ONE
Bastien
Chilled snowflakes lit on my cheeks as I pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The scent of ancient incense and fresh snow flirted at my nostrils as I tucked the key into the pocket of my clerical slacks and got to work clearing the fresh powder from the stone steps. St. Michael’s was a small parish that’d welcomed me with open arms when I’d been called to lead its flock.
They were a small and loyal group, and while it wasn’t often I experienced a rush of traffic to my morning confessional—one or two souls never failed to wander in. While a suburb of Philadelphia may not have been my first choice of transfer from the diocese, I’d grown accustomed to my new home well enough. In the years since I’d left Havana with my older sister, I’d seen her little, and that’s what haunted my heart most mornings.
My young nephew, growing up on the toughest streets of Brooklyn, no father figure to guide him, and me two hours away by train. Whenever the prospect for reassignment came up I’d always requested All Saints, just a handful of blocks from my sister and her son in the city, but my transfer had never been approved. I was being called elsewhere and I’d made peace with the rare monthly visits when I or she had enough time to meet up—but as Cruz had grown up and she’d had to work longer hours to cover his expenses, I’d seen them less and less.
I stepped back into the cool air of the old church, stiff white collar snugly comforting at my throat as I rubbed the pad of my thumb over the crisp edge and wondered who my first parishioner of the morning would be.
Usually Ms. Watson was first in, sometimes as early as just after dawn, but lately she hadn’t been turning up for her before-Mass rosary and prayers until well after nine. I tapped the key in my slacks again, slipping behind the dark curtain of the confessional in search of my personal Bible when a soft thud drew my attention. I continued to grope in the dark, eyes still not adjusted to the early morning light. Most mornings I unlocked the doors by six, but not often did someone take their devotions that seriously.
And then a soft snick of worn wood inches from my ear sent all of my senses on high alert.
“Hello?” I ventured through the black iron that separated the two small spaces.
No answer, but I heard the soft rustling of a winter coat behind the screen.
I swallowed, turning fully to face the sound and catching the soft shadow of a form in the other booth.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to hear your confession, child.”
Slow quiet beats stretched before a voice as quiet as a mouse uttered, “I-I don’t think you want my confession.”
The tone was so small, so lacking a sense of pride of self, it nearly cracked my heart. Broken didn’t begin to describe the feeling that was drifting across the confessional towards me.
“I would love nothing better in fact,” I settled my behind on the wooden bench seat. “I’m prepared to mend all the Lord’s flock.”
“I’m more black sheep than obedient lamb,Father—I can’t help but fuck up every flock I find.” Bitterness whispered on her lips with her curse, catching in her throat and causing shudders to crack her otherwise calm facade. I found myself wondering what she might look like—slender or curvy, skin fair or bronzed, whether her lips were a shade of berry or crimson.
“I’m sure that’s not true, everyone is lead astray by earthly delights—whatever they may be—I’m not here to judge them.”
She was quiet, but I heard her slow steady breaths. I narrowed my eyes, peering through the filigree of the confessional window separating us, the soft curve of a cheekbone, a lock of hair, the scent of something floral and soft clinging to her flesh.
I imagined she was beautiful, I didn’t need to see her to feel it. It was in the way she moved so gracefully, even when she didn’t think anyone could see her.
And then I chastised myself instantly—I couldn’t see her, and nor should I be trying.
I cleared my throat and tore my eyes away from the deceiving shadow playing tricks with my vision, leaning away to free the chains her sweet scent had locked me in.
“Perhaps if you relieve the burden of shame you carry you’ll see the future through bright eyes.” She didn’t reply to my gentle encouragement, and so I continued. “Most of the confessions I hear start with‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned…’”
She was quiet still, only the soft sound of fabric ghosting together in quiet song on my ears—all of my senses hyper aware since she’d sank herself inside my confessional only moments ago. I’d never been so drawn to a stranger before—and certainly not someone in my confessional.
“This isn’t my first time confessing,” she said, “this little box used to make me feel so…at home.” I caught a glimpse of her shadowed fingers trailing down the iron gates of the screen that separated us, its presence suddenly feeling more like a cage that kept two people apart than ever before.
“So you’ve found yourself in my confessional to…sit?”
The soft lilt of her chuckle sent a thrill of adrenaline down my spine.
“I suppose so.” She was still trailing her fingertips along the outline of the grates, the morning sun reflecting just enough though a crack in the curtain now to reveal one dainty fingertip.
I swallowed.
“You’re welcome to take whatever time you need. I don’t expect anyone will be rushing to take your place.” I shifted, the urge to escape bubbling up inside of me. “Is there…something I can get you to make you more comfortable?”
I felt the smile in her voice before I heard it in her words. “What? Like a blanket?”
