Chapter 4 Michael #2
Then, so quietly, I have to strain as Eileen whispers, “He’s very angry. Please don’t come.”
But of course I do.
Sarah's car is parked at a slant outside the house, one back tire flat with a screwdriver plunged into it. I imagine Dade lurking just behind the curtain, fists clenched, eyes daring me to show my face.
I climb the step and knock. This time, Sarah answers.
Her hair is pulled back, clenched in a simple rubber band, wet from a hurried shower. She’s wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, arms crossed tightly across her chest. A bruise is forming along her cheekbone. It's new, shallow, and red with blue around the edges.
She tries to block the doorway with her body, but I can see into the living room. Dade is pacing in slow, angry loops, Eileen is planted on the sofa, hands wrung white-knuckled in her lap.
“Are you all right?” I keep my voice low. "I thought the cops were going to keep him a few nights."
Sarah’s gaze flicks behind her, then back to me. “I’m fine. “ She rolls her eyes and lowers her voice, “Why would the police keep you when apparently you're buddies with a sergeant who doesn't believe Dade Andrews should be detained in his jail?”
From the living room, Dade barks, “Let him in, girl.”
She flinches and steps aside.
The living room is hot, sour, and smells of old takeout and sweat. Dade stands by the window, peering at the street. Eileen’s eyes are locked on the floor. I take a seat in the hardbacked chair by the TV.
Dade spins on his heel to face me, lips sneering. “You here to take my girl again, Father?”
I choose my words carefully as I speak. “Sarah, I was concerned for you. You missed our meeting.”
Dade snorts. “You mean you were worried she wouldn’t come crawling back to you.” He turns to Sarah, voice rising. “How long were you planning to keep it up, huh? Staying at the priest’s house. What kind of girl does that?”
“I told you,” she says, voice shaking. “Nothing happened. I just needed somewhere safe.”
Dade’s fist slams into the wall, rattling a cheap print in a bent frame.
“Don’t lie to me! The whole damn town’s talking.
Everyone’s busybodying in this town. You think I’m gonna let you make a fool out of me?
First, Eileen blacks my eyes, you bust my head clean open, and now the damn priest takes me down with a skillet.
Ain't no way y'all gonna keep playing me like a fiddle.”
He advances, and Sarah steps backward, her heels catching on the worn carpet. He can't possibly think I'd let him attack her in front of me. Every ounce of my body is telling me to tear this collar off and give this asshole the beating he deserves.
I rise, heart pounding, and put myself between them. “Mr. Andrews. That’s enough.”
He swings his glare to me, nostrils flaring. “Or what? You gonna beat me with your Bible, Father?” He leans in close, breath hot and sour. “She’s under my roof, she does what I say. You want her so bad, fine. Take her. But don’t come crawling back when you find out what a whore she is.”
The word lands like a slap. I want to hit him, truly, to break his teeth and watch him choke on them, but I clench my hands behind my back and keep my voice calm.
“Watch your mouth,” I say.
He grins, ugly and triumphant. “I'd rather watch Eileen's as it wraps around my cock. You two cockblocking bastards should go. Get!”
Sarah is shaking, not crying, just trembling like she can’t stop.
“Ma?” she whispers.
Eileen blinks, raises her head.
She watches her daughter as Sarah steps toward her. Sarah opens her arms to hug her mother.
“I said, GET— are you losing your fuckin’ hearin’?” Dade raises his hand to Sarah. But he holds it high while his glassy eyes focus on me.
“Don’t let him…” Eileen can’t finish the sentence. I imagine she's warning me not to let Dade drag Sarah back into this mess. A mother’s sacrifice to save her daughter.
Sarah turns and pulls the door open, but hesitates, a child’s instinct to wait for permission or a word of love. A farewell. None comes. Dade doesn’t say goodbye. Eileen raises a hand, but lets it drop the instant Dade turns his gaze on her. The door closes behind us.
The wind has picked up again, and the air outside is cold, raw, and cuts.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see that.”
