Tangled Sheets (35 page)

F
ather John Maguire was not having a good day. Morning Mass had been sparsely attended, with only a handful of the homeless looking for somewhere warmer than the subway grates to rest for a few moments facing him from his perch in the pulpit. Oddly, some of them seemed to know the complicated ritual of sitting and standing as well as, if not better than, his usual parishioners. They had listened attentively to his message about the Crucifixion, their unwashed faces staring up childlike and wondering, then left to resume their hunt for discarded cans and leftover sandwiches.

The afternoon had not fared much better, spent in the tight confines of the confessional listening to the weekly laundry list of petty misdemeanors of a young woman by the name of Rose Mahoney. A thin, lipless girl who whispered her transgressions from behind the screen as if she were passing on the secrets of life and death, Rose normally came for her weekly absolution with little of interest to tell him. This week's admitted sins included the imbibing of several glasses of cooking sherry, the occasional taking of the Lord's name in vain and, rather unexpectedly, a fleeting lustful thought and temptation to masturbate, for which Maguire rewarded her with three Hail Marys, impressed by her progress.

Once the girl had gone, Maguire had sat thinking in the airless cell for several hours, ignoring the calls of his assistant. He had remained there until the bells began to ring for vespers, and only then reluctantly dragged himself wearily from the comforting darkness. Rain was pouring down Amsterdam Avenue, and the candles scattered throughout the sanctuary did little to drive out the shadows of the November dusk. The few people who scuttled in beneath their umbrellas greeted him cursorily and headed to their seats, wrapped in unhappiness and damp coats.

When the final bell pealed, Maguire plodded the length of the sanctuary and climbed once more behind the pulpit. As he looked out at the scattered figures waiting for him to begin, the church suddenly seemed too large, the stone walls rising up and disappearing into the eaves. The stained-glass windows, with their colorful depictions of the saints and apostles, frowned down upon him with disapproving eyes. The altar boys moved about the sides of his vision like moths flapping around a flame. His head began to pound horribly, and he thought for a moment that he might faint.

As he was trying to clear the ache in his temple, one of the big wooden doors at the end of the sanctuary opened with a crash and a man entered, bringing the wind and the rain with him. From behind the pulpit, a crack appeared in the gloom that had enshrouded Maguire, and everything else faded into shadow as he looked up and his eyes were drawn to the stranger standing at the back of the church. While he could not see the man's face, he could see that he was tall and muscular, with the powerful body of someone accustomed to hard work. His short black hair was slick with rain, clinging to his head like wet leaves, and he wore dirty jeans and a battered black leather jacket.

He shut the door behind him with a shove of one black boot, then ran a hand through his hair, scattering rain and leaving it slightly tousled, a stray shock falling across his forehead. He walked slowly up the aisle and took a seat in the last row. Leaning back, he placed his boots on the back of the pew in front of him and put his hands along the back of his own seat. Besides Maguire, no one seemed to take the least notice of either him or his unorthodox behavior, even though one big boot was perilously close to the head of one of the more elderly members of the congregation and one arm hung loosely about the shoulders of George Pederson, the head deacon and a local banker of no small wealth.

Pulling his gaze from the man's face, Maguire continued with the service. Whoever the man was, his apparent invisibility to everyone else was not something the priest wanted to think about. He concentrated instead on the notes in front of him, which he had hastily scribbled a few minutes before the last person had sat down. The theme of his sermon was faith, something he now had very little of, and he was trying his best to muster up some semblance of sincerity. He had had it once, in abundance. As a student at St. Anselm's Seminary he had believed wholeheartedly that the world was a good place that only needed a little of his help to become a wonderful one.

But ten years of patient serving had worn him down. Things had only gotten worse, and the clear, bright joy that he had once conjured up so easily had faded into a heavy stone in the center of his chest. As he watched the parishioners of St. Mary's grow older and increasingly more unhappy despite his weekly attempts to show them that faith could wake them out of a spiritual stupor, he had become more and more bitter and doubtful. Now the ritual of proclaiming a belief in something he couldn't see was beginning to appear to him as the act of a madman talking to spirits.

