Spoiler
Cathy/s= Catholic/s
Why’d you become a priest? She stood by the door, her back against me, taking time to blow a ring of smoke over her head. There was a race of thoughts inside my mind, trying to answer the question. Ever since I was ordained a couple of years ago, I’ve been asked same question and almost always I responded with the four-worded answer: Love for the Church. I could do the same to Brigit but I slurred hopelessly on the second word. My answers were overcome by the recurring sense of attraction I had to her when I was at college.
“I’ll see you after Mass, Alek.” Brigit concluded swiftly turning to face me before heading somewhere else in little Wellington. She could just be hanging outside the Church lawn or having a cuppa in a cafe by Willis Street. There were two more hours before the four o’clock Mass and Father Columba was doing the confession. I wonder how it is. How many people would turn up? I had three people entering the booth last week, all of them were migrants. Anyway, I could catch up with Brigit for a cuppa. She hasn’t gone far yet. Would people be okay to see a priest with an attractive woman like Brigit? Cathys won’t but others would praise an act as a freedom from celibacy. I could change my cassock to something informal but I wouldn’t do that. Then what shall I do?
Nothing, that was what I concluded, staring at a Cubist painting of a crucified Christ. His outline consisted of rough thick strokes of the artist’s brush.
“Good evening, everyone,” There were thirty or so people inside the Church. Most of them were migrants from Southeast Asia who had replaced their Western brethren. He knew that beyond those closed doors at the back of the last pew, they were all there either heading home or going to a nearby pub. He knew that among them were Cathys who no longer see the need for a Sunday Mass. Columba told him stories on his month as a priest that the Church was overcrowded with people. Thirty was left. Alek was content with the number.
“Today is the start of the month of the rosary.” An elderly Filipina woman raised her head wearing a rosary necklace. He took a pause smiling to this frail old woman. A second later, he scanned the parish, no Brigit in sight. He don’t know why he suddenly felt dread with the thought of her absence but he continued on with his homily. At each second word, he slurred trying to avoid Brigit coming into his thoughts.
“After ten years, I didn’t expect you to become a priest.” Brigit sat at the Church lawn after Mass. Her back was against mine puffing another ring of smoke. Another thought rush into my mind that reminiscent of my younger self. I imagined myself walking behind her and upon reach, hugged her tight. I imagined smelling her hair or to leave a light kiss on her cheeks. Instead, she gently glided her hand on the space beside her. “Sit.”
Like a child to a mother, I followed uneasily leaving space between us. Any boy, including me, back then would take the opportunity to draw his arm over her shoulder and tell his mates how he was chosen to sit beside Briget at break. But it was only this time that I had manage to sit beside her, leaning forward with clasp to settle down, to calm my flustered face.
“How was Mass?” She coughed patting her chest.
“Thirty....” The words seemed automatic.
“Is it good?” Another coughed followed by a wheezing sound.
“Are you sick?”
A shook of her head was followed by a cough, each one deeper than the former. I turned to face her for the first time watching how she arched forward to breathe. Her hair covered the side of her face, eyes closed in pain. My hands began to shake, mouth dry asking myself what to do. For God’s sake, you’re a priest! Do something! Anything! I couldn’t do it no matter how much my mind demanded me to do. Should I hold her shoulder? Ask her even if she’s okay? What would that do? She’s already coughing. I hurry to my room for a glass of water but...but I need to ask her. Ask her then. My mouth opened, and I did, the moment she wrapped her hands on my waist and lay her head on my shoulder.
I remembered a painting or was it another fantasy that reoccurred. Anyway, the scene was set in the middle of a crossroad during the morning rush with cars and people buzzing their way to work. At the middle was a bench with a couple sitting quietly, their heads raised and eyes closed. They held each other’s hand whilst their free hand invited anyone from the road to hold it. No one did. It wasn’t a surprise since the people were rough sketches from charcoal slowly disintegrating into white and yellow lines for the cars to pass by.
It was the silence that I took from that painting or whatever. Two people had only their minds for each other, no lust but the thought of being together, friends more than lovers. Ten minutes it was like that. Briget holding me for support while I replied by rubbing her shoulder to calm her down. Would the media or Fr. Columba have seen this; it will be headlines for tomorrow, another church scandal as if the church needed more.
“Why did you become a priest?” She dug her head deeper under my shoulder as she coughs. Phlegm or something sticky was stuck on my cassock.
I would have stuck to my four-worded reason or an excuse to end the conversation but when my lips opened, out came the words, “It’s complicated.”
“You always were.” She laughed, and I followed.
