I released my cock, finally feeling a little less tense, it’s length only decreasing minutely as the consistent throb created by her presence in my life dulled to a quieter hum. I cupped the base of my shaft, groaning again as I stroked softly, thighs tensing and grunts overtaking me as more semen beaded from the tip.
My head hung in quiet reservation, I swallowed, finally feeling sated enough to start my day with the thought of her walking around in the cottage next door. What did she sleep in? Did she touch herself thinking of me? I sighed, fighting the sense of shame bubbling in the pit of my stomach before quickly washing my body and hair, rinsing and stepping out of the shower to get ready. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I glanced in the tiny mirror, thinking I’d skip the morning shave and leave a little stubble, my sense of normal reserve out the window with more pressing temptations dancing in my head.
Refusing to succumb, I dropped the towel at my waist and shoved myself into undergarments and clerical blacks, finishing with the final straightening of my collar—that collar that gleamed more like a scarlet A at my neck this particular morning. By the time I exited my room and made my way to the attic stairs, I was moving with a renewed sense of purpose—my eye on the church records.
If I couldn’t indulge in the sweet sinful flesh of Tressa in real life—perhaps I’d find an imprint of her on the records of St. Mike’s. It was a long shot—but at least this way I’d get a little organizing done along the way.
Keeping Tressa from playing at the edges of my thoughts all throughout the day was an impossible task. I’d been forced to give myself tasks to occupy the time I normally spent with my thoughts to myself—but instead, now, they were occupied with her. Always.
Her skin, the delicate bow of her lips, the way the hollow of her throat dipped when she talked and made me want to taste that sweet concave with the tip of my tongue. I hadn’t been able to shake her in the days since she’d been staying under my roof—and even on the days when it’d been warm enough for her to stay at her cottage—with our shared keys, it as good as felt like she was in my home.
I was also hesitant to admit that she was working her way around the edges of my heart—not because of my attraction to her—but because she had no one else. I’d often thought myself alone in regards to family all these years—with my sister and nephew far away in the city our lives had grown farther apart than I cared for—but Tressa gave true meaning to the word alone.
She’d revealed little to me about her upbringing, but I respected her deep connection to this church—without community the human soul starved—if Tressa needed St. Mike’s it would be here for her—and I had a hunch St. Mike’s would be better for having her here. The kids in the daycare had taken to her already, and she them like it was second nature.
I'd found myself thinking more about family in the time since she'd been here too, my own now, and the one I'd left behind in Cuba. I was used to leading a life that was an uphill battle but being around Tressa reminded me to take stock of my own priorities more.
Cruz had told me much about his life and college classes in Brooklyn but I couldn't shake the feeling that I should be there more. I'd been lucky when I'd come to this country to have a built-in community in the priesthood, but my sister had had it harder, the circumstances around why she'd even wanted to stay in Brooklyn were murky to me.
I knew far more than I let on about the night we'd fled our country in a rush, her grave condition forcing us to flee for our lives. I'd sworn her a vow of silence that night that I'd upheld. But now that twenty years had passed and that little boy was a grown man—the same little boy she'd sacrificed and nearly lost her life for before the day of his birth, my vow of silence was beginning to falter.
All families kept skeletons stowed neatly away in their deepest darkest closets, but this skeleton wasn't even mine, I’d been only a young man, barely seventeen when she'd come to me explaining what'd happened at work one night at the luxury hotel she worked at in Old Havana, and now she was in danger. She'd seen too much of the wrong people doing the wrong things, and now her only hope of a future for her and her baby was to leave.
The few weekends this summer that Cruz had been with me in Philadelphia the truth of his conception and birth had burned on my lips, only his happy smile had stopped me. Few souls shined as brightly as he did, and no matter how much I thought it important he know the truth, I couldn't bring myself to be his truth-sayer.
And regardless, I took the vow to my sister seriously. I'd hoped to see Cruz as soon as he could take a weekend away, but I also didn't totally trust myself to not be rattled by his very presence.
In fact, at that moment, just about everything was making me feel rattled.
In an effort to distract myself, I’d taken to searching through the old boxes in the attic sifting through the churches past in search for a picture of Tressa, cheeks round with youth. Call me insane but I’d spent so many of the last night consumed with carnal thoughts of her threatening at the shadows of my mind—but I’d turned my obsession into a quest for peace and benevolence. I hadn’t spent much time up here in the year since I’d been at the parish—only shoved a few boxes out of the way and dropped off old items that were no longer in use. It was obvious it’d been a while since anyone had braved it.
I chuckled when a fadedDay of the Deadmask fell from a box above my head, landing in a cloud of dust.
That’s exactly how Tressa found me—knee-deep in a cloud of dust and laughing, years of memories stacked in boxes around me. Tressa grinned as she padded closer, socks leaving the outline of her footprints alongside my own larger ones.
“You should have a breathing mask up here.” She covered her nose and mouth with a hand, eyes darting around the stacks at my knees.
“I don’t think anyone’s been up here in years, I’ve been meaning to get to it for a while, maybe put a few things on display at the front of the vestibule.”
“What’s this?” She plopped at my side, stack of brown envelopes in hand.
“Accounting records through the years, Father Martin wasn’t very organized, I’m gathering.” I opened another box wide and shook it. “Photos of just about every person that ever walked through St. Mike’s doors.”
“Good for someone somewhere, bad for us.” She frowned, taking a stack of photos in hand and skimming then. “This one looks like it pre-dates World War II.”
She tossed an old photo of a family between us, dated around the 1960s from the yellowed sepia edges. “Almost.”
I tossed it back in the box and shoved it all aside, making a small clean corner for her to sit at my side.
She did, her shoulder brushing mine, every reflex I’d been squashing for all of my adult life humming to life.
“I used to see my dad in every old picture I came across,” she breached the silence with her quiet words. “Do I have his full lips? His curly hair? I drove myself crazy asking that question. I always hated not knowing what he looked like—my mom had so many photos around the house, sometimes people she only met once at a party—I couldn’t figure out why she never had one of my dad.”
“Do you think she did and was hiding it from you?” I ventured.
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter—I’ll never get it out of her now—she lost most of her stuff in the last move anyway. We didn’t even live in this neighborhood when I was born, but still whenever I saw men alone at mass—I’d wonder if it was him—my dad—come to get me.” She crossed her legs, so young and unassuming, my dark form swallowing up all the light she naturally emanated. “Mom said father Martin saved our family many times—it’s funny—talk about full-circle,” a sad frown pulled at her lips, “Me. Here. Now.”
She wiped at the barrier of water that filled her eyes, my urge to reach out and console her was strong—my urge to keep my morality in tact—stronger. For this moment anyway.
