by James Llewellyn
The last summer of my studies was unbearable. I had no reprieve from the heat. It made it so hard to think clearly. I’d flung open all the windows in my dorm, even the one that sort of got stuck around the lock, just above my bed. The heat still leaked in, fighting against the rattling of my fan. The rickety breeze jutted against my papers, lifting them up whenever I turned to consult another reference.
That morning had been spent searching for a reason to flee to the church. Its smooth stone walls were surely keeping the congregation cool. Nothing had come up in my research to warrant another interview, another analysis. I’d alluded to another visit later in the semester, committed Father Tallis’ small smile to memory then retreated back to my notepad, scribbling things about purpose and exchange and the sinner’s role in religion.
We’d wandered the space, treading through the chapel with hushed voices. He’d explained the history of the site. I didn’t care. When we stopped at the podium – so he could flick back to some relevant passage – I looked up, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before he took the thin pages between his fingers. The attention reminded me of how previous lovers had placed their hands on me. In his light touches and delicate dark gaze, I saw flickers of Julian, of David. He moved his hand from the page to his collar for a quick adjustment. The fabric looked so harsh against him. There was so much of his neck to see, shoulders that were probably beautiful, all hidden away.
“Can you repeat that?” I gripped my pen a little tighter.
There was no reason to walk over. I had no one to pray for. Mass wasn’t for another few days. I had nothing to donate. No knowledge, no non-perishable goods. Nothing to repent for. I’d resisted going to confession. It felt like such a pedestrian fantasy. Pleading “Forgive me Father” like I was on the cover of a dirty tape. Though, the idea still pulsed with intrigue occasionally. My gym shorts stuck to my thighs with sweat, and the waistband peeled away like a sticker.
The cool change came around the same time as my advisory meeting. Another trek to the university to show the same notes we’d discussed last week, just with some extra lines crossed out.
Melody mused over these additions with a great sense of importance, shuffling my pages around, referring to her e-mail and sliding her reading glasses on and off.
“You should bring up heaven more,” Melody spoke easy. All day she wrestled with words and religion. What I was doing – in contrast to her awarded books and regional tours – seemed completely inconsequential.
“It’s more important for my research to be grounded in reality.” I leant back in my chair, looking across her scattered desk, “Like I’m not really worried about the temporality of faith.”
“I suppose you think you’re too young for heaven.”
“Maybe. Something for my next paper?” I smiled tightly.
“If you don’t get a move on with this one, you might not get another paper, Fox, seriously, there’s good material in here. It needs some expanding, some refinement and then, who knows where it’ll take you.”
“What should I expand on? More interviews?”
“More referencing. I hope to see you heading to the library after this.”
Her sardonic habits couldn’t dissuade me from turning left rather than right. There was a short list of things that could keep me from an after-class cigarette: an evacuation or my absence, Melody didn’t chart. I’d carried the ritual since my undergrad, and I held commitment as a pretty important value.
Leant against a stone wall, I watched people pass. Classes were in session, there wasn’t much to see. I went through the motions, raising my hand to my mouth, exhaling, I knew how to run through it. My hand dropped to my side, and my posture jolted. Stamping across campus, Father Tallis came a-calling. He had a briefcase in his hand and his black hair was slightly out of place. He wore a short-sleeved shirt instead; he was probably sweating like crazy in all that black.
He looked across me, eyes following the trail of smoke up like a beacon.
“That’s a bad habit, Fox.” His voice was thick and hurried, cluttered with his regional residence and clerical training. Hearing him say my name felt like a blade of glass hammered in my brain. I couldn’t believe he even remembered it.
“Sorry Father, I said grace before I lit it.” I threw my hands up as he laughed, just a little, “What are you doing on campus?”
“This is a catholic college.” He said it like it was obvious, and it was. I just forgot all the time.
“So, you work with my college?” I wondered why I hadn’t seen him around more. I worried that he’d seen me.
“Sometimes. When they ask me to do things. It’s a great chance to be more involved with the community. It gets me out of the church…not that it’s a bad place to be.” He spoke using his hands, raising one in defence of the last word.
“I don’t think it is.” I leant in a little.
“Then you should show up for Sunday mass sometime.” He said it casually, with a slick smile, before casting a look at his watch, “See you later Fox, I’ve got to run to the chapel.”
I liked seeing this mischievous side of him. Priesthood was such a dismal pursuit; he would have made a good flirt.
It was easy to forget that he was around the same age as me. Or at least looked it. I wondered what happened in his life to get him into the church so early. I’d never really believed in God unless something horrible was happening. Who let him down? Had he had a night out? Good or bad? There were so many affordances of youth I could offer him.
