Chapter Text
It could only ever have ended in flames.
Forgive me, Lord.
Certain trespasses demand a cleansing by conflagration.
Forgive me my lack of regret, but there’s not a single thing I would change.
Still, all the absolution you need, you find in Bo’s brilliant blue eyes.
Even now, I’d do it all over again.
He cups your cheek. Heat rises. “I’m sorry, lamb,” he soothes.
“Don’t be,” you smile.
The end of this—of the two of you—should devastate you, but that searing pain is eclipsed by how brightly your passions burned, by how sweetly he looks at you still.
For the time you had together, your life had been bliss.
For a time you were divine.
~~~
You inherited your grandfather's little home after he went quietly to his eternal reward at a dignified ninety-nine years of age. Once upon a time, your mother and her siblings insisted no one else had wanted the property, owing to a certain level of disrepair. Self sufficient until the day he died, your grandfather did his best with the upkeep, both routine and requisite. “For you,” was his reasoning. “The work keeps me young, but it’s mostly for you. That way you can sell it or move in right away without any fuss.”
You were his favorite, and he was yours.
He’s been gone a month now and you’re just halfway unpacked. The winter continues in its extraordinarily gray procession towards spring, low skies hang with a near constant promise of adverse weather. Fortunately, the snow comes only in dustings and is nightly washed away by the sleeting rain.
Today doesn’t appear to be trending any differently, but you can’t justify another day spent inside without fresh air, no matter how the cold may sting your lungs. You grab your long tweed coat and commit to a turn around the block.
You’ve walked it hundreds of times in your life, memorized the slow growth of the cracked sidewalks jutting ever upwards from thick roots beneath the oak-lined streets. You smile back at the never-fading faces painted on the tidy little stones lining Mr. Hutchenson’s garden, and as always, you count the same number of steps between the first corner and the hedges leading up to the churchyard of Saint Catherine’s. Never once though, in all the times you’ve made this exact journey over the years, have you seen the handsome young priest that stands atop the granite steps as the congregants file out of morning mass.
The overcast sky drains the day of color, but the unfamiliar Father is vibrant and alive. With the verdant green chasuble around his shoulders against the stark white linen of his alb he is the singularly brilliant thing in a dreary world.
He’s by far the tallest person among the moving crowd. Christ , there’s only about a foot of clearance between the top of his head and the church doors. You lament your inability to tell how the rest of him is proportioned beneath his robes.
In a purely innocent way , you tell yourself.
You focus on his face, just to stamp out any wayward thoughts. His ridged brow is effortlessly expressive, and his nose is long. Both lend themselves to a sharp, strong profile. His sandy blonde hair is just long enough to stand up at odd angles when he runs his errant fingers through it. Everything about him is, well— boyish . He confounds you in every conceivable way. This young priest exudes a calming confidence in one moment and deferent modesty in the next with each congregant he chats with. Something one of them says prompts him to scratch the back of his head with a laugh. The wind doesn’t quite it carry to your ears, but you’re strangely certain the sound is a sweet one.
From within your own head, you hear a voice not recognizable as your own, but it is vehement in its message.
“ That way lies salvation ,” it calls from some unknown recess of your mind.
You stand stock still at the bottom of the church steps, watching the beautiful priest in rapt silence until a ghostly shape catches the corner of your eye. Sister Mary Agnes comes from the direction of the rectory, waving a gnarled hand at you in greeting. Her face is a map of time-worn wrinkles, but with her deep set eyes and perpetually upturned mouth, she appears dignified and serene. She's wobbly on the cobblestone path as she approaches you— in a way that would make you nervous for her if she were any less sure of herself. Sister Mary Agnes was a mere handful of years younger than your grandfather, and like him, she came from stubborn stock. She would tut and slap you away if you tried to lend her a balancing arm. She’d been the principal at St. Catherine’s school when your mother was a child but had retired long before you yourself attended. Still, she was a familiar presence in the tapestry of your life; always puttering about taking care of the plants on the church grounds, always at mass when you had still attended, and always at family funerals. Last you saw her, you were on these very same steps, leaving the church after the service for your mother.
