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With her back to me, I can see her lithe form down to slender legs, where her calf muscles bulge over black high heels. Swallowing a gulp, I force my eyes away from her, silently chiding myself for looking at her that way.
“If someone … hurts you … or threatens to hurt someone you love … is it a mortal sin to defend yourself?”
My blood freezes while my pulse quickens to a dizzying pace. I study her to see if she happens to be looking down at the mound of dirt below as she asks this question.
Don’t be so paranoid!
“Are you speaking from experience?” Arms resting on the chair, my hands ball to tight fists to calm the sudden racing of my heart.
“If I am, does that mean you’ll tell me to go to the authorities? Because I have. And they’ve done nothing about it.” As troubling as her response is, I’m glad to know it has nothing to do with the body I dumped the night before.
As my muscles ease off, I sink back into my chair and clear my throat. The challenge of answering judiciously, without feeling like a complete hypocrite, weighs heavy on my conscience, and I take a moment to consider her question. “Self-defense, itself, is not a mortal sin, so long as your intent isn’t to viciously murder someone without reason.”
“How so?”
The discussion takes me back to seminary, discussing the difference between permissible and impermissible acts, and how each essentially boiled down to the intended outcome.
“If someone threatens to hurt someone you love, and you proactively attempt to do that someone harm in retaliation, you are committing sin by virtue of seeking them out for that purpose alone. In contrast, if you witness someone being harmed, and you attempt to intervene and are attacked in the process, defending yourself and the other person is not considered a mortal sin.” I’ve practically confessed my own crime to her, as she stands staring down at the concealed evidence.
“So, I have to sit and wait for that person to come after me before I can do something about it?”
“You’ve reported this individual to the authorities?”
“So many times it’s a joke. He has connections. Friends who can make things disappear.”
In a flash of memory, I recall the day I ran into her at the hospital, and the faint bruise on her cheek that caught my attention. “Who is this person to you, if I may ask?”
“Someone who refuses to remove himself from my life. I won’t say we dated, because I don’t think we ever did. Not even when I found him a small bit charming.”
“You’ve tried a restraining order?”
“What good is it, if no one bothers to enforce it?”
“And you can’t relocate.” I don’t bother to say the reason I suspect she can’t and risk sounding cold.
“I’m not leaving my grandmother alone in the same city with him. She’s too sick to move.”
“Seems you’ve exhausted all of my usual suggestions for these kinds of things. I know of one woman who sought refuge in a shelter for abused women.”
“I have a nice apartment. My own personal sanctuary. It’s unfair that I should have to leave and hide in a shelter with a bunch of other women and children.” Huffing, she turns to face me. “I consider myself a strong person, but he’s exhausted me. To the point I feel like my only option is provoking him, so he’ll come at me, and I can call it all self-defense. But you’re telling me my very soul is doomed if I do. If I provoke him that way.”
“Have you tried talking—”
“To a therapist? A police officer? A lawyer?” Arms crossed, she leans against the window frame, looking painfully beautiful in all of her despair. “They’ve all given me the same options.” Her hand swipes at her face, and it’s then I notice she’s in tears.
Leaning forward, I reach out for her hand, offering comfort, and I’m taken aback at the softness and warmth of her skin.
Turning toward me, she wipes her tear-filled eyes again before she dips her gaze toward where her hand is swallowed by mine.
Usually, I make it a point to refrain from unnecessary touch, unless for comfort, or when greeting my parishioners after mass. But I find myself studying the feel of her more than trying to ease her thoughts. For the briefest second, I imagine those soft hands across my back, nails digging into my skin, and at the shock of such a vivid fantasy, I release her.
Clearing my throat, I straighten in my chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She tips her head, guiding my eyes to hers, and steps closer, uncomfortably close, setting off alarms inside my head. Kneeling before me, she takes my hand and, without diverting her gaze, presses those shiny red lips to my knuckles. “Thank you, Father.”
I don’t even realize my other hand is balled to a fist, until I catch her quick glance to the side, undoubtedly picking up on my distress, and her lips stretch to a smile. Every muscle in my body is seizing up, blood rushing to places it shouldn’t, and I force myself to think of something else. The body I dumped the night before in a cesspool, the paperwork I’ve left to do this afternoon, the uneventful baseball game I watched two nights ago. None of it can draw me from the long subdued effects taking over me. The scent of hers, distinctly feminine and sweet, wrapping itself around my senses, like a noose to my better judgment. Swallowing a harsh gulp, I kick the chair back a bit to add some space between us, to clarify that, whatever this is, whether in my head, or really playing out before me, it isn’t going to happen, either way.
Her fingers curl around my thigh as she uses my leg to push to a stand, and once again, I’m yanked into unbidden fantasies of her straddled across me, her skirt draped over us, concealing us, as she rides me right here in this chair. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for listening.” Her downward glance and the smile that follows confirm what I already know—my whole body is hard, my muscles creating a tight fist around my lungs in a punishing grip that steals my breath.
