The Priest's Wife

Father Andrew sat in a small kitchen of the empty Assumption Church rectory as he scribbled last-minute notes into the edges of that week’s homily. The morning sun crept threateningly across the table as he worked, alerting him to the impending morning mass he must preside over shortly.  His arthritic, wrinkled fingers moved shakily over his notepad, the freshly-inked words bleeding together as he placed the pen down to survey his newest additions. 

The clack of heels behind him. A figure behind him cut a shadow across his table, and for a moment, Andrew’s heart flipped in his chest. Who–? 

Then it occurred to him. No, no of course the rectory hadn’t been empty after all, how could he forget? His wife, Sarah. He must not have heard her get up. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Father Andrew said. 

“Hi, Andrew.” She responded softly, wrapping her arm around him and kissing the top of his frizzled, gray head. 

“Breakfast?” She asked.

“Not this morning,” he sighed. 

He heard the rustle of pans behind him as she moved to begin preparing something anyway. That’s part of what he loved about her. Sometimes she knew what was best for him better than even he did. 

“You write some of your best homilies the morning of.” 

“Yeah, well,” Andrew took his spectacles off and rubbed both his eyes, “maybe once that was true, but I’m getting too old for this.” Andrew felt off, like the world suddenly became fuzzier. Maybe he shouldn’t be working himself so hard. 

He cradled his head in his hands as he listened to the sizzling pan, the crinkling of the Wonderbread bag, and soft clink of dishes as his wife prepared breakfast. Then, finally, the clicking of approaching heels and the thunk of the plate on the table beside him. 

Andrew lifted his gaze to his wife. She was beautiful as ever. Fine chestnut hair framed her fair young face. Her lips were coloured red with rouge. But as her large, pale eyes met his, feeling piercing, he buried his face in his hands again. 

“I feel off,” he said. 

“You need to pull it together, Andrew.” 

“What?” 

“For your parish. The people in that room depend on you to help make sense of their lives. You need to keep it together long enough to make it through this mass.” 

“I know.” 

Sarah had prepared him eggs, toast with a generous amount of butter, and fresh strawberries. Andrew picked at his meal, watching the back of his wife’s thin form as she cleaned. There was something achingly elegant about the way she moved. Though she was certainly beautiful, it wasn’t just that. There was a sureness and adeptness to her motions that suggested confidence and a quick mind. He forgot, sometimes, how much he relied on her. 

“Andrew,” his wife had turned away from her cleaning, “what are you doing?” 

Andrew followed her gaze to the table. He held one of the fresh strawberries, plucked from the meal she had made him in his hand. Without realizing it, he had taken it between his fingers and squeezed, squashing it into mush. Red juices dripped down from his hands onto the homily. The once-white tablecloth was stained red.

Andrew blinked in surprise. “I–I didn’t even realize.” Perhaps he was ill. He stared at the way the red juice dripped into the crevices of his hand, the flesh embedded under his nails. 

Then his wife was quickly wiping the mess away, dabbing the strawberry remains off his homily. 

“Nevermind, I’ll take care of this. You’re going to be late.” 

Father Andrew rose to his feet, folded the stained homily in half and tucked it into his pocket. “It’s not like they can start without me,” he said. He grabbed the cane he propped against the kitchen wall. “Wish me luck,” he said. 

She kissed his cheek. “Luck,” she said. And Andrew turned to go, leaning deeply on his cane, using his thumb to pick at the red strawberry flesh still embedded underneath his nails. 

*****

When Father Andrew returned to the rectory after service, the building was quiet. The thud of his cane echoed against empty hallways. His back protested with the pain of spending too long standing as he pushed himself down the hallway into his study. He leaned his cane against the wall, ruffled through a cabinet drawer for a cigarette and a lighter, and sunk back into his familiar worn leather armchair with a groan. 

He looked down at his hands. A sticky trail of red strawberry still streaked down his hand to his wrist from earlier, the leftover of what he hadn’t been able to scratch off during mass. It bothered him. He thought briefly of washing his hands, but the idea of subjecting himself to several more minutes of pained, arthritic walking was too much for him at the moment. He pressed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. 

As he slowly exhaled the first hazy cloud of smoke, a framed photograph next to his chair caught his eye. A dull pain began pounding into the back of his head. Andrew’s stomach churned. He at once had the sense that he had stared at that photograph everyday, that he knew it down to its last, grainy detail. But he also felt as if he was seeing something foreign from a past life, something he had no longer recognized.

It was a picture of his wife, just as she looked this morning, her young face fair, her eyes bright and piercing. She was smiling a brilliant, white smile. She looked so happy. Next to her, with his hand wrapped around her waist, was a man. A much younger man than himself, that also looked so, so familiar. The picture made him uncomfortable. With some effort, he leaned forward, lifting the picture from the table. He stared into the man’s eyes. They were deep brown and happy too. Andrew felt as if the man’s identity had almost come to him, if only his mind was clearer, less fuzzy, when he heard the creak of Sarah’s presence in the doorway.

“How did mass go?”

“Fine,” Andrew responded, still staring at the photograph. He could feel himself losing clarity, the revelation slipping away by the second as he desperately tried to grab ahold of it. “Sarah, who is this man? In the photo, who is he?” 

Sarah paused. “That’s you on our honeymoon, sweetheart.” 

“Me?” Andrew whispered, but in a rush she understood she was right. The man in the photograph was him.

“Before you became a priest.” Sarah said. She seemed hesitant, careful. 

“But I–” Andrew stuttered. Something wasn’t adding up, but his thoughts were passing through his hands like sand.

“Weren’t we handsome together back then?” She said softly, putting her hand on his shoulder.

The pounding in his head was getting worse. Everything felt muddled, like a smeared painting. Amidst this, a single question formed in his head, the only thing that felt like it made sense to ask: 

“Sarah, how come you never come to my masses?” 

At this, Sarah removed her hand from his shoulder. When she answered, she spoke hollowly, sadly. “You know why, Andrew.” 

Father Andrew turned to face her, to demand he tell her why, because nothing was making sense, but Sarah was gone. Father Andrew was alone in his study, clutching the framed picture, tears beginning to sting at his eyes. 

And the rectory was silent once more.