I want to tell her it’s not her fault, that nothing that happened in that house is her fault, but the words jam in my throat. I want to say that she is safe now, but I know better.
Instead, I unlock and open the door for her to slide into the passenger seat.
She gets in, sets the duffel at her feet, and stares out the window, eyes unblinking.
We drive in silence. The streets are empty, the sky darkens with every looming cloud.
Sarah doesn’t cry, but every so often I see her jaw clench, her throat gulp, as if she’s fighting off tears or a scream.
“Do you really believe in God?” she asks, suddenly.
I’m not sure how to answer. “Some days more than others.”
She snorts, not unkindly. “Yeah. Me too.”
Back at my cabin, Sarah sits on the couch, knees drawn up, the blanket swaddling her from shoulders to ankles. She stares into the flames in the fireplace, her eyes reflecting orange and blue in shifting patterns. She hasn’t said much since we came back, and her silence is heavier than words.
I busy myself in the kitchen. I make tea because it’s the only thing I can think to do, and because the ritual helps keep my hands steady. I try not to let my eyes linger on the soft curves of her silhouette, barely disguised under the thin blanket.
I force myself to stand by the window and pretend I am not falling apart.
Sarah settles it by patting the cushion beside her. “I won’t bite, Father.”
I manage a weak smile and take the seat, careful to leave a polite gap between us. The gap feels both enormous and meaningless in a room this small.
She speaks first. “I’m not going back. He’ll hurt Ma. He always does, but she… she won’t leave him. She’ll take the beating, patch him up, and tell me I’m ungrateful. Every time.”
The bitterness in her voice is raw, but not new. I hear years of rehearsed disappointment, the sound of a wound being examined by someone who’s long ago lost hope for a cure.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I can offer. And I have heard of similar situations from others in my congregation.
She shrugs. “Not your fault. You did what you could.”
I didn't do enough. I should have put Dade through every wall of this very cabin. I should have beaten him so badly he wouldn't be able to leave the hospital even if he wanted to. I vow that our next meeting will end just like that if he attacks Sarah again.
She turns to me, and in the close light her eyes are impossibly large, rimmed with red but fiercely alive. She’s looking at me, not away, and her face is softer than before.
“I was scared,” she admits. “I thought you’d turn out like every other man in my life. But you didn’t. I truly feel safe with you.”
I want to reach for her, to pull her close and say it will be different this time, but I am still wearing the collar, and the memory of Dade’s voice, 'What kind of girl stays with a man of God? … is a sick echo in my head.
I clasp my hands between my knees, squeezing them tight.
“You’re safe here,” I say. “For as long as you want to stay.”
Sarah’s hand drifts out from under the blanket, the gesture so tentative it nearly breaks my heart. She lays it on top of mine, feather-light, and for a second we both freeze, as if afraid even this contact might shatter something vital.
She doesn’t pull away.
My pulse hammers. I tell myself to move, to stand, to put a boundary between us, but instead I look at her hand, at the constellation of bruises along her wrist, and I want nothing more than to make her believe she is wanted. That she is good.
The pull between us is undeniable. I can't stop myself. I'm not sure if she's moving closer to me or me to her. The world blurs, then narrows to the press of her lips on mine, her hand tangles in the collar of my shirt, my own fingers cup the back of her head.
The kiss is frantic and soft at the same time. Her mouth tastes of tea and salt, and I have to resist the urge to devour her. There is nothing chaste about it, but it's not dirty either. It’s a confession, and a plea for absolution, and maybe a benediction.
I break away first, gasping.
She touches her lips, eyes huge.
“Sorry,” she says, and I know she means it, but there is no regret in her face. Only a hunger and a desperate hope. I stagger to my feet and walk to the window, needing air, needing distance, but there’s nowhere to go in a cabin this size. I seek space where there is none.
My reflection in the glass is a stranger’s. My hair wild, collar askew, mouth wet with her taste. The taste of sin.
“What have I done?” I whisper.