“Your Miriam,” he said.
Ballard swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Miriam O’Donnell—red hair, blue eyes, a dirty laugh, a wide smile, and a heart that was born to love him. As much as he’d loved her, when he had to choose, he’d picked the Church over her. As much as he’d pined for her, questioned his choice, wished things had been different, when the time came to look God in the face, Ballard would say if he had to do it over again, he still would have become a priest.
“I dream sometimes about going back in time, marrying her, having children. When I imagine having a son, he’s very much like you,” Ballard said. “Only shorter. Less arrogant. Not blond.”
“So nothing like me then?”
“Not a bit. Now get out of here before I do something foolish like hug you and tell you I’ll always love you no matter what happens.”
“You have to absolve me first. Don’t forget that part.”
“I can’t absolve you until you actually tell me a sin you’ve committed. Wanting to commit a sin isn’t the same as committing one. Tell me something you’re sorry for even if you have to make it up.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Marcus said, and his eyes showed his sincerity. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for any scandal I might cause the Church. But I’m not sorry for finding her and loving her. I will never repent of accepting the gifts God gives me. Even if they do come with strings attached.”
Marcus stood up straight again and took a step forward. Ballard looked up and into his eyes.
“I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said, blessing the young priest who stood before him.
“Thank you,” Marcus said.
“Don’t thank me. I’m only doing my job.”
“Penance?” Marcus asked.
“No penance.” Ballard gave him a sad and knowing smile. “Something tells me that loving your Eleanor will be penance enough.”
The Confession of Eleanor Schreiber
The Lord is the keeper of little ones: I was little and he delivered me.
Psalm 114:6
November 2014, New York City, St. Francis Xavier Parish
Father Stuart Ballard, S.J., was 81 years old, but even if he were 91, 101, dead, he’d still notice the gams on that gal. He paused in the hallway by the door to the men’s room and stared at the legs in question for a few extra seconds. Anyone who walked past him would assume poor Father Ballard needed to take a little breather. Getting on in years, wasn’t he? Well, let them think he was too tired to walk down a long hallway without taking a break. They didn’t need to know he had his eye on the nicest pair of legs he’d seen since the Clinton administration. Funny that no one ever told him when he was a kid that at 81 he’d still feel like a kid. In his mind he might as well have been 21 for the thoughts he had sometimes, especially when confronted with two shapely legs in black stockings and black high heels. He was sure there was a fancy name for the shoes she wore—slingbacks or stilettos or something like that—but it didn’t matter to him what brand they were or what style. He just knew he liked what he saw. Especially since it was late-November and every good pair of legs in the city was hidden under long skirts and boots. A woman who wore high heels in the snow—he liked her already.
Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, he prayed the old prayer in his mind. But only say the word and my soul shall be healed. And while you’re at it, he added, say the word and get my mind out of the gutter too, if you would, please.
Father Ballard reminded himself that even ladies with nice legs were beloved children of God deserving of all respect due God’s only Son. With that thought in mind, he straightened up and walked toward the door at the end of the hall. He tried not to look at the woman sitting outside the confessional—at her short skirt, at those legs that could make a man forget a few of the vows he’d taken over the years. Images became thoughts and thoughts became desires and desires became actions. Ah, who was he kidding? He was 81. He could look at a pretty girl if he wanted to and if anyone caught him staring he’d blame it on his old eyes (without mentioning his old eyes could still see 20/20).
“You here for me, Miss?” he asked, after unlocking the door.
She looked up from the book she’d been reading, took off her glasses, and smiled at him. No girl this one. Oh no, this was a woman, a grown woman, and a beautiful grown woman at that. Black hair pinned up in a style he hadn’t seen on a woman since he was a boy, dark eyes, and a full bottom lip that surely had survived its fair share of kisses. He guessed she was in her mid-30s but these days any woman between 30 and 50 looked about the same age to him.
“I think you’re here for me,” she said, gathering her handbag and coat.
“Am I?” he asked.
“Saturday, four o’clock, the sacrament of reconciliation, yes?”