Father Pruitt waited a few extra minutes, until was he sure she had gone, then left his side of the confessional with a weary sigh. It had been a long day, spent mostly at the sickbed of old Grandma Keane. But as soon as he'd heard Mildred Gunning's voice ("Bless me Father, for I have sinned…") and caught a glimpse of her upturned face through the screen, he'd known he was in for an even more difficult time.
Almost immediately, he'd looked away from her, letting his eyes rest on the crucifix on the wall opposite him instead. But the sight of her, there on her knees, had already been fixed in his mind, and even though he did try, he'd not been able to focus very well on hearing her confession.
It always took nothing less than his full attention to be able to push away the attraction he so often felt when they were near each other. In the confessional, it was even more difficult, given the tiny space they occupied together…
Drained as he was from his difficult day, his energy level had not quite been up to the task of keeping his emotions in check, and as she spoke, he'd found himself shamefully distracted. The after-image of her kneeling there, had slowly begun to shift behind his eyes, becoming something illicit and erotic…until it was clear that, though she was still on her knees in his mind…she was decidedly not confessing, nor praying…
Somehow he had gotten through, making use of the rote, ritualistic responses that had been fixed in his brain from years of taking confessions. Some things about priesthood were second nature by now, and he was grateful for it. But, these kind of thoughts…he was afraid they would always be a struggle…
Before deciding on seminary at the age of twenty-one, having had a few sexual experiences already, he'd sensed that the required vow of celibacy would be a difficult undertaking. It had been the one doubt that he'd had to wrestle with before finally accepting his calling. Enough prayer and introspection had brought him to a fragile peace with it but, still…he had never quite been able to forget the feeling…
Now, even though Mildred had left and there were no other penitents waiting, he lingered outside the confessional, fighting to bring himself under control. He thought he'd almost succeeded—the hardness in his treacherous body slowly began to soften, and his breath was steady again…When suddenly, the same vivid pictures involuntarily flashed through his imagination…
…Her eyes looking up at him, in seductive submission…her pretty mouth opening wide to take him in…her small hands wrapping around the base of his…
Father Pruitt shook his head in quick, repetitive movements, then pressed his fingers hard across his eyes, as if he could so easily rub the unwanted fantasies away…
Filling his mind with scripture instead, he repeated the words of the Apostle Paul to himself: And God is faithful. He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.
He took courage from the verse, striving to come to grips with his guilt and shame. Not only had he entertained lustful thoughts, even worse, he had failed in one of his most sacred duties. But, if God would be faithful, then he himself would bear this burden, humbly. He had to accept that she'd already gone, and there was nothing more he could do, tonight. He would go to the mainland for his own absolution tomorrow, then bring his renewed best efforts as priest to Mildred Gunning (Mrs. Gunning, he scolded himself) and to anyone else in the parish who needed him.
His confession hours over for the day, he decided that what he needed more than anything was the comfort of the rectory. Not having had the chance for several hours, he stopped by the bathroom, then tidied up a few wayward hymnals and gathered his things. As he made his way through the sanctuary, he took off his collar and put it in his pocket for safekeeping. Retrieving his coat from where he'd laid it on the last pew, he pulled his arms through the sleeves and headed out. Distractedly, he turned off the last of the lights, flipping the switches on his way through the door…
But, as he turned to lock up for the night, something caught at his mind and he hesitated—door half-way closed—peering into the darkness of the empty church. The shadows obscuring the once brightly lit altar and sanctuary now seemed to produce strange shapes and impressions, turning the reverent building into something vaguely ominous…He shivered, feeling the cold night air in his soul as well as his body. If childhood ghost stories were to be believed, this time in autumn was when the veil between this world and the next was at its thinnest…
His conscious mind rejected the superstitious idea and he deliberately turned his attention back to finishing the mundane task at hand. Take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ, he reproached himself as he closed the church door, locked it securely, and turned in the direction of the rectory.
He almost walked straight away without stopping, but the sight of her, all the way over to his right, just barely caught in his peripheral vision…
"Oh! Hello, I thought everyone had gone."
