The sun rose, slicing rays through the early morning mist and I wondered what the day would bring out of me. Long gone were the ideas of keeping secrets or saving face. This seven day confession was my one and only ticket out. Out? God knows that wasn’t really what I wanted. I loved the priesthood, even the hard parts; especially the hard parts. The chance to be of service is like an addiction for me and the sensation of God working through me, humbling beyond words. But my flaws had become paralyzing. Even God, if not the Cardinals had to understand this. I just couldn’t continue any longer. My feet were buried so deep in the shit I am and the shit I knew, I saw no way to move ahead or do my job. An ineffective priest is worse than an incompetent physician. Far more dangerous. How long had I been paralyzed by my limitations? Way too long. If they knew it all, they might even give me a ticket home to Australia; just to get me as far away from the perceived purity of the Vatican as possible. But how different had I been from the standard dogma? My life had been one long façade from so far back I could hardly remember.

Paul was snoring, curled like a kid on the passenger seat so I let my eyes drift closed and my mind wonder. When had the cover up begun? When did I realize the fact that I had so fucking much to hide? Childhood? Probably. People don’t like you when you’re different. It wasn’t as though I didn’t try to be like them, I just wasn’t. I shuffled in the reclined seat behind the wheel searching for comfort, another hour of peaceful, silent sleep but my mind was in overdrive. All I ever wanted to be was bloody normal. Average. So what do I do? Every stinking thing on earth to set me apart. Did I do that on purpose? I was shaken from my reverie by the distinct sound of metal clacking on the window near my face, my eyes popped open to the sight of a police badge and I straightened the seat, slid the window opened.

“What are you guys doing here?” The copper eyed us suspiciously.

“Morning officer,” Paul said respectfully, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Long drive, we needed a little rest before we could move on.”

“This is a State Park,” the policeman grunted. “Closes at sunset.”

“Sorry,” said Paul. “Didn’t realize.”

“License and registration please, both of you,” he spouted and we rolled in the seats, reaching into pockets.

I waited until Paul passed his to me then handed them over. This should be interesting. I watched the cop flip open the twin black cases displaying our drivers license and Vatican certifications, did my best not to grin. Cops. Just like priests in lots of ways. One thing I know; cops out of uniform and priests without their collar are a dangerous lot. The discovery of our station in life would bring about one of two reactions. People either love a priest or they hate him. All depends on their experiences, I suppose. In mine, I clearly know the similarities between an interrogation room and the Confessional. It could go well or fucking awful, depending on the mood Father Piss-arse Superiority or Captain Dickhead was in on a given day. I was confident that nothing bad was going to happen, but curious how it would all play out.

“Where are you heading, Fathers?”

There it was; the attitude. This guy probably had a thousand things he’d never confessed. But then again, he might not be Catholic. He might just think the Catholic Church was a different country from America, a whole culture he didn’t respect or care about.

“Traveling west, sir,” I piped up. “Heading for a case in St. Louis.” Lie number one.

“A case?” His brow curled and he handed the identification through to me.

“Some loon, preaching on the Cohokia Burial Mounds. Odd.” And lie number two. I wondered if Paul would jump in before I’d ignite, the fires of hell shooting right out of my chest.

“Huh?” The copper’s lips were tight, white at the corners.

“Yeah, mate, it’s what we do, check out the weird things of life.” Well, that wasn’t quite a lie, now was it?

He scratched his head. “You Australian?”

“Yes, he is,” finally Paul chimed in. “We’re sorry about this.”

After a grunt then resignation, he patted the hood of the car. “Sleep in a motel. Drive carefully, Fathers.”

I slid the window closed and chuckled, turned the key and pulled onto the road smoothly in front of the black and white.

“How the hell did you ever get into the priesthood?” Paul groaned, watching the police drive passed us.

“Aced the lie detector test. It’s easy; all you got to do is believe your lies.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I found the interstate and headed west, superstitiously making my deception true. St. Louis sounded like a destination I could deal with. It was still far away, as were the remainder of my confessions. And we had time, five days by my count, before I had to have Paul back to the airport in Kentucky.

“No, seriously, Michael. I’ve been beside you every step of the way and it’s mind
boggling. Your climb through the ranks is remarkable. No one has ever done it so quickly. Was that your career strategy?”

“Strategy?” I grunted. “I told you, I had no plans, not even to be a priest. It all just happened.”

“Tell me about it, everything. Maybe we can figure this out. A handyman, just a troubled kid, majors in theology in seminary, goes from Ordination to parish pastor in two short years; then miraculously into the Ecclesiastical Academy where most priests can only hope for an opportunity when they’re maybe fifty and you were what? Twenty four? From there, directly into the most powerful department in Vatican City. What gives? I swear it keeps me awake nights thinking about it.”

“You need a life,” I teased.

“This is my life. How much of this was in Alex Benedict’s hands?”

I shrugged. “Probably a lot. He had some strange idea that I had something he didn’t. Some kind of vision. I don’t know. I got to admit I was shocked when he was promoted and stationed to Rome. It made no sense that I’d take his place at St. Anthony’s, but that was the edict. So I just did my best.” I chuckled. “It wasn’t great, but things got done. Two years of hellish confusion. When I got the invitation for Academy, I was sure they’d made a mistake. Figured I’d grill Alex when I got there, but …”

“He died before you left for Rome,” Paul finished for me.

“Yeah.”

“I remember your concerns. Sorry I was so busy, I hardly saw you during that time.”

“Could’ve used your advice, especially after I finished the Academy courses. That was one strange day.”

*

The invitation came by hand to my dorm late on the night before graduation. I fingered the fine parchment a long time before I could muster the courage to break the wax stamp. What I’d hoped was not to be. There were no answers in that note. I’d been invited to tea with some of Alex's Cardinal friends. The haul through Ecclesiastical Academy was brutal. Everything from foreign language studies to political laws to cultural and social instruction, all geared for something I couldn’t figure out. What did a priest need all that for? After all, most graduates of the Academy were lucky to be assigned a position as Vatican secretary. Granted, typing an official letter to the president of Zimbabwe needed to be done appropriately, but it all seemed overkill to me. All in all I’d done well, and they probably wanted to just pat me on the back for accomplishing … what? So the invitation wasn’t an answer, only more questions. I’d become wary of questions and tests as of late. If they wanted me to do something, why didn’t they just tell me?

