Bella walked back to her car and drove toward home as if on autopilot, troubled but also intrigued by her inability to a get a grip on this odd man, to categorize him. He didn't seem to fit in with the culture around her, a culture which she frankly disdained. The insidious and, to her, preposterous belief in the rightness of every opinion, no matter how lightly held--a belief strengthened precisely because it could be held with such ease, for no other reason than that it was held so easily by everybody. But this Nicholas person was..different.

"That's quite a compliment, coming from you!" she thought. "Probably that sickness. Could explain a lot. There's definitely some kind of weirdness there. He doesn't fit at all...Am I judging him now? Who am I to analyze somebody else who I don't even know and only just met?...God, what is it about him that makes me feel guilty about thinking about him? I can think about anybody I want to think about. That doesn't mean I'm passing judgement. Stop being so sensitive. It’s not a judgement, it's a fact. Face it honestly--he's a weirdo...wasn’t it strange, that situation? I mean, how do you come up with something like that? Can’t be that illness. It's like his brain is different...that could be because of his illness. But ordinary people aren't like him...ordinary people? Who’s ordinary today? This fucking culture! Nobody believes anything and everybody believes everything!"

Back at home, Bella entered by the front door, still lost in thought, and moved absently toward the kitchen which was behind the stairs in front of her. Out of long habit, she glanced into the dining room on her left which was usually empty at this time of day. It was mildly surprising to see it occupied. At the dining room table sat her mother and her younger brother Richard with the newspaper spread out in front of them. Her Aunt Eleanor, her mother's older sister, stood on the other side of the table, looking down at them.

"What's going on?" Bella asked, sensing a definite tension in the room. Aunt Eleanor answered without looking at her, her gaze fixed on her nephew, Richard, who was leaning forward on the table with both arms crossed and a wry, insolent smile on his face.

"There's some news that isn't funny," Aunt Eleanor said boring into the boy with her eyes. "But it's no big surprise." Now she turned to look at Bella. "Another priest scandal."

Aunt Eleanor looked years younger than her age as very large people often do. With her fine white skin stretched tightly over her round fat face, her thick dark hair trimmed close, her big brown eyes that shown with the confidence of the true skeptic, she was an intellectual and physical dominatrix. There was a story she never tired of telling about the time her late husband, Arturo-–a first generation old-school Italian–-had slapped her face. It was shortly after their marriage. Eleanor had had the temerity to serve Arturo a sauce of her own invention instead of using the recipe given her by his mother. She had slapped him back, knocking him off his chair. As he looked up at her from the floor she had withdrawn a piece of paper from her housecoat pocket–-her mother-in-law's sauce recipe–-torn it into small pieces and sprinkled them over Arturo's plate of pasta "like grated Parmesan".

"Ignore the brat son of yours, Angela," she said to her sister, who gazed at Bella now with pathetic entreaty as if at a savior. Behind her large round glasses, Angela Benfont's soft brown eyes were moist.

“Hello, honey," she said in a dull tone. Her hands clasped around her rosary beads rested on the table and her shoulders slumped forward. Bella had rarely seen her mother in such a sad state.

She too was a large woman but shorter than her sister and she carried herself with less assurance, perhaps from growing up in Eleanor's dominating shadow. Her mind, however, was all her own. She had the Antonelli's brown eyes but hers gave off a gentle questioning glow which could flare up into wonderment at ideas that pierced her heart, and she was prone to heart-piercings. Her children could always tell when she had been pierced because her hands would jump to her heart, fingers intertwined as if to catch the shot itself and hold it firmly embedded there. She seemed to have been born with an innate thirst for those rare moments when, out of the endless meaningless stream of life's trivialities that passed through her leaving no detectable trace, a single thought or idea might collide with her heart and explode in her eyes. Yet, to her older sister, this was a failing which had set them at one another from their earliest days. Even as they adored her, it was difficult for her children not to see that Aunt Eleanor must have been sorely tried through the years by their mother's willingness, even an eagerness, to see the other side of every question. To a woman of Eleanor's judgmental character, it could only have been by an effort of monumental self-control to accept her younger sister as a person worthy of her respect. Yet, were someone to act disrespectfully toward her sister, to mock her or laugh at her or even look at her as if they thought she was odd or stupid (and, God knows, Angela was good at producing such reactions in people), Eleanor would suddenly rise to her defense. It was, perhaps, caused by a sense of guilt boiling up against her own transgressions, and perhaps too, a real though unacknowledged affection and even tenderness for her sister and her annoying weaknesses.

