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“We’re having a church wedding.”
Gilbert stared at his brother Ludwig for a long moment over his cup of coffee, and then snorted. “Lud, I know for a fact that you haven’t been to church in about five years.” He choked back another burst of laughter. “Not even on Christmas, for fuck’s sake.”
Ludwig didn’t smile. “Feli wants a church wedding,” he said stiffly, and Gilbert sighed. Oh, so it was Felicia, then. That figured. Gilbert had never asked about her faith, but then she was about as Italian as you could get, so rampant Catholicism round about fit the bill. “And whatever Feli, wants, she gets, aye? Just don’t fall asleep—that time you were twelve and we were sitting in the front row on Easter Mass; oh god, I could swear you snored all through the homily; the priest looked fit to kill—”
“I’m not going to fall asleep during my own wedding,” Ludwig hissed. “And anyway, we’re not getting married in St. Peter’s—”
“Pretty sure you were banned from St. Peter’s—”
“There’s this church Feli loves downtown, because of the music, and this priest Father Richard? Rodney? that she wants to officiate.”
“Oh fucking hell, priests—” but he shut up when he saw Ludwig’s face. “What?”
“Well...” Ludwig shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We have to meet him a bunch of times, Feli said. He has to, er, sort of interrogate us, I think.”
“Uhh, the fuck? Why?”
Ludwig looked, if possible, even stiffer and more uncomfortable. “Because of the, uh, the—”
Gilbert raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Ludwig, glancing at the group next to them in the cafe, dropped his voice to a low whisper. “—because of the whole living situation.”
“Uhh, what? You live together, so the fuck what—”
Ludwig’s cheeks were crimson. “Sanctity of marriage,” he flustered. “Anyway, I wanted—”
“This is the twenty-first fucking century,” Gilbert snorted. “I swear to fucking god, if some five-hundred year old priest is going to ask you questions about your sex life—”
“I wanted,” Ludwig soldiered bullishly on, “to ask you to go with us—”
“Woah, Lud, I moved out when Feli moved in for a reason; if you think I’m answering questions about your sex life—”
“Will you pipe down, Gilbert,” Ludwig snapped. His face and neck were all flushed over red. “I wanted to know if you’d go with—me. I’d just—feel better if you were—around. In the building. I mean, it’s a couple’s interview but—” And then he looked at Gilbert, the way he’d looked at him when he’d brought home that first stray puppy; when he’d wanted to borrow Gilbert’s car for the first time—the way he’d looked at him, after Opa had died—
“Oh for fuck’s sake Ludwig, of course I’ll go.”
About 48 hours later, Gilbert was cursing Ludwig’s puppy-dog, little-brother eyes. He felt absurd, sitting out there alone in the empty hallway of the parish building: from what he could hear through the whitewashed walls, Ludwig and Feli were getting along fabulously well with the priest; they were already talking spring wedding dates—Gilbert rolled his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. The chill of another dusky November evening was slowly setting in, and he was wondering irritably if they were skimping on the heat in this goddamn place, when he heard chairs scraping dully against the floor, and then footsteps approaching—
The door swung open on Ludwig’s broad, beaming face.
“And here’s my brother Gilbert,” he was saying. “He’s going to be my best man. Gilbert, this is Father Roderich, Roderich Edelstein.”
Gilbert tugged himself upright as Feli, Ludwig and another young man stepped into the corridor—a very young man, Gilbert observed with some surprise. Young and—his eyes swept slowly over the soft, dark hair, the large eyes, the slender, ivory throat—and—
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gilbert snorted. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Fr Roderich, who’d been smiling politely with his hand stretched out in expectation of a handshake, let it fall. He was now, Gilbert saw with a muffled snort, frowning—pouting—and his face had acquired a slightly red tinge.
“Excuse me?” Fr Roderich snapped. His right hand rose and began fiddling with his Roman collar.
“You must be, what, 24? 25? Jesus,” Gilbert said. “I didn’t even know they made ‘em that young. I mean, yeah, all those senile fuckers sloping through their masses must have been young once, but—” Fr Roderich’s face twisted sourly and Ludwig promptly slammed an arm around Gilbert’s shoulders and began shaking him. “Okay, we’llbegoingnowitwasnicetomeetyouwe’lltalkagainsoon,” he shouted over his shoulder as he half-dragged, half-carried Gilbert out the building.
