Storm

Pt. 1

"Are you cold?"
"Yeah—no."
"You feel cold."

Peter had gripped Assumpta's hand so tightly as they sat in his tiny,
freezing car that he could still feel it an hour later as he lay
soaking in the warm bath. He had been morosely reviewing the events
of earlier that evening, as he and Assumpta "guarded" Brian Quigley's
construction site in the Killnashee wood while their friends dashed
home for warmer clothes. The bath was the one place he could go for a
think, without the constant interruption by parishioners wanting the
curate's ear "just for a moment, Father." For that brief time, he
would allow himself to concentrate on his own problems, those to which
he could give no time during his public life.

Tonight, as on many previous nights lately, Peter's meditation
centered on the Möbius strip of his relationship with Assumpta: no
matter how he worked it,there were no two sides. His feelings of
friendship and love were permanently intertwined, turning over on each
other into infinity. Still, he had determined to keep his struggle an
internal one until tonight. Assumpta had been so close, and at last
he could not help himself. He had to touch her, even if only her
hand, even if only for a moment.

The soap slipped from its dish and landed with a splash at Peter's
feet. He watched the ripples it made and he sighed, feeling again the
hopelessness at letting his resolve slip, confusing things, confusing
him, mucking up his most precious possession—-Assumpta in his life.
It had been all over her face as she got in her van to leave.
Peter had gestured helplessly at the departing vehicle, as if
attempting to erase his actions and put things right again.

A flash of lightning through his tiny bedroom window awakened Peter
from an unsettled sleep. In the gloom he made out the ancient alarm
clock on the bedside table: half-eleven. Still in need of comfort and
contemplation, and unable to sleep anyway, he decided to go up to St.
Joseph's to pray before the Blessed Virgin. Even after the mockery of
the "sweating" Child of Prague, Peter found great comfort in his
devotion to Mary, possibly a legacy of his mother's faith. Donning a
warm jumper and jeans, Peter headed down the stairs. He was still so
distracted that he forgot to duck and smacked his forehead hard
against the low ceiling. Rubbing his head and feeling woozy, he
tugged on his coat, opened the front door and stepped outside. A cold,
stinging rain splintered down on the empty road.

Assumpta suddenly appeared at the low hedge bordering the garden,
Fionn whimpering miserably beside her on his lead. "Assumpta?" Peter
called tentatively, thinking he might be greeting a figment of his
imagination. "Oh, hello," Assumpta said casually, secretly relieved
when Peter had opened his door, making her arrival look like chance.
She had actually been standing out in the wet for ages, plucking up
the courage to knock.

"Assumpta, what are you doing out in this?" Fortunately, it didn't
occur to Peter that she would only head out in this weather with a
purpose in mind. Assumpta squinted at him. "Sunbathing." Peter
knew he'd walked into that one, and motioned toward the door.
"Please. Come in out of the weather."

Assumpta walked up to the house, yanking along a still-protesting
Fionn. Peter held the door for her. Assumpta unhooked Fionn's lead
and he immediately made himself comfortable on the warm, dry floor in
the kitchen next to the cooker. Assumpta perched on edge of Peter's
small sofa, not taking off her coat, not speaking, and not quite sure
why she'd come. Her emotions were still swarming close to the surface
after Peter's tortured display of affection earlier that evening, and
though desperate to talk about it, feared that what he might be say
would break her heart.

Peter lingered indecisively in the doorway, then closed the door gently and awkwardly seated
himself next to her. There was a polite, uneasy silence that
neither seemed to know how to break. Assumpta's eyes darted
nervously around the room, her gaze coming to rest on the black priest’s
jacket, Roman collar like a sucker in the front pocket, draped over a
chair.

Peter's mouth opened as if to say something, then closed again.
Assumpta took a deep breath and asked the question that had sent her
slogging up here through the rain, in the middle of the night:
"Peter, what do you want?"

He turned his head away so she wouldn't see the tears, shaking his
head, trying to will them back. His hands were folded tightly in his
lap, knuckles white. Assumpta lightly touched his arm to focus his
attention. "Peter, talk to me."

Peter lost his battle, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he sobbed
raggedly, "It's no good. I'm useless. I just can't handle it!"