You quash the inevitable invasion of memories from that time, before the good sister can read the agony on your face.
“My my,” her feathery voice quavers. "It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, dear. If you weren’t wearing your grandmother's favorite coat, I doubt I’d have recognized you at all.” Sister Mary Agnes motions with both bony arms, bidding you come closer so she can embrace you properly.
A tender smile lifts at your lips as she pulls you close. “I’ll have you know, most people say I look exactly the same, Aggie.”
You’re only five foot two, but even you have to bend down to wrap the tiny woman in your arms. When you do, the smell of basil wafts around you. Sister Mary Agnes—Aggie, if she liked you enough—chewed a handful of leaves every day to keep her breath fresh. Your grandfather once told you she’d been doing it for as long as she’s had teeth. Though she’s probably short a tooth or two now, her scent remains exactly the same.
As you pull back, your eyes flick over the tall blonde once more. He appears to be telling a rather animated story; gesticulating with hands so big you have to swallow down the lump that rises in your throat at the sight of them.
Curiosity won’t kill you. With a resolute breath you turn back to Sister Mary Agnes, with that burning question on your lips.
“Sister, the young priest at the top of the stairs…w-who is he? I haven’t seen him before.”
I haven’t seen anyone like him before.
“That’s Father Burnham!” she laughs merrily. “He may be young but he is our new priest. Some little while ago the parish decided one priest wasn’t enough, even for our modest community, and so he came to us. It was a year ago this past December.”
“Father Burnham,” you repeat, just to feel the name on your tongue.
“Yes,” the nun muses, “he's got such a good heart, that one. Though…sometimes I worry that he’s a little sad.”
Sad? W-what an odd thing to lead with. There are huge implications hiding behind that little word, yet Sister Mary Agnes hardly lets it hang in the air before prattling on.
“The people took to him instantly! You wouldn’t believe how popular he is for christenings and marriages. You know, even the older members of our parish find his perspective to be refreshing.” She lets out a quiet laugh before she continues. “He’s even taken over the gardening for me since my joints started giving me grief, though I do keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t over-prune the rose bushes.”
“Oh,” is the entirety of your response–a single syllable whispered in a dulcet tone. She’s painted a compelling picture, and yet none of it comes close to explaining the gravity you sense around him.
Prompting any further talk of Father Burnham would do nothing to mitigate how he mystifies you. Eager to shift focus, you clear your throat. “Well, I can’t imagine that Monsignor Garnier took to having another priest around—he’s too fixed in his ways.”
From under her heavy lidded eyes, she gives you a doleful look. “I’m sorry, dear,” she tuts. "I thought you’d heard. Monsignor Garnier passed away a year ago now.
Sorry? You smirk inwardly. If I knew he’d died I would’ve fucking celebrated.
“Our head priest now is Father Creeden, who I don’t believe you've met yet, but you needn’t be in a hurry to. Creeden is…difficult at times.”
A worthy successor to Garnier, then.
Suddenly, she clamps her clammy hands around yours.
“I know you don’t think fondly of the church these days. I don’t judge you for that, dear—I only pray that you find the solace you need—but at least introduce yourself to Father Burnham, I think you might understand each other quite well. I’d join you but I’m running late for cribbage at missus Rooney’s house.” She offers a blessing of God be with you , and goes on her tottering way.
Father Burnham .
From the outside, you can’t fathom him at all. Sure, he can’t be more than four years your senior but what could you possibly have in common? You look back up to where he talks with the last of the dwindling stream of parishioners, only to have your breath wrest away from your lungs.