"Oh—I'm sorry, Father. I just stopped to look at the moon for a minute. I'm fine, you go on."
His desire had flared up, strong as ever, as soon as he was aware of her presence, and again, he lacked the energy to fight it. Letting it guide his steps, he came alongside her and looked up…but found none of the comfort he'd expected there in the night sky. Just as the church had been altered in his perception a minute ago, the once familiar, kindly face in the moon now appeared to be grimacing at him, as if in pain. Ill at ease, he turned back to Mildred—only to be bombarded with a mental image of her face, contorted not in pain, but in ecstasy…He grit his teeth and forced his eyes to see her only as she was in front of him…Captive thoughts…He had so many…
Back in control of his mind, he considered his next move. It was dark and cold…and that moon…She looked a little lost and he felt the protective need to see her home safe.
Carefully, he kept his manner polite, but distant…a concerned and caring priest…nothing more…"It's dark so early, now. May I walk you home?"
"Oh, that's alright, it's not a long—it's, well…sure…"
He looked at her, feeling his brow furrow with anxiety as he took on some the nervous energy of the words tumbling out of her mouth. But when she stopped and took a breath to calm herself, he was able to relax a little as well. She cleared her throat and tried again, "Yes, I'd like that. Thank you."
They went part of the way in uneasy silence. Despite walking at a perfectly respectable distance, whatever it was between them hovered thick in the air, making pleasantries difficult.
When he could no longer stand the tension, Father Pruitt forced himself to come up with a safe topic of conversation: politics. He inquired if her husband being drafted had influenced her views on the war, which he knew she was adamantly against. They talked about what Jesus had to say on the subject of peaceful protest in his Sermon on the Mount. She switched the topic to music: Bob Dylan's claim that not even Jesus could forgive the abuse of power that was keeping the war going. Then to the new, rebellious music of Larry Norman. She passionately described how it crossed genres, refusing to conform to the expectations of conventional religious music.
Mildred sang for him:
Walking backwards down the stairs,
Trying to get higher, higher
How can I get anywhere
Walking backwards down the stairs
(She had a lovely voice, even when singing nonsense words)
She offered to smuggle him a record and he promised to listen to it. Then, he looked around and realized that they had been standing in front of her house for several minutes. It was dark, not even the porch light was on to make it look more inviting. He hated the thought of sending her in to that cold, dead house when she was so full of life and warmth in front of him.
"You must be lonely in that house, all by yourself," he spoke without thinking, then mentally cringed. Not only did he know damn well how she felt about living alone, it sounded like a cheap pickup line. Christ in Heaven, he hadn't meant it that way!
She smiled a pleasant, polite smile. But was it the darkness that made him imagine he also saw a mischievous twinkle in her eyes? Did she know what he was thinking?
"Well, I had a letter from George yesterday. He'll be home on leave for Thanksgiving. That's just about three more weeks…" Her face fell.
He put out a hand to take hers in comfort—but jerked back when he realized what he was doing. It didn't make any difference, the jolt of desire passed through the empty space separating their fingers as if they had touched.
"Father..." She looked vulnerable, absentmindedly rubbing the place on her hand where he'd almost touched her.
"How about 'John' when we're not in church?" He gestured to the bare place at his throat where his collar should be. "And may I call you Mildred?"
"Millie," she corrected him.
"Millie, then," he echoed.
"John…would you like to come in for some tea?"
Her upturned face caught the moonlight, giving it a radiance that seemed almost holy—a da Vinci Madonna that he could actually reach out and touch if he only had the courage…was her skin as soft as it looked…?
He smiled down at her, unwilling to recognize this moment for what it was. God had indeed been faithful, providing him a chance to turn away now with his vow still intact. But his pull to her was so strong tonight, and he was so very tired of fighting it…
"I'd love to. Thank you, Millie."
Father Pruitt first brings to mind 1 Corinthians 10:13 and then reproaches himself with 2 Corinthians 10:5
The song Mildred sings for him is "Walking Backwards Down the Stairs" by Larry Norman
The Bob Dylan song referenced is "Masters of War"