I arrived, heart pounding, exactly on time and was greeted at the door by Cardinal Gilantti, a short elderly man with Father Phil’s rotund physique but thankfully far more personality. He smiled and welcomed me then led me to an over-furnished room where I was instructed to sit at the head of a huge table surrounded by several red clad Cardinals. No one smiled and I started to get the willies, after all it was pretty heady stuff for a twenty-six year old man of my station to be sitting with such powerful men of the Church. I looked congenially at each of those faces and found nothing obviously menacing about them, but I couldn’t shake a strange sensation that overtook me. I glanced around the room. It was neat and elegant, but there was something oddly familiar about the strange energy in there. I cleared my throat and nodded thanks to the priest who served tea. I reached over and took a few cookies, trying at casual but my fingers shook so hard I dropped the pastry, shattering it into crumbs on the fine linen tablecloth.

“Uh, sorry. I’m sorry.” A few of the Cardinals eyed each other and I felt even more ill at ease. “Guess I’m a bit nervous. Sorry.”

“My son, it’s just a cookie. No harm done, have another.” I don’t know which one of them had spoken; there was a buzzing right behind me that distracted me so much that I could hardly pay attention to anything else.

The men in red talked among themselves, and Cardinal Gilantti struck a pleasant conversation with me about Alex and St. Anthony’s, then everything suddenly changed. The priest/maid cleared the table of teacups and pastry trays then served wine and disappeared behind a door. Between the strange buzzing sound humming at my back and my raw nerves, I was sure I was about have some kind of stroke if I didn’t get out of there. I took a deep breath and prepared to excuse myself graciously.

Cardinal Gilantti stood and tapped a fingernail on his crystal wine glass. “My dear Cardinals, I’d like to be the first to welcome Father Michael Becker. Father Becker is here today at the request of our dear friend and colleague, the late Bishop Benedict. As you know, I have proposed this gathering in order to make Father Becker aware of our intentions. Cardinal Fossie, if you please?”

My eyes roamed the table until they fell on the thin graying man in the far corner. Cardinal Fossie was one of my instructors at the Academy. He specialized in the study of spiritual phenomena and there was no surprise as to why he and Alex were friends. Their interests and personalities were strikingly similar. I sat back, ignored the vibration at my back, and listened carefully to what the Cardinal had to say.

“My son, first of all we would all like to congratulate you on your exemplary performance in Ecclesiastical Academy.” The men nodded and smiled and I was a bit embarrassed, wondering at all the formality and delays. Thankfully Cardinal Fossie was a man with very efficient communication skills; at least that’s how I saw him, although several of my classmates found him far too briskly verbose for their tastes. “As you may or may not know, Bishop Alex Benedict had a very specific reason for placing you in the pastor position at St. Anthony’s. You are a very young man, Michael, and no priest with less than two years experience as pastor may enter Academy.”

Well, I marveled, that certainly explained why all of my classmates were more than a decade older.

“His plan was well managed and his intentions were clear from the moment he arrived here in Rome. Alex actively campaigned for your acceptance at Academy, against many odds, I might add. And now that you’ve met all of his and our expectations, the time has come to place you on a road that will take you on a journey even you could not have imagined.”

I raised my hand, stupidly as any student in class and Cardinal Fossie smiled then nodded. “Excuse me, Cardinal,” I said humbly, wanting to be sure that they understood what I was about to say. “But I’ve imagined nothing. I’ve wanted nothing, only to be of service.” The men exchanged glances and the strange buzzing became even more intense. “If I may ask, please, why am I here?” I spoke pretty loud, wanting to be heard over the buzzing racket that surely had to disturb them as well, even though no one seemed to notice. I rubbed the back of my neck, the hair there was standing on end.

“Patience, Michael,” Cardinal Gilantti said under his breath.

Cardinal Fossie continued. “We have seen the man you are, and we have seen the priest you are. We have been watching you for a very long time, Michael. Some of us since long before Alex even arrived. Tell me, do you understand the procedure here at the Vatican?”

I stifled a chuckle. Was he kidding? No one could possibly understand any procedure in the Vatican. The process for everything from sending a letter to finding one’s way around was so complex that it was a running joke, even among those who have lived and worked there for years. It was a marvel that the place ran so smoothly, and I suspected that there was a diabolical design behind the amazing difficulties surrounding the inner workings of the Vatican. Everyone knew exactly what they were supposed to do and where they were supposed to do it, and absolutely nothing else. It was masterful. “No Cardinal, I confess, I do not.” I said honestly.

“An Ecclesiastical Academy graduate usually works as a Cardinal’s secretary for several years before he moves on to his new placement. Under that Cardinal’s tutelage, he gains knowledge and wisdom and earns the position he is working toward.”

Again, I raised my hand. “And whose secretary will I be?” Was I being arrogant? Or was I just becoming irritated by the insistent humming?

Cardinal Fossie was obviously growing irritated and I quickly spoke to regain my footing. “I apologize, Cardinal, I mean no disrespect. It’s just that I’m eager to work.” Two years as a sedentary student had taken its toll and I was ready and willing to run with the ball. I just wanted them to tell me which way to run.

The Cardinal continued to speak but I couldn’t hear a word he said. I’d suddenly realized what the buzzing was. I knew that sound, recognized the feeling that vibrated my very heart. I tried to pay attention, but all I heard was, “And so, Michael, as you can see, we need you. Cardinal Gilantti needs you and we are prepared to move you forward immediately to that end.”

I cleared my throat. Need me for what? I was confused and wanted only to see the thing that called so desperately to me; the thing hidden somewhere behind me. Cardinal Fossie stood and walked toward me then placed an object on the table at my fingertips. “Father Becker, I must ask you. What is this item?”

I slowly un-wrapped satin fabric from its treasure. Beneath its silky robe was a small piece of what looked like a human bone. I fingered it gently. “This looks very old, Cardinal. But I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is.” I rubbed the back of my neck again and looked up at the old man. “A piece of bone?”

The Cardinal sitting beside me dropped his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes hard then looked over at me. “Yes, that is a piece of bone, Father Becker. That is a piece of St. Simon’s femur.”

I touched the bone again. Then rubbed my neck and stood abruptly. “No, Cardinal, no. That’s not.” I turned and ran my hand over the sidebar behind my chair then slid opened the second drawer and lifted a similarly wrapped parcel. Amid gasps and chatter I carefully pulled away the fabric and revealed the source of the singing sound that had been tormenting me. I held it out, confused. “This, Cardinal. I think maybe this is a piece of St. Simon’s femur.”

The room fell silent and I wanted to punch the first man who would speak. I was pissed that they’d play such a stupid trick. Didn’t they all know? I looked into their faces and every one of them was open-mouthed with surprise. All except for Cardinal Gilantti, who simply sat, his eyes closed in prayer. “But you all knew, didn’t ya?” Cardinal Gilantti opened his sad eyes and looked at me. “They knew, right? This was some kinda test, right?”