His head is thrown back in laughter, and this time you can hear its resonant peal. The sound alone electrifies you, but it’s his thick neck and perfectly angular jaw on display above his clerical collar that make your heart falter. You think his straight, pearly white teeth and dimpled cheeks will deal the fatal blow, but then —
Now alone atop the church steps, Father Burnham’s eyes land squarely on you, clear and blue like spring water. Your belly clenches; you can’t handle being sighted by eyes so keen. His head tilts a touch to the right while he ponders you like he might a painting.
Blushing hard, you break away—dizzily you press on down the street with your heart pounding in your breast.
~~~~
Neither the handful of miles you walked that morning, nor the harsh February air could restore focus to your addled mind. Prepping dinner and scrolling endlessly through your Twitter feed had helped, but every hour on the hour, the church bells chime in to break your concentration.
Evening falls fast, any lingering sunlight is swiftly eclipsed by the rising darkness. Pretty nights like this used to be calming, but you haven’t enjoyed their quiet repose since your grandfather had gone.
He left you with fourteen-hundred square feet of memories, and that should soothe the sting but—
You weren’t here.
He died, and you were halfway across the globe, toiling away on your thesis.
You weren’t here with him, and you’ll never forgive yourself for it.
Weary feet and a heavy conscience carry you up the creaky stairs and past the door to his room, which you keep resolutely shut.
Instead you’ve reclaimed the bedroom you knew as a child. The antique crystal knob turns with a metallic groan as you push inside.
The radiator hisses, working up the heat needed to keep you comfortable through the night. Pulling the quilted comforter over you, you finally lay down your head.
You don’t notice you’ve been crying all along until your wet cheek hits your pillow.
~~~~
The next week slips away thanks to a never ending series of maintenance calls from painters, plumbers, and electricians. You didn’t even schedule these intrusions—your grandfather did a few months before he died—but every single one of them had pushed back their appointment. Thank god your grandfather kept a well organized calendar.
Inevitably, you’d reply with a chilly, “No. He’s dead,” when they’d arrive at your door asking if William was home. By Wednesday, you were sick of repeating yourself and settled for “he’s out” instead.
You sit and sip your coffee as you watch the electrician finish fixing the overhead light in your kitchen with barely shrouded disdain.
Fuck all of them for blowing him off. Doubly for showing up after he died.
An acidic wave of guilt roils your gut.
That’s exactly what you did.
Paying the man, you thank him and show him to the door.
The disgust in your stomach threatens to make you heave, so you dump the rest of your coffee down the kitchen sink. Peering out into the back yard, you stare at the church spire jutting up past the barren treetops.
It’s Sunday afternoon and you’ve only just realized it.
There had been one other constant thing about your week. Day in and day out you’d found yourself plagued with thoughts of Father Burnham. What about him has you so intrigued? His age? His height? His striking features? Or is it the implication that beneath the armor of his robes, Father Burnham is just as troubled as you are?
It may well be the latter that propels you out the door and down the street to Sunday mass to satiate your ravenous curiosity.
Reason implores you to turn around, go home and forget about him.
But your pulse beats to the sound of a baser demand.
Finally, you come to a halt outside the church doors
You reach into your coat pocket and pull out your phone. You keep it on silent habitually, but you double check to be safe, lest a call about your car’s extended warranty disrupts the homily.
Then, you notice the time.
Mass is more than halfway over— shit.
The desire to see him again far outweighs any sense of trepidation you have. As stealthily as you are able, you press open the doors. Blessedly, you enter while Father Burnham has his back turned, and go largely unnoticed by the rest of the crowd.
Though you stand in the very back, far from the nave and doors, there’s no hope of him not noticing you. The church itself is small, and you’re a stranger to his congregation, a foreign object nestled between votives and stations of the cross. His eyes–deep, soulful, and blue–continually rise above the gathered masses to find yours. Perhaps it’s merely the strength of the shadow cast by his brow, but you swear that there's something sly and knowing in that look of his–dangerously so and only present each time his gaze returns yours.
He can smell me, you think. I reek of impiety the way a cornered animal reeks of fear, and he can taste it in the fucking air.
