The Confessions Page 5

  “She wasn’t happy before then?”

  “No, but a lot of that is my fault. I was a disappointment to her.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” she said. “I’m being unfair really. She got pregnant with me as a teenager and that ended her convent dreams. I suppose she was a disappointment to herself, and I was the living manifestation of that disappointment. But we were...better? I suppose you could say we were better by the end. I knew she loved me. That’s why I made her the promise. My sins weighed very heavily on her.”

  “Is this your first confession?”

  “Not by a long shot. I have a priest I confess to once every few months.”

  “But that wasn’t good enough for your mother?”

  “She didn’t like my priest. Thought he was a sinner.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Ex opera operato. The sacrament works because of Christ and through the minister, not because of the minister. As long as your priest is a priest, he can administer the sacraments, no matter the sins on his conscience.”

  “Mom knew all that. But this case was a little different.”

  “How so?”

  “Because I’m sleeping with my priest.”

  Clients.

  Hotel.

  Black eyes that turn green.

  Black hair.

  Shameless.

  “Well, well, well,” Stuart said, leaning back in his chair. “We meet at last, don’t we? I have to say...I thought you’d be taller.”

  “I get that a lot. I have a tall personality.”

  “You are as beautiful as he said you were. I give him credit. To think I accused him of exaggerating. Then again, he’s not so bad himself, is he?”

  “If you’re into six-foot-four blond men with perfect faces and asses you can bounce quarters off of.”

  “I hope you’re being literal.” He laughed at the image of this lovely lady flicking coins at Marcus’s backside.

  “It was a half-dollar actually. I like a challenge.”

  “So...” he sat back in his chair again, crossed his ankle over his knee. Usually arthritis prevented him from sitting so casually but he was feeling good today and even better now. “Do I call you Eleanor? Or do you prefer Nora?”

  She grinned broadly, brightly, and laughed. “What does he call me?”

  “Eleanor.”

  “Does he talk about me much?”

  He ran his fingers over his lips as if zipping a zipper, then turned the imaginary key in the imaginary lock and threw the key back over his shoulder.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “You aren’t allowed to tell me anything Søren said during his confessions. Trust me, I know the rules by now. He and I have been sleeping together, oh...almost eighteen years?”

  “Søren. I could never get used to calling him that. He’ll always be Marcus to me.”

  “Whereas I can’t imagine calling him Marcus. It’s not his name to me at all. Never has been. He told me his name the day we met.”

  “The day you met? Took him years before he told me what his mother named him. By then it was too late—it was Marcus.”

  “No, he’s definitely Søren. Good Danish name. Means ‘stern.’ Fitting name.”

  “Marcus, from the Roman god of war, Mars. Even more fitting.”

  “For a pacifist priest?”

  “He’s been at war with his own soul since the night he was born, and you know it.”

  She glanced at the orchid on the windowsill, and then raised her hand to touch its fragile petals.

  “I know it,” she said softly and lowered her hand.

  “And perhaps,” Father Ballard continued, “you have been a casualty in this war?”

  “A few cuts and bruises. Nothing fatal.”

  “Pressed but not crushed,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Although…” He paused and narrowed his eyes at her. “Maybe a little crushed?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  She took a breath and turned to face him again. She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair. They stared at each other.

  “Tell me your sins, Eleanor. Let me help you find peace.”

  “I told you—I’m sleeping with a Jesuit priest.”

  “You’re here to be absolved of your sin of fornication with a member of the clergy? That’s it?”

  “I am. Is that not a good enough sin?”

  “No, it’s a fine sin. One of the better sins there is. Still packs a punch. Nobody cares about adultery anymore. That’s old news. But getting your rocks off with one of us? That’s nice and punchy. But here’s the problem: Something tells me you intend to keep sleeping with him. Yes?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Then I don’t think I can help you. Usually when you confess a sin, the sinner at least tries to pretend he or she doesn’t want to do it again.”

  “I wouldn’t want to lie in confession. My mother asked me to confess my sins to a priest who is not Søren. She wanted me to be absolved of my sin of seducing a priest and/or being seduced by a priest—it changed depending on which one of us she was angrier at that day. Sometimes I was the harlot, and he was the innocent victim of my seductions. Other days he was a sexual predator and I her virginal daughter, who’d had her innocence cruelly plucked from her by a wicked clergyman. Either way it sounds so lurid and gothic, doesn’t it? She never did believe the truth.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “We were nothing but two people who fell in love with each other and did what people in love do, namely have sex with each other. Often. It was inconvenient I was so young when we met. It was even more inconvenient he was a priest. But I’m not young anymore—and I still love him, and he still loves me. And we still have sex. Among other things.”

  Stuart waved his hand dismissively.

  “You don’t have to tell me what the ‘other things’ are. I’ve been hearing his confessions since he was 18,” Ballard said. “I’m actually only 60 years old. I only look 80 because of him.”

  “Liar,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “I’m only doing what my mother asked. I came to a priest who is not Søren, Marcus, whoever he is, and I’m giving you my confession. Can you absolve me so I can put that promise to rest?”