It was easy to consider us as similar, both guided by guilt, driven by knowledge. I retreated into the thought of confession again, not the physical fantasy but the act of conversation. I wanted him to want to extract information from me, tell me what to do. I wanted to hear the words of a man who was sure he had the only path for me, who was going to offer kindness and care and a blind eye. I walked home impatiently, waiting for the advent of sin, weaving myself down the thin path beside the road.
I treaded through my thoughts as dirt dusted my boots. Like an offering, I heard a weak whimper, warbled birdsong. I cast my eyes down to my feet and saw the desperation of a torn-up bird. Barely here at all, discarded and far from flying. It was obviously someone’s pet at some time, it was coddled. Green and blue. A mess of feathers crowded the ground around its sparsely breathing body. I squatted to look closer and felt the hum of a heartbeat as I cast my hand over it. As I saw it caught in the shadow of my body, mine that was so spry and lively, I shot back up, turned on my heel and fled.
I awoke to another day designated to writing. Designated in name and dependent on the fact I’d decided to skip my lectures. There was no point in visiting the university to bother Melody during her consultation hours. I faced the daily issue of desperately needing to hurry on with my paper yet having little inspiration. I emerged from my ruffle of sweat-soaked sheets looking remarkably well put together. Not for the first time, I hoped that a wander into town would strike some brilliant match in my mind, and I’d suddenly become a serious man with the greatest thesis this side of the subject.
One of the local museums was hosting a collection of religious artefacts and paintings stolen from some country or another. I’d read about it earlier in the semester, or perhaps been prompted in one of my meetings, probably with Melody, I would’ve remembered it from Tallis. I hadn’t been before. It had been recently renovated and the fresh space accommodated the divine pieces well. The museum was one of those heritage-modern spaces, where the walls were spaceship white and covered in QR codes, but I still had to duck my head to dodge a wooden beam.
The exhibition was busier than I had assumed. We created a crowd around the glass cases. All eager to read this ancient ink that spelt out the same words I’d been dizzying myself over the past few months. Beside me was an older gay couple, one had his hands steady on their pram, and the other looked a bit like me. Or I looked like him when he was my age.
As we breathed the same air around the exhibit, I thought about taking advantage of the reflection. I pictured the wary touches. Silent car rides that burst with conversation when we reached the next town. I imagined myself crying in the confession booth, begging Father Tallis for forgiveness over the sin of adultery. A hitch of excitement in his voice when I described the scenes and he had to think about what I was capable of. I pictured jealously rising in Tallis. I wondered how envy looked when it was hitting the brim. I saw him nursing my confession. Imagining the sick throes of passion. Stroking himself with a coveting hand. Backbiting through prayer.
The man moved his gaze away from the case and I caught his face in full profile. My story wasn’t going to start.
On Sunday morning I breached the church. My head was a little dusty but not quite pounding, the serenity of routine seemed like a good way to pass the morning.
There was a small turnout. A few families, some old people and wayward individuals stuck to the outskirts of the pews. I picked a spot with good visibility. I could see the podium. I was early.
I scanned the scene, looked around at the stained glass windows and noted how they didn’t really look like anyone. But it was enough for them to be a vehicle for those colours. The reds and purples beamed like a day-old bruise. It was no cathedral; I was sure it hadn’t been around for much longer than some of the olds up front. It needed cleaning up. Its bricks were cracking, the pews scraggly. It seemed the exact kind of place where faith was needed. You had to believe in something to find comfort in that kind of mid-century mistake.
I was snapped away from the uncanny faces by the entry of Father Tallis. Everybody stood at his arrival and as the sermon began, I fell into a lull. To watch someone do something they’re good at was a gift. He spoke with ease, tracing the familiar patterns of his dialogue with reverence. In real life, his words were jutted and flying about. This was Father Tallis. Carefully held together. His hands glided over the gospel as he found his page, another part of his perfected routine. His eyes flicked from the page to the audience like he was following a line, and I loved being let into such deliberate, timed movements. I watched him with what felt like parallel intent. He meant every word he spoke; I meant every look I gave.
At the end of the service, my attempt to leave quietly was quickly disrupted by Father Tallis coming back into the pews to grab my attention. He walked over gracefully, but it felt like a clambering rush. A cacophony of our beings meeting with one another.
“Fox,” He moved into my space, “You should come and look over the schedule for the next month. It could be useful.”
“Sure, sounds great.” The words fell out in a panic, and he looked down at me, reassuringly.
“We’re getting a visit from the bishop of the dioceses next week.” He ran a hand over his face as we walked. His wrist peaked out against the fabric; I hadn’t noticed how hairy his arms were when he’d worn short sleeves. The allusion of it entertained me more.