You hang your head in shame, and the question pressing at your mind since the first steps of this ill conceived pilgrimage rises again.
Do I turn back…do I run?
No.
Little good that would do. There’s no hiding from a beast who’s built to sense you.
You earn a few moments free of his scrutiny as he consecrates the host. His blessings are resonant and melodic—completely unlike the eerie, rhythmic droning you’d heard from Father Garnier growing up.
Father Burnham’s voice hypnotizes you, calls to you like cool waters to a pilgrim wandering the desert. From behind your belly button, a spectral cord of tension pulls you forward, until you’re filing in among the other congregants to receive communion, the very last in line.
All others hold their folded hands palm over palm to receive the host.
Was it right over left or left over right?
You feel as unsure as you did the first time you made this procession in a frilly white dress as a child, so you keep your hands at your sides instead.
Did I feel like an imposter back then too?
You can’t remember, but you recall the repetitive chorus of Body of Christ, Blood of Christ that currently floods the church from apse to aisle, as having been morbid and fiendish in your young mind. But today you heed the words like a clarion.
The line begins to dwindle in front of you. With each forward step, your pulse beats wilder. You feel the color rising in your cheeks as clearly as you feel the tightly wound tether tugging at your gut.
This is wrong, your heart protests. You don’t belong here. You’re unworthy. Unclean.
With your next step you pass the final of the fourteen rows of pews to the front of the line.
You stand at his feet, utterly possessed by his imposing presence. When you tilt your chin up to meet his slate blue eyes, he falters ever so briefly, something like recognition flashing across his face before he schools it with a short, steadying breath.
He raises the host in one huge hand, and that inexplicable knot behind your navel finally snaps. Your skin prickles hotly and your jaw slackens. You part your lips and slip your tongue out over your bottom teeth, never breaking his gaze. Father Burnham’s eyes darken and his throat bobs behind his clerical collar. Softly he repeats the invocation, “ Body of Christ," his voice low and gravelly, as if it were a secret being passed just between you two. For a fleeting moment his eyes flick down, stealing a glimpse of your pliant mouth open in supplication before returning his gaze fixedly to yours. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he lays the wafer on your waiting tongue and you shiver. Reason tells you that surely, the touch was accidental. Still, your mind clouds as if filled with the heady haze of church incense, daring you to stay there at the altar in front of him, to soak in that intoxicating feeling. But custom dictates you move on, and so you do. From the corner of your eye, you catch Father Burnham watching as you respectfully deny the Blood of Christ from the senior priest, and opt instead to savor where his thumb had been with a wet slip of your tongue.
The other congregants remain deep in silent prayer as your footfalls echo softly past each row. You continue along the back wall of the church towards the exit—you’d never planned on finding a place among the pews to kneel.
But for Father Burnham, you’d prostrate yourself gladly.
That thought only hastens your exit.
Safe in the atrium, you pause in front of the holy water stoup. Minutes pass in contemplation, still you can’t explain what just happened in there. But, as you stare into the basin you feel certain it was wicked enough for the water to turn to steam under your touch. Best to forgo blessing yourself and move along.
The wind picked up during the brief time you spent in the church. You’d hoped the cold air would be refreshing, but short stinging gusts buffet you on every other step and do nothing to soothe your heated skin.
The instant your soles hit the sidewalk, you’re whipped back around by that gloriously haunting voice calling out your name.
Your long hair blows into your face when you spin on your heels to face the church, momentarily obscuring Father Burnham’s long figure on the landing in front of the doors.
How does he know your name? And why in God’s name does it make that heat inside you surge?
He hazards a step down in your direction, “That’s you. Isn’t it? You’re William Hallet’s granddaughter.”
Your astonishment supersedes your reply, but a cleansing breath aids to clear your thoughts. You tuck your hair behind one ear—likely revealing the way you blush—and give a curt nod of affirmation. “Yes, Father. That’s me.” You gesture to what he’s wearing, “In a rush to clock out early?