  “Surely there is something you can repent of that you don’t plan on doing again the minute you leave this room?”

  “Not the very minute I leave the room. My flight home isn’t until tomorrow. I’m only in New York for the weekend to see a special client.”

  “How about that? Do you repent of your work with your clients?”

  “No, sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I love being a Dominatrix. And I don’t have sex with my clients. I’m basically a massage therapist—except instead of using my hands, I use canes and whips and floggers. It’s deep tissue massage. Very deep tissue.”

  “Well…have you killed anyone?”

  “Not since my last confession.”

  “That’s a comfort, I suppose. Committed adultery?”

  “No. I mean, I have, but not recently. I’ve confessed, been absolved. Old news, like you said.”

  “You’re a busy lady.”

  “The busiest.”

  “Keeping the Sabbath?”

  “I do go to Mass and take Communion at least once a week.”

  “You’re honoring your mother right now by coming to me to confess as she asked you to. What about honoring your father?”

  “He’s also dead.”

  “Well, screw that Commandment then. Hmm…”

  “You’re fun,” she said. “I like you.”

  “No flirting, wicked girl. I know I’m your type.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I spread for Roman collars. What are the other Commandments again? I’m sure I’ve broken one of them.”

  “Have you coveted your neighbor’s ass?”

  “My neighbor is a very nice older lady who always calls me Nellie for some
reason and as much as I like Mrs. Mendez, I do not covet her ass.”

  “Have you born false witness against anyone?”

  “I’ve never been sure exactly what that means.”

  “Complicated, I suppose. Most white lying is a venial sin. I think it’s only a mortal sin if you lie under oath against someone.”

  “Haven’t done that either. Lies of omission? Søren doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Venial.” He wished he had his Catechism with him. If he remembered correctly, he’d left it in the bathroom on the back of the toilet. “Have you made any graven images and worshiped them?”

  “I’m too lazy to be an idolater. No golden calves in my house. I do have a porcelain cat with ruby eyes—real rubies, a gift from a client—but I don’t worship it. It’s a miracle if I remember to dust it.”

  “Do you take the Lord’s name in vain?”

  “I’m Catholic. Of course I do, God dammit.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that for a mortal sin. Have you stolen anything?”

  “Only hearts.”

  “You’re a tough nut to crack, young lady.”

  “Aww…you called me ‘young lady.’ That made my day.”

  “I’m supposed to be shriving you, not stroking your ego. You have to give me a sin, a real one. Did we cover them all?” He raised his hands and started ticking numbers off on his fingers. “No other gods—check. No graven images—check. I don’t count having a dirty mouth as taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You remember the Sabbath Day—check. You can’t honor your mother and father because they’re dead. Haven’t killed anyone since your last confession. Or committed adultery. Or stolen. Or bore false witness. Or coveted your neighbor’s ass. No coveting your neighbor’s wife?”

  “Who counts as my neighbor again?”

  “Everyone on Earth, my dear.”

  “We might have a problem then.”

  “About bloody time. Tell me about your neighbor’s wife. Do you fancy her? I hope so. Spare no detail.”

  She laughed softly and shook her head. “It’s not like that. Although she is…she’s very beautiful.”

  “And you covet her?”

  “Not carnally.”

  “I’m gutted. How is it then?”

  “It’s complicated. I don’t even know what I’m confessing. I just…I want to talk about it with someone, and I can’t talk about it with him. Or with her. Or with the other him. Or the other him.”

  “How many hims do you have?”

  “Søren, Kingsley, Zach, and Nico. I can’t tell Søren because it’s about him. I can’t tell Kingsley because Søren wouldn’t want me to tell him about this particular situation. I can’t tell Zach because it’s about his wife, and I can’t tell Nico because I keep my relationship with him separate from my relationship with Søren and vice versa. I need a new him to talk to. So…you’re him.”

  “You have as many hims as a hymnal.”

  “You’re telling me, Father.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. This lady in question—what’s her name?”

  “Her name is Grace.”

  “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “He’s told you about her? About his son?”

  “You know I can’t answer that,” Stuart said, nodding his head in the affirmative.

  “You’re very good at keeping secrets. So you know who Grace is. And you know she had his son.”

  “You just told me so if I didn’t know before, I’d know now. Let’s leave it at that. Envy is a sin. Do you envy her for having his child?”

  “No,” she said, waving her hand. “It’s not like that at all. Although I asked myself that a few times just to make sure.”

  “Why don’t you envy her? Most women would, I think. I assume. I could be wrong. Never been a woman, much to my everlasting regret.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ve certainly enjoyed being a woman. I recommend the experience.”

  “I believe—and correct me if I’m wrong—that women often desire to have the children of their lovers?”

  “They do, yes, sometimes. And their lovers often desire to father their lovers’ children. But I don’t want children. I haven’t felt any strong desire to have children since I was a teenager and maybe not even then, although I certainly fantasied about it. I fantasied about a lot of things as a teenager. But now I can’t even have kids.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. I had a sterilization procedure done recently while I was in France. It’s hard to talk American doctors into sterilizing a woman without children. The French are more open-minded.”