“He is young for a priest though, isn’t he?” Felicia said cheerfully, as she strapped herself into the backseat of Gilbert's car. “About our age. And so cute! I suppose it’s just a different sort of marriage though. A marriage to Jesus.”
Gilbert choked back a laugh. “Pretty sure same-sex marriage is forbidden by the Catholic Church, Feli.”
“I—what? Oh very funny, Gilbert.” But she was laughing. Ludwig, on the other hand, was fuming. “Are you trying to jeopardize this whole—”
“Oh for chrissakes Lud—”
But Feli only turned to her fiancé beside her and let her palm slowly rest on his hand. And Gilbert, glancing back at them through the rearview mirror, felt a funny sort of ache in his chest.
Ludwig didn’t ask him to any of the subsequent meetings—and Gilbert knew there were more meetings; he’d see them pencilled in on Ludwig’s calendar when he’d drop by his office every week; and while he couldn’t help wondering what the hell they talked about the whole goddamn time, he figured he was better off really not asking—so in the next few weeks he saw neither hide nor hair of any priests, absurdly young or otherwise. But for some fucking ridiculous reason, every little thing reminded him of that asshole in the collar. And after catching himself for the nth time glaring at the next student who came crashing into his office hours in a popped up collar and brown slacks—exactly the kinda thing that priss was wearing—Gilbert had to admit it: he was bothered. It was like an itch all through him. What the actual fuck, he wondered, as brushed his teeth; shaved; tilted his chair back in his office; wandered through the lab; scanned the fridge for leftovers; read his emails; checked his mailbox—what the actual fuck would possess someone who was that—that—well—anyone—to dedicate their life to the fucking priesthood? He hadn’t the faintest clue. And it bothered him. It pissed him off. Gilbert liked having answers to his questions; that was his whole career for fuck’s sake. So he was going to find out all right. He was going to find out what the fuck was up with Father Roderich Edelstein.
And so Gilbert found himself striding into the grounds of St. Luke’s late one Friday evening. He’d glanced into the church but there were only a few scattered stragglers bent over their rosaries, so he stepped into the parish complex instead and—
And there he was. That stupid fucker of a priest. He was arranging some papers in his arms in the hallway, and Gilbert watched as he fished one out, inspected it, sighed, and then petted down an absurd curl swaying jauntily in the mass of his dark brown hair. It was such a strangely unaffected action that it made Gilbert smile. And then he watched, watched as the man walked into one of the open rooms to the left—and with slow, quiet footsteps, Gilbert walked in after him.
“Hey.”
Father Roderich jumped a mile in the air. His hand leapt to his collar.
“Woah, easy there, mate,” Gilbert laughed. He placed a steadying hand on the priest’s elbow, and felt a sudden tug in the pit of his stomach; he became aware of the fact that his face was burning. He took a couple steps back, though Fr Roderich had already pulled his arm away. “I just wanted to stop by, say hello...”
“I—” the priest frowned at him, confused and agitated.“You shouldn’t be here,” he turned stiffly round and opened the door behind him. “Please leave.”
But instead Gilbert leaned back casually against the wall and ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it. He felt a little strange. “Oh please,” he said. ”Don’t tell me priests have fucking curfews or some shit.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fr. Roderich snapped. “Of course not. I have church business to attend to. Now. And anyway,” and Gilbert was amused to see that Roderich was attempting to scowl at him, eyebrows scrunched together, that little mark next to his lips—god—
“Anyway,” Fr. Roderich was saying, “is your language always so filthy? It’s disgusting. And a terrible influence. Ludwig mentioned that you’re a teacher.”
“Professor,” Gilbert grumbled. “I’m a professor—”
“Oh? I don’t see that there’s much of a diff—”
“And according to your religion, God created shit.” He laughed. “And fucking, for that matter.”
Fr Roderich bit his lip, and Gilbert had no idea if he was trying to suppress a laugh—or a wild outburst. He wasn’t sure which he would’ve enjoyed more. “And considering Mother Mary's predicament, there was definitely some motherfucking going on—”
And this time Fr Roderich really did laugh. And it was only a small laugh—but Gilbert was smiling, and suddenly Roderich was smiling, and—
“Really,” Father Roderich coughed. “You need to go.”