He smiles brilliantly at your joke. A little winded from trying to catch you, he confesses, “Actually, I’m done for the day.” He remains planted where he stands on the church steps, halfway between you and the church doors.
Him calling out to you is one thing, the fact that he’s abandoned his formal outer layers in the short time since you left is another. He’s down to his casual blacks, pressed slacks and a matching button up shirt adorned with that damned Roman collar. There it is: that long, well-proportioned body you’d desired to see free of the robe. His lean frame only accents how imposing his stature is. He fills out his clothes beautifully, like they’d been tailor made for him rather than ordered from a catalog. With one glaring exception.
The front of his pants. Christ, the black material hardly has enough space to accommodate the evident heft of his…endowment.
The devil had better take you now.
The fondness in Father Burnham’s voice shakes you from your irreverence when he continues, “ I came out because I wanted to meet you. Properly, that is.”
“I beg your pardon?” Your heartbeat thrums so loudly in your chest you can scarcely hear yourself, but Father Burnham's face suggests it came out just this side of accusatory.
“I knew your grandfather,” he clarifies, “He was an incredible man, a devout man. Truly one of a kind, but I don’t have to tell you that.” He pauses to search for his next words, “He spoke of you so fondly, and often. You have my sincerest sympathies for your loss.”
“T-thank you,” you falter. It’s still hard for you to talk about your grandfather like he isn’t here, so you change the subject instead. With a crooked smile you tease, “I was worried you’d followed me here to give me a good scolding for not genuflecting on my way out.”
He flushes pink all the way to the tips of his ears, “Ah, no. It takes way more than that to get under my collar.”
A single beat of silence fills the air between you before you both erupt into rapturous laughter. When the giggling dies down, you smile back at one another for what could be perceived as too long; given how recently you were acquainted.
“So,” you trail off, “Sister Mary Agnes mentioned you’ve been here since last December?”
“Um, well no that’s not quite right. I’d been a seminarian—” Briefly he looks at his feet and quirks his mouth, like he thinks the word is just a little funny. “—er, a deacon here since April of last year.” Father Burnham then shoots you a shy smile, and points to the stone statue in the empty garden bed. “April twenty-ninth actually, Saint Catherine’s feast day.” He looks back to you, suddenly self conscious that he’s over sharing, and concludes, “I was, um, ordained last December.”
“That makes sense. She had mentioned you took over the gardening too but I thought that was odd since it’s winter. Aggie’s really getting up there in age, so it's not surprising that she got a little mixed up,” you concede with a twinge of sadness.
“Your grandfather never got like that though. He was blessed in that way."
Vice-like sorrow clamps down around your chest, and unwelcome tears spring to your eyes.
“Oh no, shoot–I shouldn’t have assumed—forgive me, it’s just…I was the attending priest at his bedside when he passed.”
All thoughts fly from your mind as your legs carry you forward until you’re nestled in his shadow. You want to fling your arms around him and profess your gratitude for doing what you could not, you want to bury your head against his chest and be absolved.
But you don’t do either.
You can’t.
For one, you don’t know if you even believe in absolution.
But what's more is, with this sudden proximity to Father Burnham comes that bone-deep ache from earlier.
At that moment the church doors open and the devoted masses spill forth like a flood.
God in heaven help me.
~~~~
2-5-22
I’m not sure that I remember how to do this.
Putting words to paper, I mean. Which is funny actually, because what is prayer if not journaling aloud—seeking clarity through contemplation, meditating on thoughts and feelings, asking for guidance?
One I offer up to the Lord, and the other…I commit to these pages.
Maybe that makes this journal more of a confessional but still, sometimes the things in my head need a little extra untangling before I feel ready to bring them to the Almighty.
Sometimes I just want privacy with my thoughts.
It’s been a long time since I felt the need for either.
But today…today I met her.