Ballard narrowed his eyes at him. He wanted to argue, thought about arguing. He had a few speeches he could give, a few lectures. Instead he only took a deep breath and said one word.
“Layla?” Ballard asked, hopeful. If Eric “Slowhand” Clapton couldn’t get to Marcus, no one could.
Marcus paused, arched a golden eyebrow at Ballard, and raised the fallboard again. Maybe there was hope for the boy after all.
After an hour of working their way through Ballard’s prodigious repertoire of rock ballads, Ballard asked Marcus who had taught him to play the piano. His mother, he answered. Slowly, as if every word hurt, Marcus told Ballard about his childhood. Marcus was a fortress of secrets, yes. But the fortress had a door and Ballard had learned the key to get inside was music. That had been the night Marcus had come to Ballard’s office, broken down, and asked him to hear his confession. Ballard heard the name “Kingsley” for the first time that night. That name would become a recurring theme in Marcus’s confessions.
The choir of young Kentuckians finished the hymn and gave modest smiles to the heartfelt applause. At a time such as this, Ballard felt gifted with a preview of Heaven. Here they were, a group of Kentucky college students at a church in Harlem singing a sixth century Irish hymn while an old English priest remembered the half-Danish boy who’d finally taught Ballard why he’d become a priest in the first place.
Past and present, black and white, north and south, sinner and savior, all united in worship. Now if the choir would just break into a verse or two of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” Father Ballard could die happy and smile all the way to Heaven.
He sat up straighter when he sensed a presence behind him. Smiling, he glanced skyward again. “Stop paying attention to us,” he whispered in his mind, a prayer God was sure to answer with a hearty “no.”
Where Father Marcus Stearns was concerned, God always seemed to be paying attention.
When Ballard leaned his head back, the presence behind him leaned forward.
“Six months, Marcus,” Father Ballard said, tapping his wrist as if he were noting the time. “No one goes six months without sinning.”
“Do you have time for me today?”
“I might. What’s her name?” he asked, his usual joke when another priest approached him for confession. Ballard looked back and saw Marcus had his rosary beads wrapped around his fingers. Something about the way he held them, tight and nervous, made Ballard’s blood drop a degree or two in his veins.
“Eleanor,” Marcus finally said, and the air went out of the room.
Father Ballard closed his eyes and lifted one finger to say, “Wait.”
Marcus waited.
Not him, Ballard prayed. I’m not going to lose him. Any priest but him, Lord. Any priest but him.
After ending his prayer he rose and crooked his finger at Marcus. The blond priest rose and tucked his rosary beads into the pocket of his cassock.
Side by side they walked from the sanctuary just as the choir began “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.” Good song. Guns N’ Roses still would have been better.
“Do you care to walk?” Father Ballard asked and Marcus said he didn’t mind. They needed to get away from the church to have this conversation. “We’ll go to Trinity Cemetery. If anyone asks, we’re merely paying our respects to the Astors.”
“Weren’t the Astors staunchly anti-Catholic?” Marcus asked.
“They’re dead. Surely they’ve learned their lesson by now.”
They didn’t speak all the way to the cemetery. Ballard didn’t trust himself to say anything yet, not until he’d heard the story. And talking now wouldn’t have been a good idea even if he’d had the words. Too many people were aware of them to hold a private conversation. It wasn’t every day that New Yorkers saw two Jesuit priests in black cassocks striding purposely up Saint Nicholas Avenue. Of course, even when Marcus wore street clothes he got looks both curious and hungry from women and men. The faces that stared at Marcus all wore the same expression, said the same thing…
What a waste.
“You hate me right now, don’t you?” Ballard asked him as they turned the corner and walked through the gates of the old cemetery.
“Hate is a strong word,” Marcus said, a diplomatic answer from a priest not known for his diplomacy.
“The cassock sets us apart. This is a good thing. People need to identify us.”
“The collar isn’t enough for you?”
“Diocesan priests wear collars. Jesuits should wear cassocks.”
“You and I both pastor in parish churches now,” Marcus reminded him. “We aren’t on the mission field.”
“The world is the mission field. Also, black is slimming and the cassock makes me look taller, don’t you think?” Ballard required all the Jesuits he counseled to wear a cassock in his presence. Marcus had called him a sadist for that reason. Because he knew Marcus so well, Ballard took it as a compliment.
“If you haven’t noticed, looking taller is not something I need help with,” Marcus said.
“Humility is, however. You hate wearing a cassock because you feel ridiculous wearing one,” Ballard said.