I listened, “That’s big.”
“You probably won’t be able to talk to him. But it’ll be helpful sitting in, right? Something like that would broaden your understanding of the church?”
“Of course, I’m learning every day!” We exchanged a smile. I had no idea what his sense of humour was like.
“You’d learn more if you were baptised. Everyone likes having you around here.”
There was this electricity around him, pulling to a focus. I knew as the days went on, I’d wear down the phrase and rewrite it in my imagination until it only sounded like “I like having you around”.
“I’m happy just understanding for now Father” I took a breath, “But you like having me around?”
“It’s just interesting to have a different perspective around.” He hummed without looking at me.
At the sight of the basin, I ached for him to offer the sacrament again. We both glanced at the water. It would make a fair excuse for him to have his hands on me.
Sharply he spoke, “We meet in here.”
Tallis opened the door to a bland room of aging men and older papers. I allowed myself to be taken into the room. The medial organisation was far from what interested me about faith. I wanted to see those lightning strikes of belief, the Old Testament violence, the intricate stories of the saints, the devotion of routine that I knew these men held at least at some point in their lives. I’d often passed off Father Tallis’ magnetism as a mere factor of his good looks, but it was really the unconditional dedication that had nestled itself into every aspect of his being. He didn’t do things in parts. And that deliberate belief was the essence of him, it wasn’t hard to fall for it. To be devoted in turn.
I palmed through their schedules, noting when it crossed over with my due date like a ley line. I only had a few weeks left of excuses.
Writing kept me inside. I wrote myself into a stupor and found my brain circling little else but the concepts I had created. Melody congratulated my flow state. It felt like I was migrating to sainthood myself. Locked inside my room, it was like my hands knew to do nothing but write and roll cigarettes. When I tore myself away from the papers, I granted myself the gift of fantasy. My mind returned and returned to the flickering image of the confession booth. Over and over. Until my body knew what to expect and no longer shook the same. I had no need for stillness and filled my head with thoughts of baptism, of hedonism, of Eucharist crackers in my mouth, of Tallis as St Sebastian – his body eager and raw – of myself as some sort of apparition, of us as two ordinary men. Though that bored me more than anything.
I’d found faith through the backdoor. I needed him to see me. Not as this ever-attentive student, but as flesh and blood, filled with murky glory. Something that could be torn apart and put back together. Something that could be wanted.
Through the screen, I could just make out his silhouette. I knew the sound of his voice and the scent of his skin. And even if I didn’t, the clergy wasn’t large. He welcomed me with a soft voice. I made the sign of the cross hastily.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I felt trite, “This is my first time coming to confession. These are my sins,” I paused.
The room was tight. All I could hear was the sound of our breath, just out of time. He was so real. Seeing him bathed in this humanity only made me long for him more. I knew what his body was built for. No man was supposed to be wrapped in fabric behind locked doors. I knew he had sites of sensation. I knew that no matter how committed he was to his belief, he’d still shiver if he were touched. He’d created this exclusion for himself, drawn himself away from desire and requirement, but he was still a man.
“I confess to the sin of adultery…of lust and of coveting what belongs to someone else.” My voice filled out its fragility, seeking each edge of the booth to break and cower in.
Tallis didn’t speak.
“I have not been chaste. I slept with a married man,” I was filled with the pulse of dishonesty, the momentum of opportunity “He pursued me and even though I knew it wasn’t right, I let it happen, I let him touch me everywhere, I enjoyed it.”
Tallis cleared his throat. It echoed. “Fo-,” We’d both heard it, it was remiss to think otherwise.
“And I know that the brief ecstasy wasn’t worth the betrayal I caused. I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.”
“The Lord has heard your confession,” His voice pushed against itself, “You’ll be forgiven after performing your penance.”
He ascribed me my penance in haste. He stumbled through the prayers of absolution like he didn’t want me forgiven at all.
He faltered, “The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace.”
I looked back at the silhouette, “Thanks be to God”.
At the edge of the property, I lit a cigarette and cast a look back. Tallis hurried across the grounds, his pants catching the spurs of the grass, as he headed for the rectory. He ran a hand over his hair, flattening the curls just for them to jump back up.
He turned his head, catching my eyes on the inhale. A plague played on his face, even from afar. In a blink of repulsion, his hands wriggled at his side, fell into his pockets, and tugged at the fabric. The heavy door of the rectory opened at his touch. Then, I knew he had been severed from me.
James Llewellyn is a writer living on Wurundjeri Land in Naarm/Melbourne. As a songwriter, he plays for ‘Pullover’ and is currently exploring different forms and genres of writing.