He managed to finish his sermon without faltering, feeling the whole time the man's gaze on him like a shadow. The service over, he gave the call for Communion, and a line began to form as people shuffled slowly into the aisles and came forward to kneel at the mahogany rail in front of the altar. Maguire dutifully approached the first celebrant, attempting to avoid looking into her face. It was when he saw the faces that he was the most saddened, seeing in the eyes and the nervous set of the jaw as they opened their sticky mouths to receive the wine and the host that they were drawn forward more by guilt than by joy. Often he had to fight back an overwhelming urge to smack them forcefully across the cheeks, instead whispering “the blood of Christ, shed for you,” playing his part in their weekly pantomime.

He moved swiftly through the row of partakers, administering first the wine and then the wafers, like a spiritual vending machine doling out candy for the soul. They came in waves, falling onto the worn velvet cushions before the rail and retreating again once they were fed, like seabirds scavenging the beach for picnic scraps. When he came to the end of the last row, he saw the hands clasped on the rail and knew instantly that they belonged to the man from the last pew. The fingers were long and thick, the pale moons of the nails clipped neatly and evenly. Black hairs sprinkled the knuckles, and he could see that the same hair began again at the solid wrists. There was a thin, pale scar running over the back of the left hand, disappearing into the cleft between the middle and ring fingers.

Maguire studied the hands for a moment, wondering what had made the scar and marveling that such work-hardened hands could be so clean; he had expected to see a fine coating of oil or paint on them. Then he remembered the cup in his hands and stirred back to life. Moving his gaze up, he saw that the man wore a dark blue shirt, the first two buttons undone to reveal a patch of dark hair at the throat. Looking further, he saw that the man was looking back at him intensely, and that he had large, dark eyes that glinted faintly with gold, like stones streaked with precious metal. His nose was straight and perfectly rounded at the end, and his wide jaw narrowed into a stubble-dusted chin with a small cleft just below full lips.

The man looked at Maguire expectantly, as if he were waiting for the priest to answer a question he already knew the response to. Fighting a strong urge to run, Maguire brought the cup to the man's mouth, noticing suddenly how heavy the chalice felt against his palm, which was trembling. As he tipped the cup forward, he watched the sensuous lips part, allowing the dark wine to flow over them. A drop slipped and began to run down the man's chin, and Maguire wiped it away quickly with the cloth. He did not, as was his usual custom, wipe the edge of the chalice where the man had drunk from it.

Returning the cup to his acolyte, he took a wafer from the pile on the plate, wondering at the thinness of it as he held it lightly between his fingers. He waited for the man to hold out his hands to take the bread, as most of them did, but he simply raised his head and opened his mouth to be fed. Maguire held out the wafer, placing it on the outstretched tongue and reciting, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” As he received the host, the man opened his mouth slightly wider, taking in not only the sacrament but Maguire's finger as well. The priest felt the warmth of his lips as the man closed his mouth, then sucked softly, his tongue enfolding Maguire's finger. The rest of his hand was holding the man's chin and he felt the unshaven beard pressing against his palm.

It was over in a matter of seconds, and then Maguire felt the smoothness of the man's teeth as he pulled his hand away. He saw that the man was still looking into his face, only now a slight smile teased at the corners of his mouth. Maguire turned back to the altar quickly, trying to get the sensation of the man's tongue against his skin out of his head. He wrapped the remaining hosts in their cloth and then raised the cup, intending to drain the last dregs of wine. He could still see the faint impression left by the man's lips, the fine lines of his flesh in sharp relief against the cold silver. He paused, then placed the cup at the foot of the cross that stood on the altar. Later he would drink the remaining wine, as the service demanded.

