In school we listened to lectures on baptism and Christ’s death, tales of thorns and nails, hunger and rotten kisses. If He had already died for our sins, what was the point of confessing? I wanted to ask. But no one asked questions in class. We took notes and stared at the crucifix nailed to the border of the blackboard. A naked man we were supposed to love spread for all of us to see. It was after class that I could sometimes dig up the nerve to ask questions. Especially if I was sitting outside and Father Marcus happened to pass by and ask how I was, then I would have something ready for him to clarify, like why Peter falling asleep was such a bad thing, or how come Mary was God’s bride and not Jesus’s mother? He would sit down with me on the concrete steps, his dark eyebrows raised in earnest, and explain. I wondered about Christ up on that cross, and what people had wanted from him.
“Why did they have to kill him naked?” I asked, tentative about saying the word naked to a priest.
“They wanted to humiliate him,” Father Marcus replied.
“Oh.”
“You seem confused.”
“I thought maybe they were curious,” I whispered.
Father Marcus stroked his collar with his fingers. “Maybe they were. Israel is a very hot country.”
I made a habit of going next door without asking. Father Marcus was always willing to receive me, even if he was cooking. I would help him chop zucchini, or slice crumbly white cheese we didn’t have at home, and he would sing hymns or teach me recipes; how long to boil the water, how to know how much paprika to add. He could even make roses out of radishes, his fingers quick and selective, and I would write some of his lessons down on a pad of yellow paper he kept by the phone. He told me my mother would appreciate it. She and my father would eat the new dishes (if we were missing a mysteriously spelled spice, Father Marcus would provide it in a tiny plastic bag) and my father would read his newspaper at the table, mumbling between chewings how good my mom could cook. Later the hot spices would send him up to bed to toss and turn in his blankets or hold his cramping belly in the bathroom. Then he said they gave him bad dreams, never had the stomach for foreign cooking. The meals had strange names, Portuguese names I didn’t know how to pronounce, from Brazil, where Father Marcus came from. One day I found Brazil on the map pinned to our classroom bulletin board. Although it wasn’t as large as Canada, I was sure it contained many more spices. I would flail my hands around my mouth from the heat at first, but gradually, with practice, I could place the spices directly onto my tongue without flinching.
I had been practising the harmony section of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” when I noticed the forgotten casserole my mom had baked for Father Marcus. She had spent all day in the kitchen breaking eggs and soaking vegetables, pushing me gently into other rooms to practise without disturbing her. I clasped the heavy dish in my hands, raking in the smell of sweet tomatoes, zucchini, and beef, and strolled up his stairs. I noticed the door was slightly ajar and cupped my sole around it, kicking back a little. I wandered through his living room where black-and-white pictures of dark-haired people in light clothes hung alongside coloured paintings of the Virgin and Jesus. I had pointed to those pictures on one occasion and asked him who they were. He said he didn’t know, that they were just decoration, and he looked a little sad, his lips curling around the edges. I was on my way to the kitchen when I saw my mother collapsed in the arms of Father Marcus, giving him a TV kiss, a long one, part of her yellow silk blouse hanging off her shoulder, her light brown hair curled around her neck, her lips an offering. I nearly dropped the casserole, and then clung on to it like a stuffed animal, biting the Saran Wrap. Father Marcus opened his eyes and saw me there. He didn’t even flinch, closing one eye, his mouth moving toward her neck, and I was glad that my mother never turned around. I sneaked out the door, casserole in hand, shaking. He caught me before I could get through my own front door.
“Come here,” he said calmly, his heavy-lidded eyes downcast.
I couldn’t disobey a priest, but I wanted to. I was going to cry and didn’t want him to know. When I looked at his face I saw my mother’s lips pressing on him, the same lips that she would blot thick with “kissing-red” lipstick, as a joke, because I loved the name, and smack my cheeks. He took the casserole out of my hands, had to give a forceful tug on it if I remember correctly, and laid it on the bottom stair like a loose brick. I had already started to cry, turning away from him, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
“It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
He was reaching out his hand for me to hold, but I put mine behind my back, even though I wanted to wipe my face free of the tears.
“You saw us, didn’t you, dear.”
I nodded.
“Me and your mom.”
I nodded again and kicked at the stone stairs.
“It’s natural for your mom and I to kiss. We love each other, you see.”
I knew priests were supposed to love everyone, but the thought of my mother’s arms wrapped around him, touching his body. His body.
“I didn’t know priests had lips!” I yelped and slid around his legs on the steps, heaving, trying to take in enough air to keep listening.
“Priests have a lot of things,” he said. “We’re just like other people.”
“No you’re not.” That I was sure of.
“Not entirely … we cook better.”
I pressed my face against his chest for a moment and he went in to get me a washcloth.
That night I ran straight up to my room and faked a stomach ache so as not to eat dinner with my mom and dad. My dad just accepted it and didn’t come up to check on me, his spoon already dug deep into another casserole. My mother did. I don’t think Father Marcus told her what I saw, but she came to tell me that in a couple days we would be leaving when my father left for work. We were going to fly in a plane and have a vacation. I started to cry again. She brought me ginger ale for my tummy, and told me we would all be happy, and not to tell Dad. That wasn’t difficult.
On the Tuesday we packed quickly, just as she said we would, right after Dad left for work. We took only “necessities,” as she called them, and “favourites.” For me this included a few clothes, a red-haired beanbag doll I’d had since I was a baby, and a toothbrush. My mother also took very little, her purse and some clothes, saying we would buy new things, but that night she had been up late typing her last letter for the church bulletin and I figured she didn’t pack because she was pretty tired. On a yellow piece of paper I wrote “I’ll miss you” and shoved it in my father’s sock drawer at the bottom. He never really liked to travel.
Father Marcus arrived with two suitcases and passports for all of us. A week earlier, as a surprise, my mom had taken me to a photo booth and the same black-and-white picture was staring at me in the tiny book. We took a taxi to the airport and Mom bought me a teen magazine to read on the trip. I asked her if Dad was sad and she gave me a pill that she said would soothe my stomach. I asked Father Marcus why he wasn’t wearing his collar, and he said it was easier to get through Customs that way. I don’t remember much else. I was fast asleep before we even boarded.
When we got off the plane, Mom told me we were in Brazil, the land of spices I pointed to on a map. It was so dry and hot that I asked if there was a pool. She said there was an ocean. We arrived in a town called