The walls of his apartment were cracked, the plaster buckling. The ceiling was covered with brownish water stains, and he could hear the steady plopping of water landing in the pots and pans he had set out in the kitchen to catch the leaks.
In the center of the wall was a huge crucifix. Jesus’ face, blood running down the sides from the crown of thorns, was turned imploringly to the sky, his beautiful features twisted in agony. Blood leaked out of the wound in his side, his ribs pressing through the pale skin; the nails in his hands and feet were drenched in red.
He grabbed the worn rosary from the small table and clutched it. Carefully he lit the votive candles, then sank to his knees and began praying. His knees ached from contact with the hard floor. The Latin words rolled off his tongue easily, feverishly, as he counted the beads with his fingers. After a few minutes, when his heart had slowed to a normal pace and he felt calm again, he finished his prayers and crossed himself. He rose to his feet, walked to the window, wiped the condensation away, and looked out into the street.
Such a horrible dream. He still felt chilled, rubbing his arms to increase the circulation. Was it a sign from God? he wondered. The feelings — of lust and desire — the girl aroused in him had been dormant for so long. He knew they weren’t wrong, but after so many years of self-denial through prayer, his vows were ingrained too deeply in his head to shake off easily. There was no reason anymore for him to feel ashamed of his feelings or to deny them, but even though he was no longer a priest, he kept his vows. Maybe she was sent by God to test his dedication to Him. He’d been released from his vows for nearly five years now, so perhaps it wasn’t really a test... but then again, God moved in mysterious ways. Maybe he was supposed to save her.
No one knows the mind of God.
She was one of the street people, a runaway. One of the disposable teenagers, the throwaway children who somehow made their way to the French Quarter to hang out in coffee shops or in doorways, cadging change and cigarettes from passersby. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, he thought, but then again, as he got older he found it more and more difficult to judge the ages of the young. It was possible she was older. He had found her — was it only three weeks since that evening he had found her asleep in one of the back pews at St. Mark’s when he’d gone in to pray? At first he’d thought it was just a bundle of rags someone had left there. Then the pile had moved, and he jumped, startled. It had only been three weeks. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since that moment she’d sat up in the pew, coughing.
Three weeks only.
“What’s your name?” he’d asked, slipping into the pew beside her.
She just smiled and said, “Call me Molly, Father.” He opened his mouth to correct her, but closed it again without saying anything.
It was the smile that brought the memories back, memories so strong he had to catch his breath. There was something about her that reminded him so strongly of Carla Mallory... the girl he’d loved when he was young, before he’d answered the call and entered the seminary. She’d been so angry when he told her his plans. Her pretty face had contorted with rage before collapsing into tears. But I thought you loved me, she’d accused him, I thought we were going to get married.
“The streets are dangerous, Molly,” he’d said to her, putting thoughts of Carla firmly away. “There’s a killer out there, preying on girls like you. Don’t you want me to call your parents? Don’t you want to go home?” There had been a story in the paper just that morning about the latest girl, found near the French Market, her young body carved up. Just another teenager thrown away, not missed and with nobody to mourn or care. She was the tenth one in the last eight months.
Molly looked back at him with eyes suddenly old and tired. “Sometimes home is more dangerous than the streets, Father.”
He’d taken her hand, rough and dirty with the nails painted black. “Please be careful, and know you can always come here. We minister here to homeless kids, Molly. You can always come here, get some food, take a shower, get cleaned up.” He gestured back to the office area at the rear of the chapel. “I can get you a list of shelters...”
“And sometimes shelters are just as dangerous as home.” She shook her head, the multicolored dreadlocks swinging. “But a shower would be cool.”
“But where...?” He shook his head. Sometimes there was nothing he could do for them. “Come with me.” He stood up and started walking towards the front.
It was after hours, and against the rules, but he used his keys to open up the shower area and get her a fresh towel. Father Soileau would not be happy, but there was no need for him to know or find out. Besides, even if Father Soileau did find out, the most he would get would be a reprimand, and not a strong one for that matter. Father Soileau depended on him too much for the work he did with the teenagers, and it would be hard to replace him. Who wants to work for the pittance they pay me? he thought bitterly as he handed her a towel and shut the door behind him.
While she showered, he heated a can of soup for her, found a package of crackers, got her a fresh bottle of water.
She was so pretty with the dirt scrubbed off her face. So like Carla. He watched her as she slurped down the soup, crunching the crackers into the broth, and gulped down the water. There was a wounded innocence about her. She wouldn’t tell him where she was from, or where she’d been. And when she was finished, she patted his hand in thanks, before slipping out of the church and back into the night.
He’d prayed for her that night, and every night since.
He prayed she’d come back.
He found himself coming back to St. Mark’s every night at the same time, hoping she would show up. Sometimes she did, most nights she didn’t. He didn’t ask questions he knew she wouldn’t answer. It almost became a kind of routine on those nights when she showed up. He would get her a towel and while she showered he made her something simple to eat. While she ate, they’d talk about little things, nothing important. And when the food was gone, she would slip back out into the night.
He worried sometimes that Father Soileau would find out. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would be fired. Rules were rules, and the Church was very big on rules. He knew that very well. It was why he wasn’t a priest anymore. “But I’ve done nothing wrong!” he’d begged them up in Chicago as the archbishop shook his head.
“We cannot take that risk, Father Michael.” The archbishop shrugged. “We have to release you from your vows. Even the slightest hint of impropriety must be avoided. But there’s a place you can make yourself useful, down in New Orleans. There’s a small church just outside the French Quarter, St. Mark’s. They minister to homeless teenagers, the kind of work you enjoy. The Church will get you a small place to live, and pay you a small salary, and you can continue your work.”