When he turned back to the pulpit, the man was once again seated in the last pew. The choir swept through the final hymn and settled into the threefold amen. Maguire, barely hearing the last note die away, tore his gaze painfully away from the man in the last row and stood for the benediction.

The sanctuary emptied quickly after that, as people rushed home to dinners and evening plans, their consciences cleansed for another week. Maguire busied himself with the ceremony of extinguishing the candles and folding the white linen cloth. As he went about the work of cleaning up, he avoided touching the chalice or looking at the wine. He did not know why, but he could not bring himself to taste what had passed the lips of the stranger in the last row. He had not watched to see where the man went after the service, or whether anyone else had seen him go. The whole incident had disturbed him, and he preferred not to think about it.

A voice behind him broke the stillness of the air. “You feed your flock well, Father.”

Maguire whirled around and saw the man leaning against the communion railing.

“Can I help you?” the priest stammered, suddenly very much aware that he was alone in the church.

The man opened the small gate that gave access to the altar area and walked slowly toward him, his boots tapping a steady rhythm on the floor. He moved with liquid strides, his weight shifting from side to side like an animal content with the knowledge that it is in complete control of a situation. He stopped several feet from Maguire. “Faith, Father,” he said. “I'd like to talk to you about faith.”

Maguire cleared his throat. “What exactly did you want to talk about?”

The man smiled, revealing the whiteness of his teeth. Maguire's hand burned in recognition, and he put it behind him, pressing it tightly into the small of his back.

“It's hard, isn't it, Father? To believe, I mean.”

Maguire ran his free hand through his hair. He couldn't look the man in the eyes. “It is,” he said slowly. “Very hard sometimes.”

The man came closer. He ran his hand along the railing as he moved, trailing his fingers along it lightly as he moved.

“Sometimes, you feel as if it isn't worth doing anymore,” he said. “As if there really isn't any reason to go on doing anything, any of this. You give and give but don't seem to get anything in return.”

He stopped in front of the priest. Maguire stared at his boots, fascinated by their shiny blackness, by the way he could move so quietly in such large shoes. The man reached out and ran his hand up Maguire's chest, pushing his chin up so that he was staring right into the black-and-gold eyes. Maguire realized that the man was a good six inches taller than he. “Am I right, Father?”

Maguire nodded. The man's smile widened. He moved his hand up along Maguire's cheek to his hair, entwining his fingers in it. Bringing his hand toward his chest, he pulled Maguire forward, forcing the priest's mouth against his own. Maguire felt the soft lips press heavily against him, the roughness of the man's unshaven skin scraping his face. He tried to keep his teeth clenched and not let the man in, but in the end he couldn't. He gave way, parting his lips and letting the stranger kiss him deeply, his tongue filling his mouth with wet heat. He tasted the sweetness of the man's mouth, was drawn into the warmth of him by the force of his breath and the pressure of the rough hand on his neck.

The man released him, and Maguire stumbled back, catching himself on the corner of the altar. He steadied himself and caught his breath. His neck ached from where the strong fingers had grasped it, and his mouth burned. The man had bitten his lip, and the earthy taste of blood teased at his tongue.

The man was watching Maguire intently, and the priest felt as if he were looking deeply into the center of a pool of dark water, trying to catch a glimpse of something that lived at the bottom and kept scuttling in and out of view. He stared transfixed as the man removed his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt, watching numbly as the fingers slid the buttons from their closings, the fabric slipping apart to reveal a broad chest thick with dark hair. The man pulled the shirttail from the waist of his jeans and undid the remaining buttons until the front of his shirt hung open.

Hair covered his well-muscled torso in fernlike sprays, running down his abdomen in a wide swatch before disappearing into his jeans. His nipples stood out cinnamon colored against his skin, and a small gold circle pierced the right one cleanly like a halo. He ran a broad hand over the planes of his belly and up to the ring, twisting it silently between his fingertips.