“Yes, my son. It was a test, but no one knew. No one … except you. And that is why we need you, Father Becker. Will you accept the position we offer?”

I couldn’t accept. I didn’t know what the hell they were offering. “Can ya tell me again?”

Cardinal Gilantti smiled and patted my shoulder. “Father Becker, will you work with me as Senior Papal Investigator of Spiritual Phenomena? Michael, there is great activity throughout the world right now and His Holiness requires your unique talent and sensitivity to study and identify the authenticity of these events. Will you accept?”

I nodded dumbly. After all, whatever the Pope wants, the Pope gets. The bone shard sang and my heart thumped. So that was the plan Alex had for me. A plan I was probably destined to fulfill from the moment I carried the empowered rosary into St. Anthony’s. 

“Cardinal Gilantti, I’ll do whatever is needed. I accept.”

*

“You never told me about that,” Paul stated.

How could I have? The experience and massive promotion somehow placed me into a category of the secretive. Fine with me, I never was much for discussing the strangeness of things that happened around me. I won’t lie though; all I wanted at that time was Paul’s solid point of view … that and someone, anyone to tell me that the event was fixed. It wasn’t wise to discuss it and I didn’t tell Paul about that little tea party. “No reason. It wasn’t like I had a choice or could change anything. Even if I refused, it would have been my placement. It was what it was. My new job. Turned out to be good. Interesting. Simple actually.”

“How so?” Paul pointed to a restaurant and I pulled into the parking lot.

“All I really had to do was go where they sent me, talk to a few people and make my report. Ever seen that questionnaire?”

He shook his head. Of course he hadn’t, Paul wasn’t privy to the secrets of my department.

“Sixty pages of questions and pre-printed ‘yes’ and ‘no’ boxes to check off. Only hard part was the last question.”

“And that was?”

“My recommendation.” I scratched my temple and pushed hair out of my face. “The dreaded essay question. Like I knew what they were looking for? All I ever gave was my opinion. Put the ball back in their court.”

We took a table and I kept jabbering. “Some cases were challenging, most just strange. My secretary, Father Sam Potts, a Yank from Queens, used to give me my itinerary and plane tickets with a wicked grin. ‘How silly is your job?’ he’d say.” I chuckled. “There was this beekeeper in Brazil …”

*

Brazil was beautiful but the Bee Charmer was a fraud. His ex-wife, a German- born chemist was kind enough to explain the physiological reasoning behind the bee charmer’s one and only healing. Every other person who came to man was inflicted with several bee stings and fell drastically ill, three had in fact died. But the people kept coming and that bloke may still be attempting his healings to this day.

From Brazil I was sent directly to Peru where I investigated a soft spoken young man in rags carrying a crumpled picture of the Virgin Mary. This bloke believed that he was one of Christ’s apostles, returned to finish his job. He could not tell me which apostle, only that he knew he had work to do, that the Virgin had spoken to him. The man had several hundred followers, poor people who had traveled hundreds of miles to follow the teachings of the new apostle. They camped at his feet, prayed with him and listened to his every word. The only problem was that he was quoting the contemporary bible verbatim.  The curiosity was that he quoted it in no less than fifteen different languages. It was baffling, but not a miracle, or even a true spiritual event. It was harmless, even endearing, and I found myself often praying for that man.

My world-wide tour continued; after Peru I traveled to of all places New Zealand, where I had the honor to discuss the very rosary I’d carried to Alex, with a descendant of the maker of that empowered object. I was pleased to see that the Vatican had finally taken notice of the rosary, especially since my research had surfaced no prior investigation. That particular report was the most pleasurable I would ever write, even though the criteria clearly disqualified the rosary as sacred on several levels. I shrugged it off.

I traveled and traveled and traveled. From New Zealand to Belize. From Belize to Caracas, from there to Malaysia then off to Turkey and finally, Rome. Home. Each investigation uncovered amazing information and extraordinary curiosities. Each one, disqualified. I loved the adventure of discovery, but was heart wounded with every dead end. I knew I was doing my job and doing it well. But I knew that there was a true miracle out there, a real empowered object and an absolute, unquestionable spiritual phenomena … dare I say a miracle. I only hoped that I’d someday find it.

*

“How did it feel to be searching for … a miracle?” Paul asked, watching my face closely and probably seeing me close off like a vault.

Asking such a thing is like asking a detective if he looks for crimes. It’s arse-backwards. A crime occurs and the detective attempts to solve it. My job was supposed to be that way. I was to respond to the incidents my superiors deemed worthy and simply try to solve them. Searching for a miracle? The very concept is the breach that represented my flaws. Odd, a few simple words and I couldn’t even address it. Even I couldn’t admit it was my goal. That was against the rules and the rules are very clear.

I shifted in my seat as though a fire was lit under me; left for the men’s room where I washed my hands and stared at my reflection in a mirror. Yes, I’d broken the rules, purposely sought the unthinkable and in most cases they were right. Most cases were as far from miracles as they could get. But the illusive Holy Grail was out there, I knew it; looked for it like a thirsty man in the desert. The only problem was … I had no plan for what to do if and when I came face to face with it. If I had a plan, could it have gone better? I stared at the bloke staring back at me in the mirror. “No, it would not have gone better,” I whispered and headed back to the table. I wasn’t going any further with the subject.

Thankfully Paul got the message. It was me who tossed my soul back into the dangerous arena.

“What was your most interesting case?” he said casually, chomping on a mouthful of fries.

“There were plenty. But … of course … of course … Angela Mendez.” Had I really said that and was I ready for it? My mate never missed a beat.

“How did you learn about her?”

*

The pace was relentless and the travel grueling. There were times I saw nothing of a city but the airport, and there were times I saw far more than I wanted to see. The investigations were increasingly more complex and difficult. I found myself learning more about psychology, physiology and chemically induced delusions than I ever cared to know or dreamed existed. I spoke to people from every station in life, diversified cultures and outrageous religions. But not once did I sense the power of the rosary, felt the buzz and vibration my mother possessed or witnessed a truly miraculous event. My faith in people was diminishing with every waking hour. Among the cases I investigated, no less than seventy percent were deliberate frauds, low-lives who’d managed to manipulate those who trusted and believed in them. Their exploitation reached as far as the Vatican, which spent millions each year sending investigators like me out on wild goose chases.

But, there was an up side. Well, it may not seem so eventful to someone outside my rather closed but eclectic world; but I had apparently made a friend. A poor man I’d met on my first investigation in Mexico City had managed to keep in touch with me. He wrote regularly, generously sharing his meager life with me, a life I must say I envied beyond reason at times. He owned a small printing company and would often send me some of the more entertaining samples of his work. He was a real character, Carlos. He drank too much, slept with more women than I’ve probably seen in my entire life, and gave me a laugh at times when I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to laugh.