Here it was again, the exhaustion that made Bella feel as if she could fall off into deep sleep at any moment while facing them all, especially her mother. It was the same effect people often report feeling at times of intense trial, very often at funerals.

"Mom, you don't know these guys," her brother was explaining in an urgent voice, "but I have to live with them every day." As he spoke, his eyes which were wide with excitement continually flicked back and forth from his mother to his hovering Aunt Eleanor as if to find some encouragement there, but she only glared at him with distaste.

"They're all phonies. They're all fake news. Believe me. And this guy's the worst. Everybody loves him. He's Mr. Smileyface around school. All the kids go to him for 'talks'. His classes are great, he's a cool guy. But that's the perfect M.O. And it explains a lot, actually. I mean, the other priests don't like him and we always thought it was because he was so popular, because he had this cool attitude toward stuff, almost like he was one of the guys, like he wasn't one of those old boring priests. That probably had a lot to do with it, but what if they knew something or suspected something and that's why they didn't dig him?"

Richard Benfont might have been Angela's adopted son, so little did he resemble his mother. It was his father who could be seen in all his features. He was seventeen but looked younger, one of those people whose youthful appearance stays with them for many years into adulthood. He was not tall but well-muscled, wiry, and quite strong. He was his school's top wrestler in the 145-pound weight class. Lately, he had taken to wearing his thick brown hair long, letting it curl freely and crawl over his forehead and around his ears. It was a style that drove his Aunt Eleanor crazy and she constantly bothered him about it (though his mother quite loved his hair and thought he looked like an intellectual). His face was narrow and long with a sharp long nose and small eyes close together. His lips were thin and finely, even delicately, shaped. Unusually, however, they had a persistent upward twist on one side that gave his face a kind of impish impudence that had gotten him into more trouble with authority than he deserved. Teachers and Principals had only to look at him to believe he was a trouble-maker and needed to be watched, even though he rarely got into any actual trouble. He was not particularly good-looking, though one could see that he might be considered handsome as he grew and his face filled out.

"C'mon, Mom. What do you think, these guys enter the priesthood because they're good people?" Richard continued, his voice rising in excitement. "They're not good people. They're just guys who are afraid of women. Or they're gay. I'm telling you, you don't know them."

While he had been talking, his mother's face had slowly, unconsciously, contorted in pain. "Oh, Richard. Don't honey," she pleaded.

But Richard seemed not to hear her. It was doubtful that he saw the pain in her face though his eyes were bright and eager as he stared directly at her. These were thoughts he had held for some time, keeping them close and developing them inwardly but never expressing them in his mother's hearing. But now with this revelation in the papers, the proof of the rightness of those ideas had been thrust under his Mother's nose from an outside objective source. The hurt it caused her did not touch him. Rather a thrill of exhilaration coursed through him. To express his ideas openly, under the imprimatur of the news article, freed him from restraint and blinded him to all but his own feelings of triumph.

"Think about it. Why do they dress in black? You know why? Because that's what they think life is like, all the black things in life, death and suffering and pain, what life would be like if they had to live like the rest of us! So they go into the priesthood, where they don't have to worry about keeping a job, or where their next meal is coming from, or living side by side with an actual woman all the time. I mean, c'mon Mom, they're cowards. Black is the color of cowardice. You don't know them like I do."

Suddenly, Aunt Eleanor slapped down her hand on the table and everyone jumped. Her face was red and her eyes were slits which burned into her nephew.

