The Consequence of Secrets - Part One (2 page)

“Father Daniels, I’d like to introduce you to the Williams family, they’re one of our congregation’s most devout family,” Father Dunbar croaks as he holds his hands out to receive the final family to exit the church. The older man beams and clasps the Father’s hands, his salt and pepper mustache, curving upward as he smiles.

“This place won’t be the same without you, Father,” he says. Father Dunbar smiles and nods as he gives his final blessing to the rest of the family, before introducing them all to me one by one.

I remember being told about this family. They’re the church’s largest donators, and are the reason the upgrades to the youth center I’ve requested are going through. I smile and shake hands with each member, starting with Brent, the patriarch of the family, followed by his son in law, Gabe, then his daughters, Emma and Jules. They seem like your typical military type family, and I swear Mr. Williams looks like Major Dad from that 90s TV show. The son in law looks like he just stepped off the football field, and his daughters seem the quintessential all American girls, all with perfect smiles and blue eyes. Well, I think they both have blue eyes. Emma, the oldest daughter doesn’t meet my eyes for some reason, although the youngest more than makes up for it. I also notice a slight curling of the tongue on that one and have to stifle the urge to grin at her audacity – being a priest isn’t quite the turn away it once was, as more and more youths choose to relax their values and do things that are against their faith. It’s something that I can understand though, there was a time in my life where I felt at odds with my faith as well.

“It’s really lovely to meet you all,” I say to them as a group. “I look forward to seeing you all in the front pew every Sunday for mass.”

Mr. Williams chuckles heartily. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’ve got our name carved that pew and everything. And you, young Father, you just be sure you let old Brent here know if there’s anything your Parish needs. I always have time for the spiritual needs of this community. Too much partying goes on in this city these days for my liking. I’d like to see a young man like you succeeding in filling that old church to the brim.”

“Of course, Mr. Williams, the church certainly appreciates your generosity,” I reply.

“Please, don’t be so formal, call me Brent, everyone else does.”

“Of course, then please, call me Father Braden,” I add, feeling as though I should offer him a less formal way to address me as well. Then I bid them farewell as they all move away, heading off to their expensive cars to do whatever it is the very wealthy of Rhode Island like to do on a Sunday afternoon. I find myself watching after them for a while, feeling slightly disappointed when the oldest daughter still doesn’t look up…

There’s a crack on our bedroom ceiling. It started off very small at the edge of the light fitting and has been slowly moving outward, glaring at me in its imperfection as Gabe thrusts himself inside me.

“You like that, don’t you?” he grunts, pulling my hair with his right hand as his left digs into my hip and he pivots himself in and out of me.

I moan for him. “Oh, yes.” It’s what he wants. After nearly three years of this, I’m well trained.

His pelvis slams up against mine, over and over again, as his toned and sweaty body leans over me, his blond hair, lighter than mine, damp as it sways back and forth with his movement. I remember when I used to enjoy this, how I loved his insatiable appetite for my body after we were first married. But, now I understand why God doesn’t want us to have sex before marriage – after a while, it stops being fun. I’m surprised anyone gets married once they know…

Staring up at the crack, I imagine it growing, crawling across the ceiling and splitting the house in two. That would be something.

“I’m ready,” he pants. “I’m ready. You can come now.”

Meeting his eyes, I do my usual impression – I hold my breath, letting out a low moan as he pushes into me and shudders. It’s been rare that I really have had an orgasm during sex. It’s normally something I can only achieve when I’m by myself as Gabe doesn’t seem interested in doing the work it takes for me to achieve it. So I fake it.

I feel him pulse inside me, filling me with his seed, as I squeeze myself around him. A look of satisfied relief washes over his features, and I’m sure I have a look of relief on mine too. Although my relief is because this is finally over – I was beginning to get friction burn.

Pulling out, he presses my knees together and tilts my hips back, placing a pillow beneath me before telling me to hold the position. Then he meets my eyes, his basic brown ones, meeting my multicolored irises as he says what he always says. “Make me a son, Emma.”

The church deacon, Christopher Salisbury, has been putting aside time each day to show me around Newport, so I can get to know the locals and they in turn, get used to having me around. Today, he’s working with the elderly on a community gardening project, and we first have to stop off at the gardening center to pick up some mulch and some netting to protect their strawberry bush from the birds.