Carlos was interested in spiritual phenomena. He had some knowledge and a thousand fascinating theories. Often I’d share the results of some of my less complex cases with him. He seemed to enjoy that, his enthusiasm made uniquely obvious by return mail. The most satisfying part of returning home to Rome, aside from the rejuvenation of kneeling in prayer in the Chapel, was organizing all of Carlos’ accumulated letters by date and reading them in order.

“One more.” Sam tossed another envelope at me. “Post marked Mexico City. What’s our rowdy real-world buddy up to these days?”

I smiled. “Don’t know yet. I’m planning to read them after dinner.”

“I suggest you pack them in your suitcase. You’ll be off to the States before dawn, you lucky stiff.”

“So I'll read them on the plane. Where in the States?”

“Columbus, Ohio. I don’t know the details, but Cardinal Fossie was adamant about getting you on the first possible flight.”

I sighed and scratched my chin, then tore open the envelope, needing to hear something entertaining and solid from Carlos. “What’s Columbus, Ohio like?”

“Never been there, but man, its America! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been home?"

I shook my head.     

“Four years.”

“Four years? Sam, surely you’ve had vacation time, you could have gone home at least once.”

“And leave all this excitement?” Sam rolled his eyes then became serious. “There’s too much to do. With my luck someone will finally come across …”

He stopped abruptly and I knew he too was afraid to say the word. The allusiveness of the possibility was overwhelming and few of us ever said it. “A miracle?” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you come with me, Sam. Come to America with me this trip.”

Sam shrugged then picked up a stack of folders and headed for the door. He turned and dropped into a chair. “Maybe next time, Michael. Maybe next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that definite maybe.” Sam needed to go home. Everyone needed to go home sometime.

He sat silently, deep in his own thoughts so I turned my attention to Carlos’ elegant handwriting, an elaborate series of curlicues that made even the foulest obscenity look regal. Halfway down the letter my mouth dropped in surprise and I carefully re-read the passage several times.

“What? What’s he say?” I’d forgotten Sam was there.

He walked behind me. I folded the paper, tapped it on my desk several times than tucked it into my breast pocket. “Can you get in touch with Cardinal Gilantti?”

“I’m not sure; he’s with his family in Tuscany. Why?”

“Sam, it’s real important that you reach him. I need to talk to him immediately.”

“I’m on it, boss.”

As I walked up the cement path to a modest ranch house in the suburbs of Columbus, I tried not to wonder if Cardinal Gilantti would call, hopefully leave a message at the hotel. I knew I needed to focus on the investigation at hand, but Carlos’ letter burned a hole from my pocket directly into my heart.

“Jesus, give me strength to be focused, fair and open,” I prayed softly before I tapped on the door. For all I knew, the young man inside that house could be the one, the empowered person performing the miracle I wanted so much to see, and I owed him my full attention.

It took only three days to discover the truth about young Robert Casey. Oddly enough the most pertinent piece information came from his five-year-old brother. The child calmly described the events he’d witnessed as we took a walk in the nearby playground. It never failed to amaze me where the answers presented themselves. I was simply seeking a pleasant diversion, some fresh air and the joyful sound of a little boy laughing and playing on the monkey bars.

The child’s account of Robert’s moments of spiritual clarity send me on a research trip to the Cleveland Clinic. With his family at his bedside, it was disclosed that the young man’s spiritual events were in fact a case of both medical illness and recurring paranormal psychological episodes. Poor Robert was suffering from mild epileptic seizures combined with extraordinarily high extrasensory perception sensitivity. He was not a prophet, just a high-school boy who was very sick and confused.

“I’m really sorry, Father. Looks like we wasted your time.”

I glanced at the IV drip, then down at the boy and smiled. “Don’t be, mate. You didn’t waste my time. This is my job. And to tell you the truth, this is one of the few times I’m actually happy about the way things turned out. I was able to get you some help, and besides,” I leaned close and spoke softly. “Trust me; you don't really want that kind of life, Rob. I think God’s blessed you by making you normal, and I for one am very pleased for you and your family.”

“I think I disappointed my mom. Can you talk with her? Maybe make her feel better about all this?”

“Sure, mate,” I stood then drew a cross on his freckled forehead.

“Thanks Father Becker.”

“No, Rob, thank you. See you ‘round. You take care and do what the doctors tell you.”

Cardinal Gilantti called me the moment I entered my hotel room, exhausted from the long drive back to Columbus and pleased with the results of my trip. We talked, well I talked non-stop for nearly forty minutes before the Cardinal stopped me and asked for a copy of the letter. I ran down to the lobby and had it faxed to a copy shop in Tuscany. Then I sat in my room and waited.

He called again two hours later and before nightfall I was booked on a flight to Mexico City. From there Carlos would take me Hermosillo where I would see what I was somehow sure would be a true miracle.

Practicality didn’t set in until I stepped off the plane. I had no way of reaching Carlos. He had no phone and I only knew of a post office box. None of his printing samples noted the location of his shop. Realizing my dilemma I stopped dead just off the jetway causing something that resembled a domino effect behind me. As I was apologizing, out of nowhere, Carlos appeared wearing rags and a huge grin. “Mi compadre!”

We laughed and embraced like two old army mates then he took my bag, slung it carelessly over a shoulder and led me out of the airport.

 “How did you know I’d be here, mate?”

“Now that, my dear friend is a very long story. You see, one of my lovers is a seer.” His eyes twinkled and I was sure he was joking.

“A seer? And I suppose she can do lots of other things as well.”

His face became very serious, black eyes focused directly in mine, no hint of the congenial man I knew. “Come, padre. We must catch the bus in fifteen minutes. We will have a long time to talk during the ride. There is much to tell you.”

*

I couldn’t speak another word. After chattering like a monkey for so long, it was like I suddenly hit a roadblock. I looked into Paul’s eyes, mine begging for peace. After all, I did answer his question, told him how I found Angela Mendez, right?

He stretched out on his side of the booth in what would have appeared to be relaxed comfort. But the fire was burning in his brain and I could see it. I braced myself for his next question.

“Let’s shake things up a bit, take another direction. Remember that talk we had at the Vatican? About one lovely American woman named Meredith?”

“Christ, Paul,” I snorted. “You’re giving me whiplash.”

“Look, we’re going to do this my way. Michael, have you ever had a twelve course formal meal?”

“’Course I have. Royal meals, Vatican meals. Department meals.”

