Page 21 of Finding His Home

Jennifer raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Do you want to stop having sex until we’re married?”

Ed looked away from the portal at the senator. He decided he would have no problems exposing Stephen’s secret affair, but triggering his own brother’s death still seemed excessive. “What makes him so important? What does he have to do with your revolution?”

“It’s our revolution, and he’s your final sacrifice to join us. You must numb your sympathies, killing someone you love.”

“I hate my brother.”

“Then prove it with action.” The senator shrugged and pointed at the portal as Jennifer tossed a raft into the water, straightened the back of her bikini bottom and dove in. Stephen admired her muscular legs as she kicked toward the raft.

Her face surfaced from the murky water, and her voice echoed off the adjacent pier. “What are we going to do if Bishop Warner tells you we can’t get married with the church’s blessing? Wouldn’t you marry me anyway?”

Stephen dismissed fears that someone might overhear them before he swallowed his glass of wine, dove in the brackish water and rose to kiss her lips. “If I married you, it would have to be in the Catholic Church as a holy sacrament.”

The sting of the priest’s words appeared in Jennifer’s eyes. “Are you abandoning our plans if the bishop says no?”

Stephen treaded water, imagining a giant snake circling in the murky depths beneath him. “I don’t know what to do. I’d rather discuss this when we’re both sober.”

She kissed Stephen and wrapped her legs around him. “I’m sorry for pressuring you. You’re right. Let’s go upstairs and relax. I brought a surprise for you.”

They walked along the pier and climbed up the steps to the camp. The priest focused his eyes on her butt and shifted the front of his swim trunks. The screen door creaked, and the air conditioner on the window rattled as they entered the living room. Water dripped down his hairy legs onto the wooden floor.

She turned on the stereo, and Madonna’s “Vogue” came out of the speakers on the sides of a wide-screen television. Jennifer left for the bathroom, and Stephen looked out at the water.

“Who owns that?” Stephen pointed at the clear, plastic sandwich bag Jennifer carried out of the bathroom.

Jennifer pulled a pipe out of the bag of marijuana. “I do. Didn’t you tell me you smoked a few times in high school?”

“I decided to grow up when I entered the seminary.”

Jennifer sparked the lighter then leaned over to exhale the smoke into his mouth. “I was hoping we could do it together just once.”

“I’m confused enough as it is lately.” Stephen looked at the floor and stepped away from her.

She inhaled again before putting the pipe down on the coffee table. “What’s wrong?”

“You came to me for spiritual direction, and I abused my position. If I were a psychologist, I could lose my license to practice.”

She approached him and kissed his neck. “I want you to be the father of my children. Isn’t that a holy purpose in life? God understands, even if some Italian bureaucrats won’t.”

“We need to slow things down.”

Stephen closed his eyes. After a long silence, he reopened them to find Jennifer pulling him toward the sofa and removing his swimming trunks. The sound of the trumpet at the end of his favorite Rolling Stones’ song, Waiting on a Friend, soothed away the wrinkles on his forehead.

He shrugged, grabbed the pipe and inhaled. Gazing into the cloud of smoke, he coughed hard and inhaled a second time.

Jennifer giggled as he kissed her ear and his hands removed her clothes. As they had sex, he imagined Jesus looking down from the cross with pain contorting his face. Unable to finish, he rolled off of her, and she left for the bathroom. As Stephen looked out over the tumbling waves, he imagined high-pitched laughter and flinched.

“What’s wrong?” Jennifer’s voice sounded muffled in the distance.

“Smoking that stuff turned on a horror movie in my mind.”

Filled with dread, Ed turned to the senator. “I won’t murder him?”

“No. You’ll demoralize him, and he’ll curse God before killing himself.”

Ed shook his head. “I can shame him, but I doubt he’ll commit suicide.”

“Let’s watch the shame pile up.”

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