Page 6 of The Priest

“I’m having lustful thoughts about a woman who comes into my shop, Father,” says Monsieur Archambault.

Yes, aren’t we all? “You can’t control your thoughts,” I tell him. “Is there anything else?”

“No, but...Father...that’s it?” he sputters. “No rosary?”

I sigh. “I had you say the rosary a week ago for this same thing, did I not?” I ask. “If it didn’t do any good then, why would it work now?”

He leaves—I’m sure feeling as if he hasn’t been relieved of his guilt. And maybe that’s best. Maybe if we all continued to carry the weight of our sins on our shoulders, we wouldn’t be so apt to repeat them.

It’s not what I was taught. I’m no longer sure what I believe.

* * *

The next morning, the majority of the town fills the pews in front of me for mass, and Marie sits with the choir, her soprano the loveliest voice among them. Everything about her was made to haunt me—her face, her laugh, her thoughts, her smell, her body, her voice. Even now, with every eye on me, I’m fighting the impulse to look at her and her alone, hungry for the sight of her.

She doesn’t take communion because she skipped confession yesterday. Whether it’s because of me or because she was with Gerard, I hate that. I know her. I know it must bother her.

I catch her after mass ends, as she stands at the back of the church, serving coffee. Her eyes are wide and startled when I approach, her skin flushing the loveliest shade of pink. I flinch, knowing that I will be picturing that flush when I’m alone tonight.

“You didn’t take communion,” I say quietly.

“Yes,” she says averting her gaze. “I couldn’t get to confession yesterday. It was busy on the farm.”

“I can hear your confession after the crowd disperses, if you’d like.”

It’s wrong of me to offer. To act as if I’m doing her a kindness when such a large part of me is desperate to be shut away with her in the privacy of the confessional. Yet I stand here praying she’ll agree.

She nods, still avoiding my eye. “Alright then,” she whispers. “I’ll see you there when we’re done.”

I shake hands with parishioners as they leave, filled with sick anticipation, frustrated by their leisurely pace. Irene tries to linger as always but finally leaves. There’s no sign of Marie. I hope it means she’s waiting and didn’t just sneak home.

I cross the floor to the confessional, my footsteps echoing in the now-empty church.

I push open the curtain, breathing a deep sigh of relief when I make out her form on the other side of the screen.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

She nods. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession,” she begins.

Her voice is soft and warm. It rests inside my chest like the first hint of spring after a long winter. My God I’ve missed that sound. I’ve missed her words, I’ve missed her laughter, I’ve missed the smell of her hair and the flash of her smile and the curve of her waist beneath my hand—even though it’s something I only felt once.

“I’ve been jealous,” she says. “Of my brother and his...fiancée.”

“Why?” It’s not what I’m meant to ask. I can’t seem to stop myself.

She hesitates. “Because they have something I’m not sure I’ll ...” she begins, and then stops herself. “Everyone seems to have found their place in the world and I still don’t have one.”

I agree, which she knows well by now. Marie should have gone to university. She was meant to have a big life. Instead she remained on the farm for reasons I will never understand, to be buried under its dust.

“Is that all?”

She is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head. “I’ve had...I’ve been—” she starts, and then stops again. “I don’t think I can discuss it with you.”

“Tell me,” I command. My voice is so low and desperate that even I am surprised by it.

“I think things I shouldn’t sometimes,” she whispers. She covers her face. “You must understand why I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

That’s all it takes for me to grow so hard it’s physically painful. I grip myself and squeeze, wanting to end the ache, but it only gets worse. There’s no way her thoughts are as graphic as mine, but the idea of her thinking them at all...it undoes me.