"That's enough!" she commanded. "You insensitive little bastard. How can you say she doesn't know these guys? Have you forgotten your mother cooks and cleans and shops and probably even puts on their slippers for them over there at the Rectory? I wouldn't be surprised in the least if she did. And as much as it galls me to think of her slaving and scraping for those two priests, she never complains, hardly ever. She thinks it's some kind of holy vocation. OK, I’m not saying she isn't half-crazy but she's my sister and your damn mother. I've never been a lover of priests or the Catholic Church and haven't got any fonder of them over the years. And if you ask me they can shut down the whole operation and good riddance. It's done more harm than good, if you ask me. But I've never willfully tried to hurt your mother like that. And now here's me, who in fact agrees with every word you say! Yes, they are arrogant and cowardly too, like all men underneath that masculine baggage we load them up with and then kick them out into the world to trample everything like rampaging elephants..don't you laugh at me, you insolent little pachyderm, don't you laugh at me."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Richard had been watching his aunt closely, enjoying himself immensely. He was very fond of the big woman and never more so than when--and it was not rare--some comment by one of them would send her off into these highly comical paroxysms of anger. Inevitably they would find the episode too funny and break down into laughter in front of her. At which she would jam her fists into her thick sides and glare at them until she too could no longer resist and her big body shook with laughter instead of anger. It was this that endeared her to all of them, that a woman who's natural attitude of unassailable dominance could so easily accommodate within herself such a seemingly contradictory virtue as the generosity of spirit to laugh at herself.

"Oh! You make me so mad!" she said because, once again, they had made her see herself through their eyes.

"Eleanor, Eleanor, please, don't be angry with him," Angela said. Her voice was weak and there was great sadness in her eyes, though she too had had to smile.

"I'm not angry," Eleanor said breathing hard. She needed to be off her feet (which were always killing her) and catch her breath. She pulled out a chair and sat heavily. "If he were my son, I'd slap him across his insolent face."

"I know, I know, and I'm glad he's my son and not yours," Angela said gently. She smiled at her sister and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Turning back to Richard, she leaned close to him. She took Richard's hand and stroked it gently.

"My beautiful son," she said in a quiet voice. "You're taking too much joy in all this, sweetheart. But, honey, you're so intelligent and so clever and you see many things and understand them better than I do. And I'm so proud of you. But in this case you're wrong." She patted his hand as if to apologize for criticizing him. "Thank you, Eleanor. I do know priests, if I know anything. I see them when they're alone and out of the spotlight, when they're just two ordinary men who live together in loneliness. Terrible loneliness, Richard, so terrible." Her eyes began to water again as she spoke and her hands pressed tightly into his as if she could imprint the empathy she felt for the priests into his heart. "I do love the Church and I do love the priesthood and I know there are bad men that are priests. I'm not blind. But I know, I know in my heart, that there are really good men in it. And I know I sound ridiculous to you, Eleanor, when I talk about it so I try not to, just like you try not to talk about it to me. Isn't that funny?"

"Well, Angela, we're sisters," Eleanore said, calmer now and somewhat deflated having caught her breath and relieved the pain in her feet.

"But I often think I'm wrong to not talk about it, Eleanor," her sister continued. "I've often felt that way around you." Turning back to her son, she went on. "Sweetheart, I love you and I will always love you, and when you hurt me I love you even more because I know you don't mean it and I know someday you will come back to the Church--no, no, don't say anything. I am your mother and I know you better than anyone. You are my son. Sometimes I think my love for you is too great, but then I think, can love for my son ever be too great? Was Mary's love for her son too great? Yes, it hurts me when you speak about the priests that way but I'm wrong to feel hurt. Yes, Eleanor, it's wrong, I'm quite sure. Richard, you make me believe that much of what you say is true. I never thought of it that way, the way you put it. And it really only goes to show what a beautiful and mysterious and wonderful thing the Church is, that we can find everything in life inside it, everything good and everything bad."