  Marcus hadn’t told him about this. He wondered if Marcus knew. “Surgical procedure? Was that a difficult decision?”

  “It was a terrifying decision, but not for the reason you might think. I had a pregnancy scare which quickly turned into a cancer scare. Turns out it was nothing but a large fibroid tumor that needed removing.” Her eyes flashed with remembered fear. “When I was nearly as relieved I wasn’t pregnant as I was relieved it wasn’t cancer, I knew I should probably take care of both at once. So I did.”

  “Did Marcus know?”

  “About the pregnancy scare and the cancer scare? No,” she said. “Not until it was all over.”

  “Who did you lean on during that time?”

  “Nico, my lover in France. He handles this sort of stuff better than Søren does. Nico is the eye of any storm. Søren’s the storm. I didn’t need a storm then. I needed the calm.”

  “Was Marcus angry you hadn’t told him?”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled, but the relief was greater than the anger. He and Nico have an understanding. Søren knows when I’m with Nico, I’m with Nico, 100 percent. Nico knows when I’m with Søren, I’m with Søren, 100 percent. I don’t call Søren from Nico’s house. I don’t write Nico love letters when Søren’s asleep in bed next to me. We call it the Separation of Church and State. It’s working well so far for all of us. A pregnancy would be disastrous, though—especially not knowing which one of them was the father. I’d never been more scared. That’s why I went ahead and had the procedure. I know the Church sees it as a sin. I’ll tell you what I told a nun once who called me out for my pride: Put it on my tab.”

  “Yes, yes, the Church frowns on birth control,” he said without much conviction. Children starving in this world and the bigwig bishops still wrung their old liver-spotted hands about contraception and family planning—nonsense. Absolute nonsense. When it came to sins, he had bigger fish to fry.

  “So you don’t want children,” he said with a shrug. “That’s fine. I don’t have any children myself. Not for me. Not for you. What is it then? You said you covet your neighbor’s wife. Is it because Marcus and Grace made love?”

  There it was, that laugh again. Big laugh. Beautiful laugh. He hadn’t known he’d made a joke but apparently he had.

  “That’s another no,” she said once she stopped laughing. “I do not feel any jealously because they slept together one time on one night. If you knew how many men—and women—I’d been with in my life…”

  “Ballpark? You’re not the only nosy one in the room.”

  “More than fifty. Less than a hundred,” she said. “Not counting clients.”

  “Quite a ballpark you have there.”

  “Whereas he’s slept with four people in his entire life. Four.”

  “Those four meant something to him. Did your ballpark?”

  “Of course. I don’t have casual sex.”

  “You know what I mean. You weren’t in love with everyone you’ve been with?”

  “No. And neither was he in love with his four. So it isn’t jealousy. We don’t do jealously like vanilla people. When I think about Søren with Kingsley, it’s arousing. Two beautiful men together? There isn’t anything not sexy about that. They love each other and I love them both. Same with Grace. Grace is a beautiful woman, insi
de and out, and one of my dearest friends. She’s the wife of a man I love more than I’m comfortable admitting to anyone but you.” Her eyes flashed again, changed color, and it seemed she was remembering something both dark and beautiful. He wished he could see into her mind. What a show that would be…

  “And Grace,” Eleanor continued. “She loves Søren the way he deserves to be loved—unreservedly and with full faith in him. I couldn’t have picked a better woman to be the mother of his child. But even knowing that, believing that, and loving her and loving him and—on top of all that—loving Fionn more than I thought was possible to love a child who isn’t your own…there’s still this thing, here.” She tapped her chest over her hidden heart. “And I don’t know what it is other than it hurts. So I know there’s a sin in there somewhere.”

  “A lot of things hurt that aren’t sins. Longing isn’t a sin. Regret isn’t a sin. Hope isn’t a sin. They all hurt.”

  “It’s not any of those. So what is it?” She rubbed her temples and looked tired—tired but lovely. It hurt his heart to see it.

  “Tell me when you feel it the most, dear. Tell me when you first felt that…” He tapped his own chest. “That ache right there.”

  She sighed and leaned forward in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. She looked so elegant, so much like a lady. Was this really Marcus’s Eleanor? The teenaged car thief who’d made off with his heart twenty-three years ago? She looked more like a duchess than a car thief.

  “Ah, fuck it,” she said, leaning back in the chair again. She threw one leg over the chair arm and threw her arm over her eyes to hide from him.

  All right. So it was that Eleanor.

  “Eleanor. Talk to me.”

  “He’s going to kill me for telling you this.”

  “He won’t ever know you told me.”

  “You promise?”

  “I swear. I’m an old man with no reason to lie. I’ll guard your secret with my life.”

  She groaned or maybe it wasn’t a groan. Maybe it was a growl. You must drive him mad, Stuart thought. You must make him wild for you. You are a teenage girl in a woman’s body with a woman’s needs and a teenage girl’s savage heart.