“Awww, c’mon,” Gilbert drawled. He gestured lazily at the papers stacked on the table. “I can help. Papers, man. I’m all about that shit. That shit,” he pursued, as Fr Roderich’s eyebrows jerked higher and higher, “is my shit.”
“The Professor wants to grade Sunday school essays?” The priest asked with acid emphasis, but Gilbert guessed that behind the pressed lips was crouched another quiet laugh. So he joked—
“Fuck, sure,” he laughed. “Easy enough, all that Jesus is my savior bullshit—”
“You need to go.” Fr Roderich’s voice was ice-cold now. Gilbert opened his mouth—and then shrugged. “I’ll be seeing ya,” he said; but as the priest said nothing in rejoinder Gilbert shrugged again, and left. It seemed colder out now, cold and empty—
“Well, if you—if you really want to help—” Gilbert whipped round so fast that he felt his heart leap. Fr Roderich was standing by the open door, his face draped in shadows. Gilbert thought he was fiddling with his collar again. “If you want to help, well—we do a fundraiser every Saturday afternoon, at 12 pm. You could—you could lend some assistance for the preparations and things. If—if you wanted.”
“Are you fucking kidding me—Specs, I’ll be there.”
And it was only when he’d slammed his car door shut that he realized he hadn’t asked the priest a single. fucking. question.
He arrived at the churchyard at about 11:30 am. Fr Roderich hadn't told him what the event was, or even where it was, so he checked the church first—and was surprised to see that there was a Mass going on. Even from outside, standing under the pale sunshine of the approaching winter, Gilbert could recognize Fr Roderich officiating the mass; and as he watched his slender hands moving slowly and gently over the altar he felt an inexplicable jolt of anger. He turned abruptly away and walked into the parish building. A woman was just passing by, her arms laden with stacked trays of pastries.
“Can I help you?” Gilbert said, and with a relieved laugh the woman dumped the trays onto him. “Thanks,” she smiled. “We're ridiculously understaffed today. Antonio couldn't make it, said he was ill or something—who are you?”
“Gilbert,” he said. He was following her up a winding, dusty wooden staircase into a large room on the second floor.
“I'm Maria, coordinator of Church activities; it doesn't pay but it's God's work you know—you can just put them down here,” she gestured to a table next to the doorway. “This is your first time volunteering, I'm guessing?”
“Er.”
The woman laughed merrily. “I'm not trying to make you feel bad,” she patted his shoulder with a large, calloused brown hand. “We just don't get very many new volunteers, is all, so I tend to notice.”
Gilbert let his eyes roam round the room—everything from scarves to cheap plastic toys to intricate glass sculptures were spilling over the various tables scattered throughout the room. “Bazaar?”
“Yep,” Maria smiled. “Father Roderich's been angling for one for months; he's made peace with the consumerist nature of this world I guess. Better they spend money for the Church anyway.” Gilbert suppressed a snort at that last and swerved the conversation back to the previous, considerably more interesting tack—”Is he going to be here, um, Father Roderich?”
Maria glanced at her watch. “Well, mass'll be over in a bit, but he usually does more of the pre-event preparations, paperwork, that sort of thing. Not much for heavy lifting, poor thing.” Her eyes twinkled. “He might show up later during the event, but certainly not now—why?”
“Oh, nothing,” Gilbert said quickly, and slowly began setting up the pastry booth. What the fuck am I doing here? Arranging goddamn cupcakes, that was what. Fucking pointless waste of time. He checked his watch, calculating how quickly he could leave without coming off as a total dickbag when—“Father Roderich?” Maria's voice was all surprise and Gilbert raised his head. Ahhhh. The priest was panting a little, and his cheeks were red, and his mouth—with a hearty surge of amusement Gilbert clapped him roughly on the back. “Winded already, Roddy? That was literally about twelve steps.”
“Oh, be quiet,” Roderich scowled. “Physical exertion isn't exactly a requirement for the priesthood.”
“That much,” Gilbert grinned, “is obvious.”
