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I could’ve offered her a place here at the church, maybe even one of the extra rooms in the rectory, as sanctuary from her situation. Of course, she’d have to sleep in the upper level, far away from me, because the mere scent of the woman seems to put me into a chase. I don’t even want to think about her occupying the next room, so I screw my eyes shut and focus on the benign topics I wanted to address in an email to Bishop McDonnell tomorrow, and that alone sends me into the blackness.
11
Damon
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
There’s something hypocritical about standing in front of the congregation, saying those words. Even if I prepared the homily well before this morning’s mass, before I slaughtered another human beingwithoutmercy, I can’t help but feel like a fraud, preaching to them about righteousness, when I failed to embody it myself.
“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you.”
I originally wrote it in response to the upheaval over a homeless man, who was beaten to within an inch of his life for stealing a woman’s designer purse from where she’d left it by a fountain during her lunchbreak. Turns out, he stole the money to buy food for his pack of stray dogs, but when a group ofGood Samaritanstracked him down, they didn’t exactly find his act to be one of selflessness, and took it upon themselves to punish him before returning the purse.
The accompanying homily discussed the virtues of seeing beyond a man’s sin, of understanding his tribulations before casting judgment. Had I done the same, I might’ve taken into account that Chuck was abused himself as a young boy, beaten for his curiosities that might’ve been curbed with care and guidance. But I can never forgive what he did to those young girls, so if that makes me a merciless bastard, so be it.
“The Gospel of Matthew tells us not to judge, lest we’ll be judged,” I keep on. “Seems almost cliché in this day and age, but incidents like these prove we’ve not moved past the need to castigate that which we don’t understand. I’m not telling you thatanyonehas the right to steal from another, no matter what his intentions may be. It was wrong of him to take from her, and he should have been held accountable by the proper authorities. But this man now lies in a hospital bed, with his face mangled in what some are calling an act of justice. Righteousness.” I shake my head, gripping tight to the edges of the lectern, as I recalled Chuck’s limp body falling into the hole in the ground. “There is nothing righteous, or pious, in the deliberate wrath against one who sins. Let’s not forget that Jesus did not come for the righteous, he came for the sinners. Because no one is truly righteous. We all sin.” I look out over the congregation, who sit quietly, staring up at me as if I have any right to talk of righteousness and sin. “All of us.”
Afterward, I stand in the narthex, greeting everyone as they exit the church, and when Ivy walks up to me, I take her hand and lean forward. “Please come to my office after,” I whisper.
Without looking up at me, she smiles and continues on, exiting with the others. When everyone has gone, she strolls back in and follows me, past the Sanctuary, to the offices toward the back of the church. We pass the Sacristy on the right, and I quickly remove my vestments while she waits in the hallway. Once finished, we continue on, and as she enters the office, I signal for her to close the door. Taking a seat at my desk, I wait for her to sit, as well, noting the way she bows her head, as though she’s been called into the principal’s office.
“I want to apologize for yesterday. Twice now, my preoccupations have gotten in the way of being attentive to your needs.”
“I found your homily to be … interesting, Father. Is that what you believe? That those who mean us harm should be given mercy?”
“You have an exceptional situation, Ivy.”
“How so?”
Ignoring her question, I huff and sit back in my chair, gripping the arms of it. “I called you in here to offer sanctuary to you, should you need it. We can set up a cot here at the church, or I can ask Father Ruiz about allowing you to stay in the rectory.”
Something flickers in her eyes with far too much intrigue. “In the rectory? Is that where you sleep?”
“You would sleep in the upper level. There are a number of extra rooms there.”
Clearing her throat, she shifts in the chair and sets her hands in her lap. “Is that typical? I mean, do priests invite parishioners to stay there?”
“No. Not as a general rule, but as I said before, you’re something of an exception.”
“How so?”
Entwining my fingers, I search her face for any sign that she might be playing me right now, with all these seemingly innocent questions. “You have few options, according to what you told me the other day. I’m merely trying to offer a safe place for you to go, should you feel you’re in danger at any point.”
“And you would be there to comfort me.”
Comfort isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind, as the visuals of what having her stay at the rectory might mean for me toy with my thoughts. “Ivy, I’m not sure what, exactly, you’re asking of me, but I can assure you, the rectory is nothing but a safe place to sleep should you feel helpless.”
Sinking back into her chair, she crosses her legs, and I have to fight the urge to stare there. She knows this, evident in the amused look on her grotesquely beautiful face. “Don’t worry, Father. I’m not going to spend the night at the rectory.”
“Very well. I just wanted to offer. As a solution.”
A buzzing sound interrupts our meeting, and when she looks down, her brows furrow, face morphing from the wily smile of a moment ago to something more sobering.
“Is everything okay?”
Fingers threaded through her hair, the look of worry intensifies. “I have to go.”
“Ivy, I don’t want you to walk out of here feeling alone. Please tell me you know you have options.”