“Then you know how it works. Every other course is designed to cleanse the pallet before the next rich course.”

“That what I am to you? A feast?”

His head shook sadly then he squared his shoulders. “We’ll do it my way. Eventually, you’ll be guiding this. For now, I want to hear about Meredith.”

“You know all this stuff.”

“Tell me again.”

I laughed, relieved that things were going to be lighter. Paul certainly knew what he was doing. Although my imagining was that an exploration about pretty Mere was a waste of time, I was more than happy to go there. “Alright. It was my first year at St. Anthony’s. Alex thought I’d be a good teacher. Mere was our secretary and we were friends.”

*

I dropped a stack of books on the desk with a groan, looked around my tiny office and laughed aloud. What on earth was Father Benedict thinking, putting me in a teacher’s position, asking me to instruct fifth graders in catechism and, of all things, literature?   

The church was an old but thriving one, boasting a school enrollment of over three hundred students from first to eighth grade and a small, soon to explode high school of nearly ninety teenagers. The parish supported twenty three nuns, two lay teachers, and of course, me.

The rectory too had grown with the addition of Father Ron Keily taking over as principal. Unfortunately he was working mostly with the convent problems. The sisters were suffering great challenges with the new school format; for the first time in St. Anthony’s history, the school was co-ed and the boys found it far easier to get over on a nun than they had attempting to do so with Father Phil or Father Reese, both substantial, large men.

In my first six weeks as teacher I found little trouble with the students, boys or girls. They were bright, happy children for the most part. I encouraged open dialogue in my class and organized rugby and soccer games during recess, so perhaps they thought of me as more of a mate than a teacher; I was, after all, the youngest priest at St. Anthony’s. But I found the size of the classes a bit overwhelming at times. When I was in catholic school, we had perhaps twenty students in a class. I was daily placed before as many as fifty children crammed uncomfortably into a small space and expected to learn from a teacher surely not even qualified to teach them how to use public transportation.

I flipped open a book, tossed a lined pad on the desk and searched for my pencil. I was crawling out from under my desk, still pencil-less, when I heard a voice.

“It’s behind your ear, Michael.” Meredith walked in unannounced, as was her American style, and plopped into my guest chair. “It’s always behind your ear.”

I blinked, checked then grinned. “I knew that.” I climbed up and grunted into my seat, took the pad and tossed it unceremoniously over my shoulder and she laughed. “What the hell am I doing, Mere? I’m not a teacher.”

She reached back and pushed the door closed. “You don’t look in the mirror much, do you? Michael, teaching isn’t just about curriculum and books and attendance records, it’s about passion and an ability to communicate. You, my friend have an overabundance of both.”

I open my mouth to protest but she just continued. I slouched in my chair, my head leaning back on my locked fingers and let the river that was Meredith flow.

“Besides, these kids are starving to learn, it can’t be all that hard to teach them. Catechism; you are catechism, you live it and they can see that.”

“And literature?” I interrupted, figuring I’d stump her with that one. It didn’t work.

“You can tell one hell of a story. That’s literature. Teach them to listen to a story, they’ll learn how to read one and eventually how to write one. See. Simple.”

I leaned forward on my elbows. “How do you do that?”

She shuffled through the papers she’d carried in with her. “What?”

“Make the complex sound irritatingly simple.”

“Because it is simple. Irritating or not. I stopped in to bring you your messages. I swear I spend more time running between the rectory and this school to convey important messages to you guys. Does this school year ever end?”

I reached for the messages. “It just started, baby. Get used to it. What have we got here?” I really didn’t want to read through all of them and I was sure she’d tell me anyway. I set them aside and listened.

“Father Benedict called from the Seminary to ask you to cover his hospital rounds for the next few days.”

I sat up straight. “Are you sure –”

She waved her hand. “Don’t worry; he’s fine, just working things out for the new freshman curriculum. It’s his only joy you know.”

I was still concerned, she could tell. She leaned toward me and spoke softly. “Michael, his doctor’s appointment was yesterday, I’ve spoken to Dr. Ferris and he’s very happy with Alex’s progress. Honest. He said the man will probably outlive us all. Now,” she reached over and took the stack of messages from my desk, shuffling through them like a deck of cards. “Let’s see. The city council is still waiting for that student survey information, is that you or Father Phil? Ah, Father Phil, sorry, minor brain fart.

“But these are yours, a call from the clean-up committee; seems that after last weekend’s social, Mrs. Dewberry found some not- so-nice magazines in the basement when she was putting the punch bowl away.”

I chuckled. “The six pack.” I had a group of kids who loved to play in the church basement. Good kids, but pretty rambunctious.

“Those kids are far too young for smut!” She gave an exaggerated gasp.

“No, they’re not, I guess. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call the shocked and appalled Mrs. Dewberry too.” I took the paper from her hand.

Mere sighed. “Don’t be too hard on them. God, I remember junior high. All I could think about was boys and all I could pay attention to was David Yates.”

I smiled and leaned back. “David Yates? Why Ms. Howell, don’t tell me you were one of those kind of girls.”

“I most certainly was. Normal as they come. And David was a god. Tall, lean, blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes,” she looked directly at me. “Like yours. He was the basketball hero and I was mad for him. Ah, the thrill of young love.”

“And how long did that romance last?”

She shuffled through the messages again. “The infatuation lasted years; the romance lasted about fifteen minutes. You have a message from Paul; he’ll be in town next month and wants to stop in for a visit.”

“Great!” It was like having my own answering machine; I almost never had to read a message. What would I do without Meredith? I blinked and watched her lovely face encircled with its mad halo of bright red curls. She was such a joyful part in our lives and I was grateful that Alex hadn’t looked for an old housemother type secretary when we were hiring. The sound of one hardy laugh from Meredith could brighten our entire day. She was efficient, happy, and a tremendous friend. Her ability to relate to each priest in a different way made every one of us feel special. Since she and I were so close in age, I found great comfort in the growing warmth that accompanied our relationship. She wasn’t judgmental, she wasn’t a prude. She was simply the most pleasant and entertaining person I’d ever met in my life. I blinked and tunes in to her recitation.

“Two calls from that strange guy at the docks.”

I curled my brow. “Still leaving no name, no number?”

“Nope. Guess he’ll just keep trying to catch you in. Here’s your standard invitation to dinner at Mrs. Uster’s this Sunday.”

“Ah, Mere, would you mind please calling her and giving her my regrets. I promised to visit the retirement hostel Sunday, and I just can’t eat another dried up pot roast. Please?” I whined.

“Fine, fine. But you do have another dinner invitation from that Mark Benson’s parents. I’m sure they want to talk to you about his decision to go into the seminary.”