"Can't handle what?" Peter's outburst alarmed Assumpta. She
realized that she depended on Peter to be the collected and rational
one, and here he was falling apart.

"Everything! All of it. The Church. Ballyk. You. Miracles. Being
a priest. You name it, I can't handle it!" Peter held his head in
his hands, weeping unreservedly.

Assumpta, usually so practised at counseling her friends through their
troubles, had no idea what to do; indeed, her first instinct in the
face of such naked emotion that she knew she played a part in
provoking was to flee. "I—I'd better go," she said, moving to get up.
Peter grabbed her hand, pleading, "Assumpta, don't go. Please."

Peter lifted his eyes to Assumpta's, holding her disbelieving gaze
with his own, for the first time not breaking away as he had done
countless times across the bar at Fitzgerald's. The only sound aside
from the storm was their nervous, shallow breathing as they stared
across three unrequited years of wanting each other. There was a
mighty thunderclap, and the lights flickered out. Neither moved.
Peter's grip on Assumpta's hand tightened, and one last, slow tear
trickled down his cheek. Assumpta tenderly brushed it away with her
thumb. Her touch reverberated through Peter like a great bell being
rung, every nerve standing on end. Peter reached over to her, for a
wordless moment holding her angel's face in his hand. Something
ticked over in him, and suddenly there in the dark they were no longer
priest and publican but simply man and woman. "Assumpta," he
whispered urgently, pulling her to him in a kiss.

Under normal circumstances, as if there could be normal circumstances,
both would have wanted their first encounter to be gentler and more
romantic, but after so long waiting, there was no time. The coupling
was quick and clumsy, as befit lovers with much passion but little
practice. Peter and Assumpta wrestled out of their heavy, wet coats
and managed to tug away a few other crucial bits of clothing in their
rush: lashing kisses, gasping, grazing bites, moans, tender laughter,
limbs entwined, safe the darkness and sound of pounding rain.

Peter awoke at first light, alone, in his bed. For a long, tortured
while he stared at the ceiling, going over last night's unexpected,
incredible encounter with Assumpta. Unwillingly blushing, he pulled
the counterpane over his head and tried to convince himself that it
had only been a storm-influenced dream rather than the irrevocable act
that would forever change things between them. That proved
impossible. He could still feel her, smell her, taste her. It had
happened. He had been weak and selfish, and had ruined everything.
Heavy with chagrin and guilt, Peter roused himself from bed, dressed,
and went to St. Joseph's to prepare for morning Mass.

At noon, Assumpta was behind the bar at Fitzgerald's, absently serving
lunch and mentally distancing herself from the unreality of her and
Peter's lovemaking. It was so unthinkable as to be laughable, but
here it had happened. She hadn't had time yet to compose what to say
for the next time she saw Peter. She'd first have to determine how
she felt about it, and was damned if she knew. After dozing lightly
in each other's arms, Assumpta had slipped away to dress and leave
before the sun rose and someone caught her sneaking out of the
curate's house. As she snapped the lead onto Fionn's collar, she had
caught Peter watching her. His expression of pained confusion baffled
her, after she thought things had finally been settled between them.
She had left then, without saying anything.

The front door rattled, signaling a customer. Assumpta shook her
head, hard, trying to gain a grip on the day. Siobhan Mehigan came
in, taking her customary seat at the end of the bar. "A bottle of
Harp and a sandwich, please, Assumpta--what's that?" Assumpta's hand
flew up to the hickey she'd noticed on her neck in the mirror and
attempted to mask with make-up. Siobhan grinned conspiratorially.
"Sure, it's good to see you getting out and about, anyway." Assumpta
smiled tightly, wanting to confide in her friend, but saying nothing.

Peter ached to confide in someone as well; indeed, his friend Brendan
Kearney had come to him with a similar situation involving Siobhan
several months ago. Brendan had a level head and understanding
nature. Still, it was too much to burden him with news as explosive as
Ballykissangel's curate and Fitzgerald's landlady spending the night
together.