“Can I help with anything?” Fr Roderich had turned to Maria, but she only eyed him, laughing, and said, “Ohh, I don't know—I don't wanna tire you out. Why don't you just help Gilbert over here set up and I'll fetch you if I need anything?”
“Okay,” Roderich sighed with relief and watched as she strode onward, to conquer the world probably, Gilbert thought as he watched her long, confident strides. “She's a miracle,” Fr Roderich confessed. “I couldn't manage a thing without her.”
Gilbert arched an eyebrow. “Again: obvious, Roddy.” Fr Roderich frowned. “What are you calling me?”
“Roddy. You expect me to say Father Roderich every single goddamn time? Jesus,” Gilbert shrugged. “You're about four years younger than me, Father.”
Fr Roderich was poking absently—longingly, Gilbert thought fleetingly—at the cupcakes. Finally he said slowly, “Ludwig told me—well—“ He paused, then sighed. “I suppose I shouldn't ask.“
“But you're going to anyway.“
“Ludwig told me he was raised by his grandfather—and you. He talks about you a lot. All the time, actually. It's—well. You're like a father to him, aren't you?”
Gilbert made a noncommittal noise. But then he glanced sidelong at Fr Roderich—at those large, searching eyes and softly curving mouth and god, it was stupid as all hell but Gilbert found himself talking before he could stop the words spilling out of his mouth. “Yeah, I mean, our folks died when we were pretty young, and our Grandpa took us in and then he kicked the bucket—” his throat tightened. “Uhh, sure, then yeah, I took a bunch of odd jobs, and it helped that I got scholarships and fellowships and then I got hired straight out of grad school, so we were never poor, and. And. Yeah.”
Roderich was quiet. He was fiddling with one of the cupcakes now, turning it slowly in his white hands. “Will you miss him?”
“He isn't going anywhere,” Gilbert scowled.
“You know what I mean,” Roderich said gently. “Marriage—it changes things. People. Relationships.”
“And you would know?”
Roderich sighed. “I've counseled a lot of marriages before. And I have parents too, you know. I didn't just pop out of the ground.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Roderich frowned, and Gilbert amended quickly, “You know—did it hurt when you fell from heaven, etc, that's all I meant!”
Roderich's eyes widened, and then he flushed, and put down the cupcake, and tugged at his collar. “I meant—you and Ludwig. He's worried about you.”
“Fuck, that's my job. I'm the big brother over here.”
“He's got Felicia now, though, Gilbert. And you—umm. Do you—are you—umm—“ It was pretty adorable, watching Roderich struggle through the words, fucking priests sticking their noses in everyone's business, but eventually Gilbert's pity caught up with his schadenfreude and he said, “Yeah, sure I've had girlfriends. I thought I was going to marry my grad school girl, but hell, Lizzie's much happier with Sadiq these days anyway. Too much fighting, it was exhausting. It was like that, between us.”
Roderich looked crushed, which was funny, because Gilbert was sure he hadn't said anything remotely insulting, this time round at least. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly and Roderich—even more mysteriously—seemed overcome with guilt and—shame? Then he averted his eyes and said slowly, “You should talk to him. Really. He just wants to know that you'll be ok.”
Gilbert smiled crookedly and then ruffled Roderich's hair. “Don't you worry, Specs. I'm always okay.”
Before anything more than a strangled noise could escape Roderich's mouth, Maria's cry echoed through the room. “Okay guys, we're opening the place up to parishioners now! Man your booths!” Gilbert started. It was funny—he'd forgotten why the hell he was here. That he was in a church. That Roderich was a priest. What the fuck, he thought. What the fuck. He turned to Roderich. “I guess I've got this booth.” The priest nodded absently. “I'll—I'll go walk around.”
“You mean, go to the bathroom to fix your hair? Vanity's a sin, Specs.”
Fr Roderich scowled deeply and marched off and Gilbert, laughing, helped a family to a couple of cupcakes.