“Yeah, I know. They want me to talk him out of it.” I leaned back and rubbed my eyes. “Why on earth do parents think I’m the one to talk a boy out of becoming a priest? Hell, if I had any inclination to talk to a young man about the priesthood, especially a terrific, honorable mate like Mark Benson, it would be to talk him into it. Not the other way around. It’s not my place. I can’t do it.”

“So, don’t. But you should go and at least be polite. Eat dinner and be pleasant and if they request that you discourage the boy, you just tell them you can’t. It’ll be fine. And,” she ripped a clean piece of paper from her own notebook and jotted on it, retrieving her own pencil buried deep in an ocean of copper curls. “This message is very important.” She handed it to me and tilted her head with a smile.

Dinner. Tonight. 7:00. Brisky’s Pub.

I didn’t respond. I really needed to get prepared for the next day’s classes, especially those in the dreaded literature category.

“Come on, Michael. We haven’t gone out to eat in months. I’m getting sick of eating all alone … in my empty house … cold leftovers … just me and my cat.”

“Meredith, you don’t have a cat.”

“I know, but I thought it added an especially sad bit of pitiful imagery to my begging. Did you like it?”

“Are you feeding the cat?”

She laughed and stood up then turned to leave. “Seven sharp. I can’t promise I won’t accept a dinner proposal from another man at seven-fifteen, you know.”

“As I see it, unless David Yates walks in to Brisky’s, I’m pretty safe,” I teased.

She huffed and walked out, whistling down the hall, something from Oklahoma, I think. Americans, a strange breed indeed.

Another year had passed and I marveled at the depth and richness of my life. Teaching had turned out to be a simple thing after all. I enjoyed it so much, I had requested more assignments. Father Benedict, in his great wisdom threw me a real curve, passing me on to the eighth graders and I learned quickly that simple for an eleven year old was certainly in another galaxy when a young man or woman was facing puberty. But, once again I trudged through it until I found the key, the communication that worked best when the brain was otherwise occupied with affairs of a physical nature. I placed my students in the highest regard, respecting their needs and personalities. I started every class with a ten minute open discussion covering anything they wanted to talk about. Ten minutes to get it off their chests. Discussions ranged from fashion, to movies. From sexual attraction to family matters and they seemed to relax afterwards, ready and willing to move on to the work at hand.

I was driving to Brisky’s for my standing Thursday dinner with Meredith. Those evenings were among the highlights of my week. Her insights and ideas where teaching was concerned were invaluable. Mere had a unique life perspective that I found informative and entertaining. She loved to talk about books and music, politics and people, putting her personal twist on everything, making the mundane enjoyable. She had the inside scoop on Alex’s health, having developed a great relationship with his doctor. I was thrilled to be able to watch out for him armed with important medical information. I watched his medication, making sure he was taking it and I did my best to sidetrack any possible problem that shouldn’t have to end up on his desk in the first place.

I looked at my watch, seven-twenty-three. I hated to be late. Being late for dinner with Mere was like was like missing a train to someplace wonderful. I quickly parked and jogged into the pub. There she was, her hair glowing gold and orange under the dangling light fixture. She was in our regular booth, slumped a little, her finger circling a half empty beer glass.

I slipped into the booth and pounded out a quick drumbeat. “Sorry I’m late. Had a slight dilemma; car wouldn’t start.” Thump … thump, thump, I pounded. She raised an eyebrow and sipped her beer.

“You okay?” Could she really be angry at me? She knew the car was a piece of crap.

She sighed deeply and lit a cigarette. “What’s wrong with me?”

I blinked. “Nothing. What’re you talking about?”

She glanced across the pub at the bar. “I’m sitting here all alone for forty minutes. There are twenty-six men over there. Fifteen of them under thirty. And not one,” she held up her finger, “not one came over here to talk to me. I don’t understand. I’m young, fairly attractive. Just what the hell’s wrong with me?”

I sighed and glanced at the men. Several were in fact looking our way, but most were preoccupied with the soccer game on the television. “Well, could it be that you come here every Thursday night with a priest? Just an idea. You think?”

“You know,” she finally smiled. “You don’t have to always wear that collar.”

“I like it. It brings out my eyes.” I reached over and took one of her cigarettes. “Did you order? What are we eating tonight?”

“I’m serious, Michael. Give me your honest opinion. Tell me what’s wrong with me?”

I leaned forward. “Meredith, there’s nothing wrong with you, love. You’re amazing and not just fairly attractive. Mere, you’re beautiful, from the outside right to the core and if any man can’t see that, he’s fucking crazy.”

“You mean that?”

“Absolutely, now what’s really bothering you?” The waitress brought plates of food and I ordered a beer. “Fess up, or I’ll have to torture you with stories about Father Phil’s newest diet.”

She grinned. “That poor man. If he’d just come to grips with the fact that he’s fat, life would be so much easier for him. What is it now? A salt-free pineapple diet?” Even in humor I could sense her unhappiness.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Mere.” I looked into her pained eyes and wanted nothing more than to make her feel better. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know. I’m happy with my job. You know I love working with you guys. But, well. I’m a little bored with my life in general. I’m sad. I’m lonely. Hell. Forget it. Never mind.” She picked up her fork and stabbed at a broccoli spear.

“Go on.”

“We don’t need to do this. I really look forward to Thursday night because I don’t have to tour through my own tortured mind. I can just enjoy your company.”

“You said you were lonely. What about Patrick?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I didn’t like Patrick one bit. Maybe I was even a bit jealous of the bloke.

“What about him? He’s fine.”

“Are you two fighting?”

“Nope. We never fight.” She sipped beer and I watched her blink back a tear. “We never fight.”

I ran a hand through my hair and pushed my own plate all the way to the edge of the table, hoping the waitress would just take it away. My appetite was gone. “Baby, whatever’s
bothering– ”

“He asked me to marry him, Michael.” She picked up my unlit cigarette and flicked her lighter.

The moment my heart started pumping again I took the cigarette from her fingers and drew a deep drag. “And?”

“And what?” She shrugged. “Pat offers me the world. He loves me. He’s kind and sweet. He’s wealthy. American. He wants to marry me, take me back to the northern hemisphere and make me happy. I should be overjoyed. It’s not Pat that’s the problem, Michael. It’s marriage.”

I blinked and leaned back with a sigh. What did I really know about Meredith? Obviously our friendship didn’t include the deep dark secrets that damage us for life. Should it?

“Can I confess something?” Now she was crying, a tear dropped to her chin and I wanted to just hold her.

“Sure.”

“When my husband died, Michael … I was actually happy. I think I’m the worst human being alive. How could I be so callous?”

