Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Eight
Carmen
Father Dominic holds me close, his large hand smoothing my hair as he tells me he’s here, he’s here for me. Not that God is here for me, but that he is here for me. Father. The only person in my life who has made me feel safe.
The fabric of his frock coat is stiff beneath my cheek and already damp with tears. But under it, I can feel warmth and strength and comfort. He smells like smoke and incense and faintly of cologne, something with subtle notes of spice.
I want to stay like this, folded in his arms, but then the fear hits, along with the shame. Someone could come in and while Father would explain that he was just comforting a parishioner, I could not claim that I was just innocently accepting that comfort, because I would know that comfort wasn’t the only thing I felt. My nipples are tight and achy, and between my legs, the tugging throb is back, pumping wetness into my panties.
One night a long time ago, I awoke to my mother crying. Through the walls I could hear my father, who’d come home late, rebuking her. He said he’d only known two good women in his life—his mother and his late wife. All other women, he said, are either whores or about to become one.
“How can you say that? We’re raising a little girl, you know,” she’d said.
“Don’t remind me,” he’d replied. The door had slammed and I’d laid awake for hours listening to my mother cry. I was seven.
I force myself to disengage from the circle of Father Dominic’s strong arms.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“You shouldn’t be the one to apologize,” he says. “I should. I’d never have put you in that position if I’d known he’d act like that.”
“I should have warned you.”
“You tried. I should have listened, Carmen. You said he intimidates you, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
I turn away. I don’t want to start crying again. I think of the pictures of him abroad and remember how he lied to me about traveling. Father Dominic obviously doesn’t want to reveal his personal life and what he’s doing—trying to get me to reveal mine—is just his job. It’s his job to comfort and care. I draw a ragged breath and turn back to him.
“He didn’t want a daughter,” I say quietly. I put my hand to my chest. “And I carry this… darkness inside of me because of it.”
“Darkness?” He shakes his head. “Sweet child, I see no darkness in you.”
“You’re wrong.” I take a step back. “If you didn’t grow up like I did, then you don’t know.” I’m surprised at the defensive anger I feel. “You obviously had the perfect family. You’re a priest.”
“Is that what you think?” He stares down at me, walks to the cabinet and takes out a flask. I watch in surprise as he pours himself a glass of whiskey and downs it.
Outside, it’s started to snow. There’s a clunking noise as the heater in the church basement comes on. A draft of warm air from a nearby vent wafts past me, but I still feel cold.
Father Dominic puts the flask back. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks to the window.
“Looks like the storm is ahead of schedule,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Carmen. I want you to go to the confessional.”
“Father, no…”
“It’s not a request, child.” He faces me, and there’s something stern in his expression that makes my lower belly flutter. At home when my father gives me an order, I feel dread and loathing. When Father Dominic gives me an order, it feels different. This feels especially different. I don’t want to obey, and yet at the same time it’s all I want to do.
“Father…” I breathe the word but have none to follow it. He nods towards the door and I go, gritting my teeth against the cold blast of air. I didn’t pick up my coat, and I fold my arms around my upper body as I walk the covered breezeway to the sanctuary. There are no cars outside. The early storm is keeping everyone away. Is this why he told me to go? So I can confess in an empty church where I’ll feel less self-conscious?
The gray light of a snowy day comes through the twelve stained glass windows, seven on either side of the sanctuary. Each depicts a different Station of the Cross. I stop for a moment to ponder one depicting a bloody and beaten Jesus, falling from the weight of the wooden crucifix.
I walk on to the confessional and go inside. How long has it been? How long have I felt unworthy to confess? I remember how scared I was during my first confession when I confided in Father Morris about my small sins. I’d borrowed a pencil and forgotten to give it back. I’d had disobedient thoughts when my mother asked me to help with the housework. I did not confess the anger in my heart at my father. He was a deacon, even then, and lauded his position in the church so much that I was terrified it would get back to him even though rationally I knew that confessions are confidential.
I’d felt small in the confessional. I still feel small. I kneel on the bench and wait. I’m waiting for Father, and my heart is hammering in my chest for all the wrong reasons. He wants to know my sins. He wants to lay me bare. The intensity of the pulse between my legs can’t be ignored. He’s a priest. A Father. A man of God. Lord, help me. I don’t want to be a bad girl.
I hear a door click and find myself hoping that it’s a church member who braved the cold to show up after all. But I know the sound of that footfall. I clasp my hands and close my eyes. I hear Father settle into the confessional. I smell smoke; he had a cigarette on his way in. I smell his cologne. I think of how good it felt when he held me.
Please, God.
He’s silent. He’s waiting. I have to force myself to say the words.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I draw a deep breath. “It’s been… I don’t know how long it’s been since my last confession. Before I left for school, maybe?”
“God is love, child. And love is patient.”