It became a thing. Gilbert's thing. He'd show up on Saturdays, help out, talk to Roderich. Maria grew to rely on his prompt and punctual aid and eventually even stopped being surprised at Father Roderich's now-regular appearances, started expecting him to carry at least one thing during set-up. It was even sort of a nice shock to find that Antonio—that same Antonio from college, who the hell'd've thought he'd still be hanging round the city—was another one of the regular volunteers, and they caught up during the next coming weeks; him and Antonio and Francis, the whole goddamn group together again, so that Gilbert remembered that he wasn't even thirty yet, was still young, still had his whole life ahead of him or some bullshit like that. That there was a whole big wide world out there—and that it wasn't leaving him behind to get married, but was instead waiting, warm and welcome, for him to come join them.
But Saturdays were always Roderich Days. And Sundays too, if Gilbert could manage to finish his work before Roderich “retired for the night.” They'd sit and talk for—well, for hours, really. He found himself telling Roderich things he'd thought were long, long buried—about his parents, and leaving Germany, and his Grandfather. And Roderich would talk about his family—sometimes. Mostly he just listened and made the occasional wry comment. He certainly never talked about the Church, and Gilbert never asked him. But it got so that even while he was sitting alone in his office or lunching with Ludwig and Feli or lounging in a bar with Tony and Francis—he was thinking about Roderich, and what he would say to him, and what he would maybe say back. Their conversations were like a woven net hanging round him, a new warm comforting presence, even when Roderich wasn't around. He wondered sometimes if Ludwig knew about his strange new little friendship, but as he never mentioned it, and Gilbert seemed unable to overcome his reluctance to bring it up, he supposed Roderich must have been keeping mum about it too. That was a little funny, but then maybe priests were always just the confessors, and never the confessed. Or whatever. It was always pretty mysterious to Gilbert, Roderich's priestly duties, but usually he preferred not to think about them. Other times, he'd watch Roderich conducting mass from outside the church; and he knew it was absurd and maybe even a little alarming, to be standing out there, watching—just watching—through winter snows and occasional below zero temperatures. But he couldn't stand the thought of going in. He just couldn't fucking stand it. Until one Monday evening in mid-March—Ludwig and Feli's wedding creeping closer all the time—Gilbert simply shrugged his shoulders, and strode in.
The church was warm and cozy in comparison to the still-blighting winds outside, but Gilbert could only scowl as he slouched into one of the pews. It felt surreal to be there, rifling through a psalm book, the parish bulletins. He suppressed a shudder, and then looked up as everyone around him began to kneel. The words seemed familiar, and yet there was a jarring note—he remembered suddenly that Roderich had told him they'd changed a lot of the phrasings in the last couple of years, and it made the place seem even further from the church of his past, more alien and disquieting. But he knelt anyway. And when the rest of his row stood up to join the communion queue he found himself compelled to follow them. The men and women lining back into their pews, eyes closed in ecstasy or fervor, hands clasped in fervid desperation—it all seemed an act, a play thrown together for his benefit, of the sublimity and foolishness of mankind. He was waxing poetic all right, Gilbert laughed to himself, but the laugh died on his lips. Because there—was Roderich. And Roderich looked neither foolish nor sublime nor ecstatic nor fervid he just looked—beautiful. And he missed Roderich's words against the loud drumbeat of his heart but as he opened his mouth and Roderich placed his fingers at his lips Gilbert wasn't sure if he was alive or dead or anything or anywhere but as he moved slowly away and sank down on his knees he thought sure, sure, okay, he could understand a little bit the fascination of men for angels.
He remained sitting at the bench, long after the priest and procession had swept out, long after the congregation had dispersed. He wasn't moving, and he wasn't thinking. About anything. Anything at all. Then suddenly, almost mechanically, he started up, and headed for Roderich's quarters. He'd never taken Gilbert there, but he had no trouble finding it, and nothing was locked. There was nothing but a bed and a desk and a chair in Roderich's room. One closet. He sat down on the bed, then shot up like he'd been struck and moved onto the chair instead. Slow footsteps echoed suddenly down the passage and—he couldn't explain it, he knew he'd gone there willingly but suddenly he couldn't—just couldn't bear the thought of Roderich finding him—so he stepped into the closet.
Roderich looked exhausted as he sat down on the chair. Through a slit in the closet doors Gilbert watched as he made the sign of the cross, as he began to pray. Then with mounting, paralyzing horror he watched him stand up, watched him turn towards him—
Roderich's eyes were filled with surprise and terror as he stared at Gilbert.