“How long has the garden been established for?” I ask him as we move around the store, gathering a few inquisitive looks from bystanders as we push the cart in our dark clerical clothing and collars. Even though Newport has several catholic churches, it still seems a bit of a novelty to see priests out and about to the layperson. I don’t mind. I’m fairly used to the stares by now. If a man can get past the tormented screams that came from my mother when I announced I was entering the priesthood, then a few stares or comments aren’t too bothersome.

“Almost three years now. We’ve found the folks from assisted housing really enjoy tending to it, and we’ve managed to grow a lot of fresh produce that we’ve distributed amongst those in need,” he replies, in his softly spoken voice as he checks the neatly written list that he holds in his hand. It simply says –
mulch, netting
– but I’m beginning to learn that Christopher is a very ritualistic man, and does everything in a particular way and order to keep the flow of his day moving along.

“Wonderful,” I reply, as we reach the bags of mulch and help each other stack them onto the cart before we move over and add a roll of netting.

The Deacon checks his list again. “Yep, that’s everything,” he says with a smile, marking off each item with a short pencil.

When we’re finished and are outside, loading up the old truck that belongs to the church, I look across the street, my attention attracted when the sun glints off an opening door.

With her head down and covered with a baseball cap and big dark glasses, I feel sure that I spot Emma Williams leaving the family planning clinic. I furrow my brow, confused and a little surprised that a member of the Williams family would be exiting such a place considering the church’s view on birth control. Personally, I think it’s rather archaic of the Catholic Church to continue frowning upon contraception but the gospel is the gospel, and it’s my job to follow it.

“Everything all right?” Deacon Salisbury asks as he shuts up the back of the truck, and I realize I’m still staring after her, wishing I knew what she was doing.

I turn my head to him quickly, and nod. “I’m fine,” I say, glancing back to where she was, but she isn’t there anymore.

After changing into my knee length beige skirt, white silk blouse and matching beige shoes, I exit the stall and walk over to the basin in the public rest room that smells of bleach mixed with urine and earth. I balance my oversized purse on one basin while I did around inside for the items I need. I line them up on the ledge in front of the mirror then pick up the bottle of water and my newly acquired packet of the contraceptive pill.

Unscrewing the cap, I press the bubble on the foil packaging and throw the pill in my mouth, tipping my head back and swallowing it with a gulp of water. Then I look in the aging mirror, and I study my makeup free face, my eyes with their short lashes and confusing color, my lips that aren’t full enough, and my too pale skin. I remember the girls in my final year of college making comments when they didn’t think I could hear them. They said that I was plain – far too plain for a man like Gabe to want me. They said he was only after me for my family’s money, and that I was a fool to think he’d really want me. I probably should have listened…

Opening my handbag, I pull the corner of the lining and slide the packet of pills inside the dark silk walls, hiding it from view and from the discovery of my husband. He’d kill me if he found out. There’d be no stopping him if he knew I was purposely avoiding falling pregnant.

Turning on the faucet, I splash some cold water on my face then pull at the paper towels in the dispenser fixed against the wall and pat my face dry before I go to work applying my makeup and fixing my wavy blonde hair with a jeweled clip, working with the skill I learned so that I can make myself more pleasing to Gabe’s eyes.

When I’m done, I leave the restroom, looking like the respectable woman I’m supposed to be. Then I check my watch and head toward the church, my sensible heels clicking against the pavement as I walk.

The sun beats down, causing me to squint a little from behind my sunglasses as I walk up the stairs to enter the centuries old building. Once inside the double doors, the quiet envelopes me, and I inhale, feeling the tension of the last twenty-four hours leaving my body. To relax, some people read, some people go to the spa – I come to this church.

Looking around, I delight in the colorful images on the stained glass, illuminated by the brightness of the day. Reaching out, I dip my fingers in the holy water, crossing myself before I walk up to the statue of the virgin and light a candle for my mother, before moving the pews and kneeling down with my hands clasped in prayer.

This is the part where I tell you that I don’t pray. In fact, I don’t even think I believe in God anymore. I haven’t for a long time. I come here because I’m playing a part. It’s the part of the baron woman, praying for God to grace her womb with a child.

I don’t pray. I kneel, and I dream of a time when my heart was filled with hope, and the belief that magic is real. I imagine I’m anyone but me, and that I’m anywhere but here. I take this one hour every day to just be me inside my head. And when my phone beeps its quiet reminder, I stand, go through the motions of a devout woman, and I leave, going through the motions of my miserable life until I return tomorrow and repeat it all over again.