his face anchored in the warm firelight. He was beautiful in a weathered way.
“I still have plenty of family there. Sometimes I think I could do more good.” His shoulders eased back against the couch. My eyes fluttered closed, heart thundering as I sucked in a soft breath of leathery goodness.
“You do so much good here—the new day care program alone.” The one that’d been created when I’d shown up on his steps, poorer than a church mouse.
“The fact is, assignments for clergy aren’t often more than a few years at a time. It’s usually only by special request, as in the case of Father Martin, that a priest could stay in any one parish for long. The worthy priest is an angel of purity in mind and body, a cherub of light and knowledge, a seraph of love and charity, an apostle of zeal in work and sanctity, a little God on earth in power and authority and patience.” His lips moved melodically as he spoke.
“‘He is the living image of Christ in this world, of Christ watching, praying, preaching, working, weeping, going from town to town, from village to village, suffering, agonizing, sacrificing himself… He is the light of those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death. He is the converter of sinners, the sanctifier of the just, the strength of the weak, the consolation of the afflicted, the treasure of the poor. He is the confusion of hell, the glory of heaven, the terror of demons, the joy of angels, the ruin of Satan’s kingdom, the establishment of Christ’s empire, and finally, an ornament of the Church.’
“We recited that before each meal all my years of seminary.” Bastien’s face was soft with peace, but something hollow lingered in the depths of his eyes. “I’ve gotten used to moving for my vocation, but it’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve been home.” His eyes followed licks of red and orange flame that threw embers from the wood stove. “I think I’d like to go back someday.”
Quiet moments fell softer than the snow outside.
Far from the palm trees and sandy beaches where he’d grown up.
I didn’t really think of Father Bastien Castaneda as anything other than a man of God, but I guess, as a man, he had desires framed outside of the Church.
“You still consider Cuba your home?” I asked.
He only shrugged. “Homeland, maybe.”
Silence hung, the air thick as Jack Frost etched up the windows around us. Closing us in. Hiding us.
“So, Castro was Team Lennon. I was always a Ringo girl myself.”
A rogue smile cracked Father Bastien’s all too often reserved features. “Harrison was the one with the mean shredding skills. You’re both missing out.”
My giggles echoed off the tiny paneled walls around us.
“I swear ‘Imagine’ is always on the radio when all the worst moments of my life happen. By the age of thirteen, I hated that song. It would come on and my entire body would tense, and I would think, oh fuck, what’s going to happen now?”
Bastien shook his head, one eyebrow narrowed in reproach at my swear.
“Words are man-made, you know. It’s humans that give them power.” I brimmed with defiance.
“I understand etymology very well, Tressa.”