Peter was struggling mightily with what had happened,
wondering if it was a new beginning or a definitive ending. He loved
being a priest, but that part of him was now mortally wounded. He
needed guidance from his Church. Fr. MacAnally, Peter's parish priest
and immediate superior, had agreed with Peter's request to meet the
next day. If nothing else, Fr. Mac would provide the cold,
unsentimental assessment Peter thought he needed.

As they sat in the empty sanctuary of St. Joseph's, Peter kept the
consultation purposefully vague. He was unwilling to reveal everything to
Assumpta's worst enemy, and yet still hoped to get answers. Fr. Mac
was having none of it. "You don't fool me. Shall I tell you what the
problem is? Assumpta Fitzgerald." Peter was caught short, surprised
he was that transparent. His pulse beat visibly against the tight
Roman collar around his neck as he stuttered, "I hope you don't think
that—nothing's happened."
"Is something likely to happen?"
"No." Peter, never the best of liars, knew he wasn't at all
convincing.

With some strongly-worded advice from Fr. Mac fresh in his ears, Peter headed
down to Fitzgerald's for the conversation he dreaded. He wasn't sure
which would be worse: telling Assumpta his decision, or that telling
her gave the decision finality. There would be no going back once he
spoke the words aloud. He opened the reception door, the entrance he
always used when hesitant to face Assumpta head-on. Assumpta's good
friend Niamh Egan, with her infant son Kieran, was on her way out. At
the other end of the bar, Brendan, Siobhan and Dr. Michael Ryan were
celebrating Niamh's saving of the wood from her father's road
construction project. Peter smiled an uncomfortable hello at Niamh,
chucked Kieran under the chin and greeted the assembled in a subdued
manner, all the while looking over to Assumpta.

Upon seeing him, Assumpta's hand again touched the now-fading mark on
her neck. Siobhan caught this, looking from Assumpta to Fr. Clifford
and back to Assumpta, who met her eyes briefly before turning away.
Peter motioned toward the kitchen. Assumpta softly told the regulars
that she'd be right back, and to let her know if any other
customers came in. Siobhan watched Assumpta follow Fr. Clifford from
the room, unwilling to believe the connection she'd just made.

Assumpta shut the door quietly behind her and fussed with the electric
kettle and tea towels, doing everything possible not to face what she
knew was coming when she saw the pinched expression on Peter's
face. Not to face it, because as soon as Peter entered Fitzgerald's,
Assumpta had realized exactly how she felt about their night together,
about him. For his part, Peter kept his distance, remaining across
the room. Eyes red, and only moderately in control, he told her that
he wanted to be a priest more than her lover.

Assumpta swallowed hard and gripped the old Aga's oven handle tightly
with both hands, as if it would ground her, drain away the anger and
heartbreak into the floor so she would not have to feel it. So close,
so close, and now their chance had gone. Then she retreated behind
her usual screen of acid self-defense, hissing low so those out at the
bar could not hear: "Fine. Go on retreat. I wouldn't want you to
make any decisions based only on one night." This took Peter aback.
As much damage as he had already done, he was desperate for her to
know he cared for her far beyond that. But it came out all wrong. "It
wasn't—-I couldn't-—I had to choose, Assumpta," he finished desperately.

Assumpta looked hard at him. She had not missed Peter's unconsciously
twisting an imaginary wedding band on his ring finger during his
entire speech, actions betraying his words. Still, Assumpta did not
comment, because this much she knew: once he chose the
path he felt was right, no amount of persuasion would change his mind.

Suddenly she could no longer bear to be in the same room with their
shared grief, and ended their conversation with the cryptic pronouncement, "At
least I know I made the right decision." Peter, not understanding,
watched Assumpta hurry back into the bar, yanking the kitchen door
open with one hand while quickly wiping her eyes with the other. He
clenched his jaw, almost as if attempting to keep him rooted in place
rather than chase after her. Whatever her decision was, it didn't
matter for him now. It was over. For what seemed the millionth time,
and the last, he let the tears well in his eyes.

Unbidden, an old conversation between him and Assumpta played on an
endless loop in Peter's head as he drove out of Ballykissangel.

"Do you ever want what you can't have?"
"Sure."
"What stopped you?"
"Me."

He'd never wanted more for it to be untrue.