The Original Sinner: The Saint Part 8

S0ren closed his eyes and shook his head.

"What?" she asked.

He held up his hand, indicating his need for silence.

"What?" she whispered.

"Do you hear that?"

She tilted her head and listened.

"No. I don't hear anything. Do you hear something?" she asked S0ren.

"I do."

"What?"

"G.o.d laughing at me."

Eleanor rested her chin on her hand. "You hear G.o.d laughing at you?"

"Loudly. I'm quite surprised you can't hear it."

"He's laughing at you, not me," she said.

"Excellent point. And you made another excellent point about handling the church. I'll consider your suggestion."

"You will?"

"It's a wise and Machiavellian strategy."

"Is that bad?"

"No. It's biblical. Matthew 10:16. 'Behold, I send you forth as a sheep among wolves-be therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.'"

"Sheep among wolves. That makes the church sound dangerous. You think we're dangerous."

"I think you're dangerous."

Eleanor sat back on her heels. They'd been joking the entire time they'd been in the sanctuary, but what he'd said and how he'd said it? That was no joke.

"Me? Dangerous?" she repeated.

"You. Very."

"Why?"

"Because you want to be. That's part of the reason."

"I also want to be six feet tall and have straight blond hair, but wanting something doesn't make it real. I'm not dangerous."

"I'd explain my reasons for saying you are, but I have to get back to packing. I promised Father Gregory's sister I would have all of his things ready to pick up tomorrow."

"You know there are like a million old ladies in this church who would have packed up the office for you."

"I know, but I said I would do it, and I feel only another priest should take care of his personal things for him."

"That's really nice of you." She winced. Really nice of you? Could she sound like a bigger suck-up or idiot? "I should go home, I guess. Mom might call and wonder where I am."

"Where is your mother?"

"Working." Eleanor followed him out of the sanctuary.

"She works this late often?"

"This early. She works the late s.h.i.+ft a lot. It pays more."

"Does your father not help out financially?"

Eleanor stood in the doorway of the office again while S0ren got back to work packing the boxes.

"Mom won't take a cent from him even if he offered, which I doubt he would. He says he's broke."

"I take it the divorce was not entirely amicable."

"She hates him."

"Do you?"

"Hate Dad? No way. I love him."

"Why does your mother hate him? If these questions are too personal you don't have to answer them."

"No, it's okay." She liked answering S0ren's questions. They were personal but not embarra.s.sing. "Mom and Dad got married when she was eight months pregnant with me."

"Eight? Talk about waiting until the last minute."

Eleanor tried to smile but couldn't.

"What is it?" S0ren asked.

"She waited that long because she was hoping she'd have a miscarriage."

S0ren dropped the book on the desk with a loud thud.

"Surely not."

"It's true. I overheard her talking to my grandmother one night about some guy named Thomas Martin. She said she felt bad about thinking it, but she had once wished G.o.d would handle the pregnancy the way he handled Thomas Martin, whoever that is."

"Thomas Merton," S0ren corrected.

"You know him?"

"He was a Trappist monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Bardstown, Kentucky. He's arguably the most famous Catholic writer of the twentieth century. When he was a young man, he fathered a child out of wedlock, but the mother and child were both killed during an air raid in World War II, which allowed him to eventually become a monk without the familial obligations of fatherhood."

"Makes sense, I guess. She was hoping G.o.d would kill me so she could be a nun."

S0ren gave her a look of such deep and profound sympathy she couldn't stand to look at it.

"Eleanor ... I'm so-"

"Sorry. I know. Don't be. She loves me now. I think." Eleanor laughed. "Anyway, it was young l.u.s.t with Dad. She was seventeen. A year after she had me, she found out what my dad does for a living. They got divorced. She didn't want any of his money because she said it's all dirty."

"Dirty money? What does your father do for a living?"

"He ..." Eleanor paused and considered the best way to say it. "He's a mechanic, sort of. Works with cars."

"Nothing to be ashamed of."

"They're not always his cars."

S0ren nodded. "I see."

"He's been in prison a couple times."

"Does that trouble you?"

"No," she said. "Not too much anyway."

They looked at each other a moment without speaking. It wasn't an awkward silence, but a meaningful silence.

"Anyway, I'll let you get back to packing." Eleanor wanted to stay and keep talking to him. But she didn't want to be a nuisance either, and wear out her welcome.

"I'll see you Sunday?" he asked.

"What's Sunday?"

"Ma.s.s? Church? Holy Day of Obligation?"

"Right. Sunday. I'll check with my secretary," she said. "You know, see if I'm free."

"Do you have the office number here?"

"It's on the fridge."

"Call my number when you get home. I want to know you've arrived safely."

She stared at him.

"Seriously?"

"How long does it take for you to walk home?"

"I don't know. Twenty minutes?"

"Then I'll expect to hear from you within the half hour. Please be safe."

She gave him a wave and took a step back. It hurt walking away from him. That cord she felt last Sunday, she felt it again now, felt it in his presence, felt it even more when she moved to leave him.

"Three more things, Eleanor, before you go."

"What?" She turned back to face him. Once more he stood in the doorway to his office.

"One." He held up one finger. "Earlier you said you wished you to be six feet tall and have long straight hair. Don't ever wish that again. G.o.d created you. Don't argue aesthetics with the Creator. Do you understand?"

"Sure, I guess," she said although she didn't.

"Two." He held up a second finger. "Don't be troubled I said were you dangerous. It wasn't an insult."

"If you say so."

"I do. And three." He took a step back into the office. "I've been at Sacred Heart four days and already half the parish has made it abundantly clear to me that I am not wanted here. Father Gregory is much beloved. The parish is not ready to let him go and accept a new pastor. You aren't the only one who knows what it's like to feel unwanted."

Eleanor felt something funny in her throat. It burned so she swallowed it. The burn remained.

"The church isn't your own mother."

"No, it isn't. And I won't minimize your pain by pretending the church's distrust of me compares at all to your pregnant, terrified seventeen-year-old mother making a desperate wish that her problems would magically disappear and the dream she lost would be hers again. But I will say that it doesn't matter anymore if your mother wanted you at the time or not. Nor does it matter if this church wants me here or not. We're here, you and I. We're not going away. We're here, if for no other reason than G.o.d wants us here, and He gets the final say."

"If it makes you feel any better, I want you here."

S0ren picked up one of Father Gregory's books again.

"That does make me feel better."

"Thank you ... S0ren." She still couldn't believe she was calling a priest by his first name, no "Father" attached.

"Good night."

She turned and started to walk away from the office.

"Thirty minutes," S0ren called out, and Eleanor allowed herself to give free rein to the ear-to-ear grin she'd been holding back for the past hour.

The second she entered her kitchen, Eleanor picked up the phone. She had to stretch the cord all the way to the fridge so she could read off the office number to Sacred Heart.

S0ren answered on the first ring.

"I'm home safe," she said.