Marcus had the decency to at least attempt to look apologetic. He didn’t quite succeed but the effort was appreciated.
“I dreamed of her,” Marcus said as they walked under a stone arch and into a shadier, cooler part of the cemetery. “Years ago, Kingsley and I were—”
“I don’t want to hear the end of that sentence.”
“Talking.”
“Just talking? Good.”
“I waited until we were done talking to beat him and fuck him.”
“Oh God, you do this to me on purpose.” Ballard winced.
“Of course I do. I’m a sadist.”
“I’m the most open-minded priest I know but for God’s sake, don’t paint me a picture.”
“You know Kingsley and I were lovers when we were teenagers. None of this is news to you.”
“Knowing and picturing are two different things.” Ballard raised his hand to his eyes as if to block out the mental images.
Marcus only laughed. “If Kingsley were here he’d call you a close-minded homophobic vanilla bigot. In French.”
“I’m a sixty-year-old heterosexual Jesuit priest who has nothing but respect for monogamy, marriage, and the missionary position. Continue. Please.”
“As I was saying…years ago, Kingsley and I were talking. Dreaming out loud. We were at an all-boys school, so of course we were dreaming of girls.”
“Much better.”
“And we imagined a girl who had black hair like his but was pale like I am. Green eyes with black hair. Green hair with black eyes. Wilder than the both of us together.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Only on each other.”
“I walked right into that one.”
“Your own fault,” Marcus said, once more unapologetic.
“Keep talking.” Ballard waved his hand and tried to ignore the images in his head.
“As I was saying, we were dreaming out loud about this girl. An impossible dream. Only a dream. I thought that until I saw the dream standing in front of me waiting to take Holy Communion… Have you ever recognized someone you’ve never met before?”
Father Ballard smiled. “I did once. Yes.”
“When?”
Ballard smiled to himself. “The hour I first believed.”
“It was like that,” Marcus said, quieter now. “I was so shocked I almost forgot my lines.”
“It’s the liturgy,” Ballard said, glaring at Marcus. “Not ‘your lines.’ This is the Catholic Church, not Shakespeare in the Park.”
“It’s what Eleanor calls it. She asked me recently how I remember all my lines. I thought it was…”
“What?”
“It was cute.”
“Cute?”
“She also calls the narthex the ‘lobby.’ ”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” Father Ballard shook his head and crossed himself. He hadn’t felt this torn since Miriam left. He loved Marcus and it was a joy to see him so happy. And yet…
“Marcus, I swear—”
“Stuart, you know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Marcus is your name.”
“Marcus is my father’s name.”
“It’s your name too. Your issues with your father notwithstanding—”
“I have no issues with my father,” Marcus said. “I hate him. That’s not an issue. That is a fact.”
“No issues with your father? Do you know how many white male British Catholics there are? Double digits might be wishful thinking. You can count the number of English Jesuits living in American on one hand. And yet, you, the son of an Englishman, find the one English Jesuit in the entire province to be your confessor.”
“Coincidence.”
“We’re Catholics. We don’t believe in coincidence. Does this girl of yours have a good relationship with her father?”
“No. He’s a criminal. He abandoned her when she was arrested for committing a crime he forced her to commit. I’ve forbidden her from having any contact with him whatsoever.”
“And you have no contact with your father anymore either,” Ballard said. “And you’ve forbidden both your sisters from having any contact with him.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, Stuart. I don’t have daddy issues.”
“You’re six-feet-four inches of daddy issues. Your father joined the English Army. You join God’s Army. Your father is a sadist. You’re a sadist. Your father raped an 18-year-old girl who worked for him while he was married to someone else. You’ve fallen in love with a 16-year-old girl who attends your church while under a vow of celibacy.”
“Are you telling me I’m becoming my father?”
“I’m telling you what you already know. God is testing you. He’s testing you the same way He tested your father. Your father failed. So far you seem to be passing.”
“So far.”
“Go on. Tell me the whole story.”