“Yeah,” I admit.
“What did I do wrong?”
I try on several answers to that question, and they all sound petty. You won’t hold my hand under the dinner table. After two whole months of exploring your sexuality, you’re not ready to change your life. “It’s not you, it’s me,” is what I come up with. “I’ve faked my way through many social gatherings before. I just can’t do it today.”
His forehead wrinkles, and I’m sure he wants to argue the point. But in the end, he says, “Okay.” And then he turns around and walks toward the backdoor, where his coat is waiting on a hook.
I follow him with the cake I made, so he won’t forget it.
“If you change your mind…”
I nod quickly as I hand over the cake. We blink at each other for a second. It’s the first awkward moment between us in a really long time.
Then he goes. I stand there in the back hall, listening to the sound of his truck’s engine warming up. After a minute he backs down the driveway and leaves. Still, I don’t move. I wait until the engine sound has completely died away. I don’t know what I was waiting for, anyway. I was definitely not waiting for Kieran to stop the truck, walk back into this house, and grab me into a hug.
I was not waiting for him to say, I’m sorry you’re sad, and I love you. It’s definitely too soon for that second thing, if not the first.
But now that he’s really gone, I’m faced with a whole empty day. I’m probably going to spend part of it binging TV shows on Kieran’s computer.
First, I need to give myself a task to feel good about. I start cleaning. The bathrooms are first. Then I vacuum the living room and clean out the refrigerator. I turn on some music.
My dining options are pretty limited, given the fact that I thought I’d be eating Audrey’s cooking today. So that’s a little depressing. But I pour myself a mug of coffee and decide I’ll worry about food later.
The house smells like cleaning products and determination a few hours later when I see a man walk up the driveway. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He approaches the backdoor, and I spot his collar. He’s the same priest whom I briefly met at the Shipleys’ party back in the fall. The one who said that my parents were his parishioners.
I feel a sudden, soul-deep chill. Did something happen today? To the Shipleys? Or—wait—to my parents? I yank open the door.
When the priest smiles at me, I feel a powerful wave of relief. “Roderick?” he says cheerfully. He’s carrying a covered dish in his hands. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. But I brought you something, and I wondered if we could have a quick chat.”
“Well…sure?” I’m still a little confused, but I gesture him inside. “I have coffee, if you want a cup. But that’s about it. It’s been a busy month of seasonal baking, and I took the day off from that.”
“I would love a cup of coffee!” He wipes his shoes on the mat that I bought at Goodwill for three dollars. “And I know just what you mean. Christmas Day is peak season for me. I give more than one service, and then I drive around visiting a lot of people. In the evening, we throw a communal dinner.”
“Right. I heard about that.” The damned dinner is the reason Griffin showed up at our door today, starting all the trouble. See? Church is dangerous. I knew it all along.
And isn’t it weird that the priest is paying me a friendly visit? Is he here to proselytize? Or could he be, like, a creepy priest?
“I swung by the Shipleys’ an hour ago,” he says, tossing his coat onto Kieran’s empty hook.
“You really do get around.” I lead him toward the kitchen and take a clean coffee cup out of the cabinet.
“Well, Audrey’s cooking is pretty spectacular. A man’s got to eat, even on the busiest day of the year. And then I heard that you were feeling a little under the weather, so I brought you a plate on my way back into town.” He lifts the lid on the dish he’s holding, and I see a thick slice of spiced ham, a wedge of potato and cheese gratin, a selection of vegetables and a polenta-looking dish that I might need to taste to properly identify.
“Wow.” What an incredible kindness. The scent of a home-cooked meal rushes up at me. And—this is mortifying—my eyes get hot. “Thank you.” I take the dish from his hands and look away.
“Hey now,” Father Peters says softly. “Christmas is a glorious day for half my parishioners. And the hardest day of the year for the other half.”
“Only half? Shit,” I curse. To a priest. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. Put that in the microwave for sixty seconds and get a fork. I’ve eaten my weight in that ham already. You really don’t want to miss it.” Then he takes the empty coffee mug I’ve fetched for him and fills it from the carafe himself.
And that’s how I end up eating Christmas dinner with a priest. “Is this stuffing flavored with water chestnuts?”
“I think so,” he says. “And cranberries. How’s your headache?”
“Miraculously recovered. I just wasn’t up to crashing a big family dinner today. I wasn’t in the mood.”
“I see,” he says, sipping his coffee. “And no last-minute invitations were forthcoming from your own family?”
“They don’t even have my phone number,” I point out. “But I don’t dwell on it. Not at all. I hadn’t even thought of them today.” Or I wouldn’t have, anyway, if I hadn’t fought with Kieran. But home alone in this empty house, I managed to think about everyone I ever tried to make love me. My parents. Brian. Kieran. The whole lot.
That’s what happens when you dive too deeply into your own misery.
“It isn’t right,” Father Peters says quietly. “I inquired about you to them.”
The fork pauses on its way to my mouth. “You don’t have to do that. In fact, it’s easier on me if you don’t.”
“All I did was invite the conversation. I told your parents that my door was open to them if they wanted to discuss their relationship with their son.”
“How would that even work?” I ask carefully. “The Catholic church does not approve of me.”
He tips his head side to side, as if weighing the idea. “Technically speaking, the Catholic church disapproves of actions, not people. Although most of the congregants who walk through my door have done some things that the church dislikes. Birth control, for example. Or divorce. But that doesn’t matter to me. I am not a walking rule book. And I don’t disapprove of you at all. And I don’t judge you, either. That’s not my job. My job is to love you as one of God’s most sacred creations. And I am very good at my job.”
My fucking eyes fill with tears. “I’m having kind of a hard day,” I say by explanation.
“I can see that. But so am I, because I’m expecting two hundred people for dinner in forty minutes. So I need to do something.”
“Go, go,” I say waving him toward the door. “I’ll be fine.”
“Sure you will be. But I meant that I need to ask you a favor. Would you come and help me serve two hundred meals for a couple hours? You may not approve of the rolls. We buy them frozen. But we could use an extra set of hands. And it seems like you already cleaned your house from top to bottom, so…”