I relax a little and try to think of God just waiting for me to unburden myself, but all I can think of is Father Dominic. I push myself to continue. If I can unburden myself of the sins I carry, perhaps I can unburden myself of this growing need for a man I have no business wanting.
“You have sins to confess?” Father’s voice is gentle and coaxing.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been... dishonest. I told my parents I was going to church at school but I hardly ever went. I told them I was going to confession. I wasn’t. I have been… prideful. I wanted to leave home and thought my good grades would give me a bright future. I have been humbled. I had to come back home. I have been angry.” I blink back tears burning my eyes. “I hate my father. I resent my mother. I should be grateful.”
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He’s still there, still listening. I continue.
“I’ve been guilty of envy. I envy my friends whose dads loved them, who took care of them and encouraged them and guided them. I loved my roommate but was jealous when her dad picked her up for vacation. He didn’t want her to take the train home. She said he worried about her. I didn’t have…” I pause. “I coveted that. I coveted the love and the care. She once told me about getting in trouble when she was nine for going to a friend’s house without calling. She said she got punished. Her father was so scared and he wanted to make sure she never did it again. I coveted that, too. I coveted someone who loved me enough to show me how to be good. I had a father, but I coveted what she had. A daddy.”
“God knows your heart, child. He understands, and he has a father’s love for you.”
I close my eyes. The love of a heavenly father is comforting, but it doesn’t speak to the need that’s awakened since I’ve known Father Dominic. I want the fatherly love and attention of a man–the kind of attention that makes my body tingle in a way that must be sinful.
On the other side of the confessional, Father Dominic is waiting for more.
I look at my folded hands. What else? What else can I tell him? I can’t tell him of my twisted needs. Besides, he’s likely waiting to hear of other sins, the kinds my girlfriends confessed. I know my roommate was a good Catholic girl, but I heard her at night, masturbating. I could hear her bed squeak, could hear her soft moans. I never touched myself, not even since coming home, not even when my body cries out for it. But even now, I know if I slipped my hand between my legs with the presence of Father Dominic so close and the smell of his cigarette smoke and cologne still in my nose that I’d experience something cathartic and new.
“I want to be good,” I say quietly.
“You are.”
“I’m not, because I want…” I stop.
“What do you want, child?”
I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I need to confess my need for him, to purge it, but I can’t. I’m afraid that even if I cloak it in vague wording, Father Dominic will know I’m talking about him. He’ll send me away. I don’t want to be sent away.
“That’s all,” I say.
He’s quiet, and I know he’s waiting for me to revisit what I said, to tell him what I want. But I’m silent, too. I wait for penance.
“Ten Hail Marys,” he says. “And light a candle to the Blessed Mother, who comforts us all.”
I hear him stand and walk away. Am I imagining it, or do I sense disappointment in his receding footsteps? He wanted more, more than I could give. I failed him. I failed myself. I failed God. I stay in the confessional until I hear the church door close, then exit into the quiet of the sanctuary.
I’ll get a candle tomorrow. Today, I’ll say my Hail Marys. I kneel in one of the pews, take the rosary from the pocket of my skirt. I feel the beads slip through my fingers. Hail Mary, Full of Grace…
When I’m finished, I stand and jolt when I feel my cell phone buzz in my other pocket. It’s a cheap phone with no Internet capabilities, and I’ve always been slightly embarrassed when I see those fancier phones. But it helps me keep in touch with my mother, and it’s her number I see on the screen.
“Mom?” I say when I answer.
“Carmen…” Her voice is strained, as if she’s been crying. “It’s snowing.”
“I know,” I say. I reach down and trace a nick in the wood on the back of the pew in front of me. “I suppose you need to get me early?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I left, but the roads are already slick and you know how I hate driving in weather like this. I called your father, but he’s still at the office. Mindy said he was on the other line negotiating a big order and I didn’t want to bother him.”
“How am I going to get home?” I ask.
“I talked to Father Dominic. I asked if you could stay in the rectory tonight. It’s not safe on the roads.”
I walk to the door and open it. The air is frigid and the ground is covered. Sleet is mixing with the snow. She’s right.
No one should be out.
“What did Father say?” I ask.
“He said that was fine. He has a room for guests on the other side of the rectory. He said for me not to worry. He said he’d keep you safe.”
I shut the sanctuary door and lean against it, facing the cross over the lectern. I think of how his arms felt around me.
“Are you sure it’s okay, Mom?”
“He’s a priest, dear.” Her tone indicates that this, alone, settles any question of whether or not it’s okay.
“All right, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Carmen.”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“You know I love you, right?”
I don’t know what to say. My mother hardly ever tells me she loves me anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“Okay, baby. See you later.”
She clicks off. I stare at the phone before putting it back in my pocket. I’m spending the night with Father Dominic. I say a silent prayer for guidance and hope God is listening.
