Page 63 of Priestly Sins

“This is important, Sirona. It’s critical, actually. I need you to get this. If no one else on the planet gets it, I need you to. Okay? Listen up. I never took all my vows to be ordained. As silly as it sounds, I got through on a technicality. I never worked to correct it, though. And by the time I left Chicago, no one bothered to check, including the diocese in New Orleans.

“I asked you not to call me Father because I never wanted to lie to you. More importantly, I never wanted to be a priest to you. Just a man. I said that over and over to you.

“Furthermore, I grew up Catholic. I have a lot of respect for the church. I have no interest in bringing shame to it or belittling it. It’s the reason I’ll never repeat what I heard in the confessional. I’ll never break any vow that I take. It’s just that I didn’t take the one you’re thinking of.”

She sits for a moment and stares at me. Confused. Maybe replaying conversations. Just working her brain around the mental gymnastics I’m presenting.

“So, you were never a priest?”

“I think it depends on who you ask. To my parishioners, would you say they didn’t receive their sacraments, weren’t baptized, weren’t married, didn’t receive last rites? I would say they did. But, if you were to ask the bishop, I think he may have a wholly different view.”

She pauses.

“You’ve never lied to me.” It’s a statement, not a question, and relief is visible in her eyes.

“Why would you leave the country with a man who would?” Fuck! Now I’m getting angry. “Hop up, baby,” I say plainly, “Gonna go take a shower.”

“But I thought we were….” She lets that sentence die off when she sees my face. It must say what my words do not.

“I’ve never lied to you. I risked everything for you. I saved Clara and I saved you. And you thought I was lying and couldn’t be trusted? What? Was I just a better option than that goon Rocco?”

With that barb, I head to the bathroom and fire up the hottest shower I can stand. When I come back to the bedroom, my bed is empty and Sirona is gone.

Fuck!

Thirty-Three

Boxing Day starts not so differently from Christmas morning. The slapping of tiny feet fly from the door I left cracked last night, just in case.

“Poppa!” Clara hollers as her little body takes flight and bounces dangerously near morning wood.

When did I become the guy who sleeps in? Probably need to find my rhythm in the mornings again, but, eh, I can do it tomorrow.

“Good morning, beautiful girl!”

“Good morning, Poppa!”

“What’re you up to this morning?

“Waffles and hot cocoa!”

“Again? I thought that was Christmas morning breakfast.”

“Mommy says it’s something called adoover.”

“What a doover, love?”

“A ‘do-over’ is what she means,” comes a soft voice in the hall outside the bedroom.

“Come in, sweetheart,” I offer.

Sirona enters with coffee that she sets on the nightstand before backing up an odd distance for someone who is, for all practical purposes, living with me.

“Why do you want a do-over, Sirona?” My eyes are soft. My anger abated from last night. It’s not fully gone, but I’m not looking for a confrontation.

“Just think aspects of it could’ve been better.” She walks toward the door, shoulders slumped. “Waffles will be ready in ten.”

“Waffles!” squeals the distraction on my bed. With some tumbling genius, she’s down and running for the kitchen.