“Uhh, yeah, heh, sorry,” Gilbert tried to laugh as he hopped out of the closet, but everything seemed so wrong and strange and awful that he couldn't think of a single fucking thing to say.
“Were you—watching me?” Roderich asked slowly.
Gilbert flushed, and looked away. The seconds stretched into a dozen eternities as he stood there, counting the lines etched into the slab of wood at his feet, and he felt the horror ebbing out of every one of those cracks, of waves and waves of silence crashing in on him.
“I don't think you should come back here anymore.” That must have been Roderich, but it sounded curiously like he was unbearably far away from Gilbert, instead of a foot away—as if his voice were crushed by the dumb dark press of quiet that had draped over them.
“What are you talking about?” He demanded loudly. He felt like he was grasping at straws, at the ruined net of their words. “So I—I shouldn't have—I'm sorry I crept up on you. I just—I wanted—uhh—“ His voice shook. “I wanted to see you, I guess.”
“I've been praying,” Roderich continued slowly. He was staring at the crucifix nailed to the wall, and as Gilbert glanced over at it, it came upon him as a grotesque absurdity—a man nailed to a cross, mouth open in unspeakable agony and eyes dull and unseeing. The horrors of mute, unquestioning, obedient suffering—hung deferentially on the wall. He tore his eyes away.
“Yeah, I figured”, he said. “What the fuck else do priests do?”
“I've been praying, and I don't think you should come back here anymore.” Roderich was looking at him in the eyes now, but he looked like a stranger already, beautiful, sad, quiet, and lost. But Gilbert wasn't about to let him slip away just like that, like mom and dad and Opa and even fucking Ludwig.
“Well, that's too fucking bad, Roderich. Because I have a say in this too and I—“
“You don't understand, all right! I have duties, responsibilities! I made vows. Before anything else—before I am your—friend, or counsellor, or whatever, I am the servant of the Church.”
“Which is the biggest fucking pile of shit the world has ever seen.”
“What?”
“Oh please, Roderich. Surely they taught you some things in priest school or whatever the fuck. The crusades, that ring a bell?”
“That was hundreds of years ago. These days the Church is—“
“—IS SHIT, RODERICH.” Gilbert inhaled sharply and Roderich wasn’t looking at him now, wasn’t looking at him but instead looking like he wanted to laugh, or cry, or do anything but listen, but Gilbert needed to keep talking, something, nothing, anything to stave off the dull silence that threatened to press between them, to stir the glazed eyes of the man hanging from the wall.“OK so picture this, it’s fourteen years ago and I’m fifteen and I go to church everyday right? And one day I pick up a parish bulletin—” He slid his hand across this week’s paper—something about this weekend's clothes drive; upcoming feast days; harmless stuff. “And it’s the usual Church business bullshit, baptisms and bake sales, but then there’s this advice column. There’s this woman writing in to ask this Father Jack: what should she do Father, every other night her husband’s coming home drunk and smashing her face in. And Father Jack says, Dear Child of God, pray to Him to give you the strength, the strength to help your husband; pray to Him that the Spirit may enter his soul and enlighten Him that he may see his wrongdoing--”
Roderich’s mouth trembled and Gilbert laughed.
“Pray that he might break a knuckle while he’s cutting his fist on your mouth, more like.” He laughed again, bitterly, so that his throat ached. “But what can you expect from the rule of decrepit old straight white men—”
“The Pope is from Argentina.” Roderich’s voice was low and unsteady. His right hand had begun fiddling with that stupid Roman collar again.
