Page 83 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
“Is this man so important to you?”
“Important enough to risk my soul, you mean?” I’m still snappish, still angry, though it’s not really Father Gabriel I’m angry with.
“You said that what you feel for this man is different from what you felt for Leah. But different isn’t the same as sinful. What is it that you feel for him, Jason?”
I open my mouth and close it again. The bench creaks under me. "I loved Leah so much. I was faithful to her. I was present for every terrible day of her illness and every ordinary day before it and I have never for one moment regretted marrying her. There was nothing missing in our marriage. Nothing that needed—" I stop. "What I feel for Victor doesn’t change or negate what Leah and I had. But whatever this is—whatever that makes me—it didn't start when she died. I've just been refusing to look at it directly for a very long time."
I said earlier that I'd have left the Church for Leah. That her love was worth my soul. And I meant it. I meant every word of it. But I never had to make that choice. The Church blessed what Leah and I had. It cost me nothing to love her. This—being with Victor, admitting that I’m bisexual, even if only to myself—this is the choice that actually costs something.
I have been so careful, for so long, to protect my soul from this particular risk, and I’m not sure I am better for it. I am not sure that the careful, protected version of me is a man whose soul is actually in better shape than the one sitting here right now, trying to tell the truth for the first time in fifteen years.
Father Gabriel sighs. “I wish more than anything that I could tell you the Church condones sexual relations between committed same-sex couples. I can say that I believe with all my heart and soul that God loves all his children, and that we are all made in His image. I also believe that Jesus would never reject anyone for their sexuality, and we know this because he befriended people who were considered sinners in his day.”
Father Gabriel’s perspective on God and sin is why I’ve stayed at Saint Sebastian all these years. “So, if you need absolution for what you’ve confessed to me as a sin,” he continues. “I will grant it to you, because I know God loves you, exactly as you are. But I ask because it sounds as though this man is having an impact on more than just your sex life.”
“You mean, is he important enough to risk my job?” A couple of years ago, the music director at another church in Brooklyn was fired because a parishioner sent a photo of him kissing his boyfriend to the bishop. “Even if he isn’t the one I want to spend the rest of my life with”—and I’m increasingly beginning to think that Victor might be—“I know the Diocese would insist that you fire me if I were in a relationship with a man.”
Father Gabriel is silent for a long moment, which tells me all that I need to know. He’s doing the best he can within the bonds of his vocation and the strictures of the Church.
I've known this moment was coming since Kelsey’s wedding day in Costa Rica. Probably longer. What I didn't know until right now, sitting in this confessional trying to explain myself to God through the intermediary of a priest who cannot help me, is that my job isn't what I've been protecting.
I've been protecting the version of myself that doesn't have to answer the question Father Gabriel just asked me. The version of myself for whom the answer is simple, because the question doesn't apply.
That version of myself is not coming back.
And while I hadn’t planned to take any specific action when I entered the confessional, I’ve suddenly lost patience with myself for dithering over what I know in my soul to be the right path. “You’ll have my resignation letter before next Sunday, Father.”
“Jason, no. I beg you, please don’t make any hasty decisions. Think about this, pray over it, and let’s discuss it in a few days.”
“I have thought about it, Father, and I will pray more about it, but I doubt I’ll change my mind.”
I leave the confessional booth without waiting for absolution or whatever penance Father Gabriel was planning to give me.
When I exit the church, I blink at the winter sunlight that, pale as it is, contrasts sharply with the dim interior I just left. There’s a man sitting halfway down the steps. His long legs clad in dark jeans are stretched out on the steps below him and his elbows are braced two steps above him. He’s wearing a navy blue coat but no hat and the sun glints on the almost-blond strands of his hair. I jog down the steps and crouch down next to him.
“What are you doing here? Didn’t think you’d ever darken the door of a church again.”
He twists to smile up at me and his eyes dart over my shoulder to the church behind us. “Haven’t reached the door yet, have I?”
“Fair point. How did you know I was here?”
“I got into town Friday and called Kelsey this morning. She said she’d invited you to brunch but that you were going to confession after Mass.
“Ah.” I look down at the striations of color in the marble steps. “Victor, I don’t want you think that?—”
“Hey,” he interrupts. “It’s none of my business. Sacred bond of the confessional and all that.”
When I don’t respond, he nudges my shoulder with his. “Jason, I will never interfere with how you practice your faith. I know how important it is to you.”
How can he, when I’m increasingly not sure I know?
“Anyway, I came to see if you wanted to have brunch with me now that you’re done.” He checks his watch. “I don’t know whether Kelsey and Adrienne are still eating, but I could text her and see?—”
“No,” I say swiftly. “I mean, you know I love the girls, but, um…I’d like to have brunch with just you. If that’s okay, I mean.”
He gives me a sunny smile and plants his hands to push himself to his feet. “Let’s do it, then.”
I stand, then reach a hand down to him. He looks at it, then over his shoulder at the door to Saint Sebastian’s. When I wiggle my fingers impatiently at him, he reaches up and clasps my hand. I pull him upright. When he tries to let go of my hand, I don’t let him. Instead, I entwine my fingers with his. We’re two men holding hands on the steps of a Catholic Church and I do not care who sees us.
