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“You’re just telling me that. Not that I’m calling you a liar, because I’m not. I know priests don’t lie.” Tears form in my eyes, not only from this ridiculously embarrassing moment, but the stress of it all, and I suddenly wish I never made the promise to my Mamie. “I’m …. I’m just so …”
“If it’s something I said, or did, to make you feel uncomfortable …” Though his voice is less stern and irritated, his eyebrows remain pinched to a frown. “My apologies, it’s been an unusual night for me.”
I don’t say anything to that, certain I’ve tipped the scale to a night he wishes would just end already. That’s about where I’m at, as the sour stench of the confessional serves as a constant reminder that I will probably never speak to this priest again after tonight.
“Would you like to talk about it? You’re welcome to come to my office.”
Seriously? Surely the tight clench of my jaw, the heat in my cheeks, and the fact that I can’t even lift my gaze past his white collar give some impression that I would rather lock myself inside that confessional, salad chunks and all, and die there. “It’s nothing you did, or said. I’m sorry, I have to go.” Purse hiked up onto my shoulder, I shuffle quickly toward the church entrance.
“Wait!” he calls from behind, but I don’t stop for anything, as mortified as I am.
I push through the door and vow never to return to this damn church again.
* * *
My one night off. My one fucking night off, and how do I spend it? Not sipping wine on my roof, or curling up in bed with my book, like I planned. No, I spend my night hurling inside a cramped confessional, with one of the hottest priests that has ever blessed the clergy.
Fingers curled around the strap of my purse, I tip my head back, resting it against the wall behind me. The Metro Rail hums along, not as crowded as earlier in the night, when I’d stupidly taken it across town to church. Only an older woman with dark hair and tanned, wrinkled skin, sits staring at me from across the aisle. I hate public transportation, but that’s the breaks when you don’t have a pot to piss in. Most of my paycheck goes toward bills and what small amount is left, into savings for the trip of a lifetime, one I’ve been planning since I was about fourteen years old—to Paris, where my grandmother was born. One I wonder if I’ll ever make, with the cost of rent higher than the nuts on a giraffe.
The rail stops at West Expo and S Western Avenue, where I exit down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Once on solid ground, I nab a cigarette from a pack of Kools in my purse and light up. Slipping my apartment keys into my knuckles, I keep my head low and make my way one block up to an old, Spanish colonial style building built in the 1920’s, complete with thick green vines growing over half the building’s exterior. This late at night, the neighborhood is fairly quiet, but just last week, Mrs. Jackson told me someone had tried to carjack her at gunpoint. I’ve learned predators come in all packages, so I trust no one when I’m alone.
The ornate front door of Villa Hermosa stands lit, as usual, and I discard my smoke to hustle inside, jogging two flights up to my apartment. My sanctuary. The one place in the world I feel safe and content.
At my door, I turn the lock over, but at the soft brush of my shoulder, a scream flies past my lips and I pivot around to find Mrs. Garcia standing behind me.
“Iby … dat man came to da door again today. I told him you were gone, but he says he plans to come back.” A heavy Filipino accent accentuates her words as she lifts her brows in warning and stuffs her hands into a bag of Piattos. “He almost broke da door down, and I’d call da police, ip he did.” The crunch of her snack is a bit exaggerated, like she’s crushing his skull, or something.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Garcia.” The mere mention of him settles in my stomach like bricks. A few years back, I made a deal with the devil, otherwise known as Calvin Bianchi, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.
Stern demands, restraining orders, police reports, nothing seems to phase the asshole. Like an unshakable virus, he just keeps coming back, doing everything in his power to make my life miserable. And nearly breaking down my door, it seems. “You … don’t have to tell him anything. If you see him again, just call the police.”
“Oh, belieb me, I will. You’re a good girl, Iby.” A warm, wrinkled hand cups my face, and I try to force a smile, though in truth, I want to cry. Stuffing the bag under my nose, she offers one of her chips, and I reach inside to grab one. “You deserb a good man. Not dis …gago.” The curl of her lip tells me whatevergagomeans, it’s bad, and as Mrs. Garcia likes to throw out random cuss words, it’s probably derogatory in her language.
“I threw up in the confessional booth tonight,” I say around a mouthful of Piattos. “I’m not that good.”
“Nobody’s perpeck.” A light slap to my cheek breaks her grip, and she smiles, shuffling back to her apartment across from mine. “’Night, honey.”
“’Night, Mrs. Garcia.”
A cool rush of air hits my face as I enter my apartment, and my eyes dart toward the open window, where the long white curtain flutters in the evening breeze. Across the room, I come to a stop in front of the window. It’s cracked just enough to make me wonder if I left it that way earlier in the morning, when I had my smoke before I rushed out the door. I hate smoking in the apartment, so most times, I sit beside the window to keep the musty nicotine odor from stinking up the place.
The nighttime air dances around me as I stare out over Leimert Park, what I consider a jewel in the city of Los Angeles. Five years ago, I fell in love with the rich culture and heritage, and, of course, my apartment. Even in moon’s light, the crisp white walls and splashes of color from the sparse furniture give it a light, airy feel. Classic French posters above a black leather settee, which I bought at a secondhand store, set a vintage French, eclectic style throughout.
On a table to the right sits my antique phonograph, which I fire up. The soft crooning of Edith Piaf immediately eases the tension in my muscles, and I flick on a lamp, before making my way into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine. My favorite part of the small studio apartment is the French doors that separate the kitchen from the living room/bedroom. Some might call the space cramped and cluttered, but for me, it’s home. It’s my beloved haven.
La Vie En Roseplays in the other room, while I pour a glass of wine, mentally washing my brain of the earlier events. I close my eyes, and as I swirl and sniff the tart red blend, standing in the darkness of my little retro-style kitchen, Father Damon’s face pops into my head, all stern eyes and furrowed brows. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about him after leaving church. I’ve certainly had my fair share of fantasies that’ve probably bordered on fetishes, with some of the shit that comes to mind, but at a flash of curdled salad dripping down the kneeler, I gag, and hot flashes of embarrassment warm my cheeks.
“How’s’at wine taste, love?” The sound of his voice skates down my spine, and whatever sense of calm I managed before turns to tight strings of tension.
Calvin. Devil in the flesh.
“I didn’t hear you come in.” I toss the un-sipped wine into the sink, and set the glass onto the white tiled counter.
“Not thirsty anymore?”
“No.”
“’At’s too bad. I like you when you’ve had a few drinks in ya.”