“Ohhhh yeah, right,” Gilbert grinned crookedly. “So the existence of a non-european Pope completely negates the Church’s long and ongoing history as the most effective tool for colonialism in Asia and South America—”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Roderich’s eyes were narrowed now. “The Church is the largest, and in many cases the most reliable charitable institution in these places! When their corrupt governments neglect their responsibilities, who do you think steps in? The Church! We fund schools and hospitals and orphanages and—and—and do you know how many collections we’ve done here? Every time typhoons or earthquakes or God-knows-what hits those poor folks out there, well, we’re out here, doing everything we can to—”
“You can’t make amends by doling out a little money here, a little food there, for huge, institutionalized problems that you fucking caused in the first place!”GIlbert slammed his fist against the wall. “YOU CAN’T JUST HOLD ENTIRE COUNTRIES—TENS OF MILLIONS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE—HOSTAGE TO YOUR FUCKING SHIT BELIEFS! HOW MUCH UNTOLD MISERY, HOW MUCH SUFFERING HAS RESULTED FROM THE CHURCH BANNING CONTRACEPTION, ABORTION, DIVORCE—”
A mounting wave of rage and contempt and fury was storming through Gilbert and he couldn’t stop to notice the way Roderich's slender, fragile frame was shaking all through—
“When there’s no separation of church and state,THE CHURCH’S LAW IS STATE LAW. AND FOR MILLIONS OF PEOPLE THAT HAS MEANT POVERTY AND STARVATION. It’s meant a new mouth to feed every year with no free access to contraception or abortion. It’s meant a life in a cage of abuse and horror where divorce is illegal and domestic abuse isn’t a sufficient reason for annulment.” Gilbert laughed bitterly. “It’s meant a world where people are told to be ashamed of their bodies and their sexualities and—”
“Get out,” Roderich seethed. “Leave.” He wasn’t looking at Gilbert.
“Oh, I’m leaving,” Gilbert said, but he paused at the doorway. “We both know Catholicism is all about the fucking guilt, Roderich.”
“I said LEAVE!”
So Gilbert left, his footsteps echoing hollowly through the parish building.
—But not as hollow as he felt, that night, sunk deep in the couch and his thoughts, the rotten holes in the ceiling boring down on him. What the hell was I fucking thinking, Gilbert thought dully, and shame and regret roiled round the pit of his stomach. Sure, the fact of Roderich's priesthood had been quietly grating on him for months now. Sure, the sight of that Roman collar had been driving Gilbert mad for weeks. It’s like a slave collar, he told himself hotly, that’s why it pissed him off so much. He had to make Roderich see the horrors perpetuated by the Church, had to enlighten him, bring him to reason—...? Or maybe, a small voice murmured, maybe I just wanted to rescue him, take him away from it all, take him—Gilbert’s chest ached and he sat up quickly. It was stupid, pointless thinking about reasons anyway. Roderich was his friend, and he'd upset him. Frightened him, even. So he’d make it up to him, that was all. For the shouting.
So he tried visiting the church again, to apologize, beg forgiveness—to confess! Gilbert thought, with a kind of morbid hilarity—something, anything, to talk to Roderich again, let him know that he’d just been pissed, just talking shit. He wanted to hear his voice, and his laugh, see his face with that rosebud mouth. Those frowning violet eyes. That dumb curl. He missed him with a visceral, burning ache all through him. But Roderich wasn’t there. Or maybe he just refused to see Gilbert, which amounted to the same thing; but every day that week Gilbert dropped by the Parish Office, and everyday it was the same refrain: Father Roderich couldn’t see him; he was busy; he was out; or—that Friday night—flat out gone. Gilbert figured he was praying, probably. Praying that I trip on a molehill and die, he thought miserably as he parked his car by the gate and flopped into his apartment and onto the couch. I could go to the Mass tomorrow morning, he mused. But the thought of once again seeing Roderich standing there in his vestments, so inexplicably unreachable behind the golden gleaming altar; and then so close he could smell the incense on his hands as he laid the Body of Christ in Gilbert’s mouth—oh god—it made him profoundly uncomfortable—and desperate—
Gilbert was jerked from his thoughts by a sharp, insistent rap on the door—that didn’t stop. Who the hell doesn’t ring the doorbell? he wondered irritably and swung the door open to see: Roderich. Father Roderich, with his hair mussed and his glasses awry, mouth half-open in surprise and fist still raised to knock. “Hey—” Gilbert began, surprised and relieved and desperate again all at once, but Roderich had evidently pulled himself together by then because:
“Go fuck yourself to hell.”
Gilbert whistled. “Damn, Roddy. You kiss your bible with that mouth?”
“No,” Roderich whispered (and Gilbert noticed for the first time that Roderich wasn’t wearing his Roman collar). “Just you.” And he raised his arms up, pulled Gilbert’s head down, and to Gilbert’s immense relief, and in chorus with the small voice in his head that whispered, Oh, so this is what I wanted—kissed him.