“Tell me about him.” I leaned forward and ran my thumb over her wet cheek.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out with a pout. “Dave was okay. He wanted to live in Sydney because his grandmother lived here. He wanted to be near her. I thought it would be an adventure, you know. And things were great at first.” She blew her nose in the paper napkin and continued. “Then it got ugly.”

I must’ve looked like I was going to leap over the table.

“No, no, nothing like that. Michael, he never touched me. And I mean never touched me, if you get my drift. He was abusive in other ways. Mean, hateful ways. It was awful.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“I couldn’t. I loved Dave. So much it hurt. He could destroy me with a look, a word. Just shatter everything inside me. No one should be in love like that. No one.”

I reached over and took her hand in mine. “How’d you meet such a charming bloke, anyway?”

Her eye twinkled and a tiny grin played on her lips. “He was the school basketball hero.”

I blinked. “But, you said that romance lasted fifteen minutes.”

“It did.”

I shook my head, only an American would put a disastrous adult relationship into junior high terms. “His name was Yates, right? So you went back to your maiden name?”

She nodded.

“You’re afraid it will be the same with Patrick?”

“Well, not really. It’s different with Pat. He’s so good to me that well, I don’t really think I deserve it. Maybe I shouldn’t accept his proposal. Maybe I’m just not someone who does marriage very well. Things are okay like they are. I’m not sure I should ask for trouble, open a can of worms I might not be good enough for, you know? I mean, we’ve been together for a year now.”

I smiled a crooked grin. “Are you intimate?”

“Do you want to know if I’m having pre-marital sex, Father Becker?” She resumed poking at her plate. “Are you asking as my friend, or as my priest?”

“As your friend who happens to be a priest.” I pulled my plate close. Maybe I could eat a bite or two.

“Do I have to tell you?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure I wanted her to.

“Yes, Pat and I are intimate.”

Turned out I didn’t want to eat after all. I pushed food around the plate and set down my fork.

She stacked both full plates and called the waitress to remove them, ordering fresh beers and offering me a cigarette. “Now, your turn.”

“My turn?” I took a deep drag and let it out slowly.

“Yes, I’ve told you something really private. Now you have to tell me something just as private.”

“What? Like what color skivvies I wear?”

“No,” she smiled her radiant smile and I simply melted, my heart thumping. Meredith was a survivor. She’d be fine, Patrick or not. “I want to know how you do it? How do you live without intimacy? I’m certainly no nun. Sex is an important part of my life and I don’t think I’d be too happy if I was never going to have it.” She shuffled in the booth and sighed. “Michael, you’re such a passionate, gentle human being. How do you live without intimacy?”

I sipped my beer. “I have intimacy, Mere. Intimacy isn’t about sex. It’s about the intensity of relationship. The depth of it. I have that intensity with you and it satisfies me greatly. It’s a joyful connection with another human being. It … you … complete my life. Make it whole. I’d much rather have this kind of intimacy without sex, than sex without intimacy.”

“But, Michael, you’ve chosen a life that eliminates the possibility of having both. It’s only half.”

“No, it’s not. Not really. See, I have consciously, deliberately chosen this life. And what I get from it is astounding. Mere, I can hardly begin to tell you the immense joy and fulfillment of living this life, my life; celebrating mass, saying the words, witnessing the Consecration; that miracle, those powerful moments. Whether I’m offering six o-clock mass for a pitiful few insomniacs, or Sunday high mass, it’s the same. It’s a profound glimpse at God’s plan. My life is a series of ongoing miracles. It’s a gift. Sex is a small sacrifice.”

“Have you ever had sex?” She asked without preface, without warning and I nearly choked, then laughed aloud.

“Yes, Mere, I have.”

“How many times?”

“Once. Well, technically twice.”

“Did you love her?”

I had to think for a moment. I hadn’t thought about Lisy in years. “Yeah, I think I did. She was older than me. I was sixteen, she was almost twenty, a bit more experienced and I’m not real proud to say that I don’t think I was very good at it.” I grinned.

“So you became a priest?”

I laughed, long and deep. “Hell, Meredith. I’m sure I’d have improved with practice.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Sweetheart, there are so many reasons I became a priest I couldn’t begin to explain them. Suffice it to say that I’m happy. Happy with my life, my friendship with you, my ministry, whatever God sets in my path.”

“Wow.” She pushed heavy red waves from her face then looked directly into my eyes. For a moment we were lost there together, pondering the wonder of each other, the impossibilities of it. “You know, I love you,” she whispered.

“Yes. And you know I love you,” I said softly. I blinked and glanced at the men at the bar. I had to loose her to someone, so why not a wealthy American? “Sweetheart, don’t compromise. Ever. These blokes are worthless. Patrick isn’t my favorite but I’m not going to marry him. You got to do what’s best for you. I stand by you no matter what.”

She blinked back a tear. “You love me that much?”

“That much.” And more. I think I actually heard my heart crack in two.

Less than six weeks later I stood at the altar and married Meredith and Patrick. He took her away to Virginia. It turned out that Patrick raised standard bred racehorses and I teased them that if I’d have known that, I would have married him myself.

Meredith was gone. And my heart broke a little.

The next time I saw her was the last time I spoke to my congregation and the day before I left for Rome. I’d been pastor of St. Anthony’s for two years by then. I stood at the pulpit and suddenly forgot all the well crafted words I’d planned. Of course, they all had heard of my departure and stories abounded about the why’s and when’s of it. I gazed at their faces and sighed.

“Mates, I don’t know what to say. I’ve been called to work elsewhere and I must obey.” I left the pulpit and thumped my butt on the step before them. No one gasped, they’d become used to my silly casual behavior. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to leave. I truly care about each and every one of you.” I looked at the faces focused intensely on mine; faces of friends and students. The faces of people I’d come to think of as family and my heart ached. “You have helped me through some of the toughest times of my life. You’ve given me your time, your patience, your money even when you had so little. You’ve built and altered this beautiful place so that it is a home, your home. And for a short, blessed time, mine. I’m eternally grateful to each and every one of you for doing this, for standing beside me even when you must have surely questioned everything coming out of my mouth. You are the true warriors, mates. The true people of God.”

And that’s when I saw her. Perhaps it was the whimper of a child or the clearing cough of an old man that drew my attention to the far corner of the church. But there she was. It was the glow of golden orange hair that confirmed it, then that smile, that amazing smile that could only belong to Meredith, and I felt my heart leap in my chest. How could she have known to come and see me off? I cleared my throat.

“So, my dear friends, I’m off to Rome ... without you, and the very idea of it shakes me to the bone. All I can ask is that you keep me in your prayers. Support everything here, and continue to be the good people you are.” I stood and returned to the pulpit, all eyes swiveling to keep me in focus. “I will miss you deeply. Let us pray.”

A long stream of handshakes occupied nearly an hour outside the church after mass, but there, near the end; she took my hand in hers and leaned close. “We have to talk.”

“Sure. Meredith, you look great, I mean, it’s great to see you. What’re you doing here? How’d ya know I'm leaving tomorrow?” I couldn’t release her hand, I was so happy to see her.

“I didn’t. But the timing is serendipitous. Can we talk?”

“Meet me at the rectory in fifteen.”

“No, Michael, not here, please.”

“Brisky’s?”

“No.”

Others were pushing forward, reaching for my hand, my attention. “Where?”

“I’m staying at the Grand. Room 419.” And she was gone, melted completely into the crowd that milled about outside the doorway.

Something told me to call her room and have her meet me in the lobby, but I was too excited to see her to be logical.  Meredith was in Sidney and that made me inexplicably happy. She appeared a bit edgy when she let me in. It seemed obvious that she needed my help and I was more than pleased to do that, but as I accepted a whiskey and sat on her bed, I suddenly began to wonder why I was there. We made small talk, not a skill either of us were very good at, for nearly and hour. Finally I stood and looked down at her sad face. “Enough of this silliness. Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I left him, Michael.”

I blinked back heartache for her, then tried to make light of it. I didn’t know what else to do. “Damn, Mere, you’re the first marriage I ever performed!”

“Yeah, and it didn’t stick.”

“What happened?”

Mere was a tough one. Not a tear, not a sad sigh, just the facts. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t sure about divorce just yet. But something was missing.

“You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

She sighed then poured more whisky.

I walked up to her and took her shoulders in hand. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, Michael.”

“Is he cheating?”

“No,” she finally faced me. “I am.”

I raised a brow and sat down. That was unexpected. “Alright, Mere, that doesn’t mean it’s the end. It just means, it could just mean that maybe you needed more than he …”

She laughed. “There’s no fucking way you will ever be able to council troubled marriages, Michael. Look at you! Your hands are sweaty, you can hardly breathe. What shakes you more? That a well adjusted American woman couldn’t be happy with a wealthy husband or that I’d cheat on him? Which, by the way isn’t exactly the case.”

I chose to ignore her observations about my inadequacies and focused instead on her final statement. “What do you mean, not exactly the case? Either you did or you didn’t.”

“Say the words, Michael. Ask me if I fucked someone other than my husband.”

I swallowed hard, unsure why it mattered to me anyway. “Did you?”

“The words.”

“Did you fuck another man?” I think someone else said it, because I couldn’t recognize the sound of my own voice. Christ, I was sitting with Meredith and the last thing I wanted to be doing was arguing the commandments with her.

She stopped smiling and finally a tear dropped from her eye. “I tried, but I couldn’t. I never cheated on him that way. I cheated on him with my heart, Michael. I never gave him my heart. See, I love you, not my husband. You. It has always been you.”

I was speechless. No words would come no matter how many times I opened my mouth to speak. Hadn’t we been through that already? Didn’t she realize the uniqueness of our situation? Of my situation? Didn’t she know the rules? Finally only anger emerged. “What the hell are you thinking? You know how it is with us, you know we’re – ”

“We’re what? Friends? Friends who love each other but never do anything about it? Maybe you, in your pompous clerical glory can justify that bullshit but I’m just a normal human being and I can’t. I love you. I want you. And, well, I came here to get you before the fucking Vatican does.” She was crying so hard I didn’t know what to do for her. I took the sloshing glass from her hand and sat her on the bed, then knelt at her feet.

“Meredith.” I couldn’t form the right words, the ones I was supposed to be prepared to say, the ones I’d been taught to use in those kinds of situations. Somehow, they simply didn’t apply. So I said what was in my heart. “Mere, baby, I’m sorry. I do love you, I swear it, but …”

She sobbed harder and I pulled her close.

“This is how it is. I can’t change that. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I love my life just the way it is. I don’t want to hurt you; you’re the dearest friend I’ve ever had.”

“Aren’t you even a little curious?” She asked between gasps.

I blinked. The truth? “Of course I am. I’m human, for fuck’s sake.”

“Make love to me, Michael. Just once. Right now. No one will ever know and I’ll never bother you again, I swear.” She was pulling at my clothes, unbuttoning my shirt, running a warm hand down my leg.

I pushed her away and leapt to the farthest corner of the room. Not because she’d shocked me, but because I had shocked myself. I turned to the corner and leaned my hands against the wall then thumped my head hard. I wanted her. I wanted to make love to Meredith. I wanted to fuck her brains out, but I wanted something else more. “No,” I whispered.

“No one will ever know.”

“No.”

“I swear, no one will ever know!”

“I’ll know.”

After several moments I straightened my clothes and faced her. She was calm. She pushed copper curls back and sighed softly. Meredith was resigned to it. She’d given up. I just wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I stood my safe distance and cleared my throat. “You going be okay?”

“Me?” she smiled sadly. “I’m American. You Aussies think we’re made of stone. Hell, maybe we are. I’ll be just fine. I just don’t know what to do now.” She looked into my eyes, my dear friend Meredith once again behind that gaze. “Tell me what to do now that I’ve made a pathetic fool of myself.”

“You’re not pathetic, sweetheart. It’s alright. You’ll be fine.” I sat beside her and pulled her close. “Here’s what you do. Go home. Give it a go. If it still doesn’t work out for you, get a divorce and move on.”

She gave a mock gasp. “Why Father Becker, are you saying it’s okay to get a divorce?”

“As you’re best fucking friend in the world, I’m saying that you need to do what’s best for you. Got it?”

She looked up at me and nodded. Her eyes glowed with wetness and her face was so soft, so beautiful. I raised my hand and cupped that face then kissed her fully, totally unsure of what I wanted to happen next. I kissed her again, my tongue moving with purpose into her mouth, and kissed her once more, gently, and for the last time ever. She dropped her head on to my chest and I rubbed her back. “I’ll always love ya, Mere.”

“Goodbye, Michael.”

I never saw Meredith again.

*

“You still miss her?” Paul asked. Was that a statement or a question, I wondered.

“Yeah, I still think about her.”

“Never looked her up?”

“No. Why? The whole thing rattled me enough once. Wasn’t about to risk it again, mate.”

“You were pretty rattled when I talked to you,” he laughed.

“Well, I wasn’t sure I did the right thing, kissing her like that.”

“And now?”

“I did the right thing. Said goodbye. Let her go. It was one of the few things I’m pretty sure I did right.”