Eleanor's temperature had been rising the more Angela talked. Her anger-fueled sympathy of earlier had leaked away to be replaced by the old and by now very worn, frayed and familiar irritation with her sister that she was wholly unable to control.

"Stop it now, Angela," she said with authority as if talking to a child. "I can't listen to any more of this. I like you better when you keep all this business to yourself. I mean it now. Too much information. T.M.I like the kids say. Who wants to hear it? I don't. I really don't. I find it indecent. Yes, indecent! I really think that at your age you should know better. Nobody appreciates it when you expose yourself like that. Don't look at me all wide-eyed and innocent! Why make everybody uncomfortable?"

"She's not making me uncomfortable," Richard chimed in.

"Shut up, you," Eleanor said without looking at him and continued to bore into her sister. She raised her heavy arms and let them fall thudding onto the table. She leaned into the space between herself and her sister, her face reddening. "And why now, huh?" she challenged Angela. "What's gotten into you? You'd think this was the first priest ever charged with molesting kids! Is that it? Is it something about him especially?" she said, pointing at the newspaper. She sat back and wiped her forehead which was showing lines of perspiration under her hair though it was not warm in the room. "Oh, never mind. I'm tired. You wear me out. Really you do. I'm going home," and with an effort began to heave herself out of the chair. Once up on her feet, she glared down at Angela. "And another thing. You seem to forget you have two children. While you've been slavering over this brat who doesn't deserve you as a mother there's poor Bella standing there." She raised her hand in a gesture that meant she would say no more about it, accompanied by a chin raised in imperious dismissal, and turned to go.

"Wait, Eleanor," Angela said. She too had risen from her chair. She seemed anxious that her sister should not walk out in such a mood. There was also a distinct impression felt by them all that she was suffering some kind of inner distress, caused by something more than her sister's dressing-down. She was visibly uncomfortable. She looked like a little girl caught out in a lie by grown-ups.

"What is the matter with you, Angela?" Eleanor said. As often happened when their relationship reached a certain tension, as it had now, her eyes were stretched wide with authority as if to browbeat the truth out of her sister. But now 'the look' was darkly tinged with worry. Irritated, she turned to Bella.

"Bella, why don't you sit down, for God’s sake. You're part of this family. Unfortunately."

At first, Bella had stood in the doorway hardly registering what was being said. But Richard's description of the abusive priest as 'Mr. Smileyface' had caught her attention. Her fog had lifted and she drifted into the room.

She was certain that he must mean that priest, Father Flynn. After all, the priest had told her he taught at Richard's school and knew her brother. And she could well understand, after meeting him that morning, how he might be described as 'Mr. Smileyface' (though it was such a childish phrase, like baby-talk, that she cringed in embarrassment for her bother). He himself had admitted to being a 'fake priest' and seemed quite pleased with himself to tell her so. Still, it was strange that a weird priest she had met only an hour ago entirely by chance should be the subject of tense conversation right here in her own dining room. Hadn't he said something about 'coincidences', that it’s more like God than God, or something like that?

She had entered the room with the intention of impressing them with her news. It was, she felt, an immature impulse, this jealousy for attention, which in any other circumstances she would have chastised herself for not having outgrown. But she gave herself up to it nonetheless as she waited for the right moment to speak.

The right moment never arrived. Angela turned to Bella, whom in fact she had forgotten about. "Yes, Bella. Come sit, honey." She offered Bella the chair beside her and they both sat.

Her mother frowned and pushed the newspaper away from her as if it no longer held any interest for her. Addressing Eleanor, she said, "I know there are good priests and I know Father Flynn is one of them. Before you ask me how I know, it's because I've been meeting with him for several weeks." She shifted her gaze to Bella then to Richard. "About your father."

"I don't believe it," Eleanor exploded. "Another counsellor? How many priests have you burned through already and now you're meeting with a pedophile?"

"He's not a pedophile," Angela said with conviction.

"And how would you know?"

"I just know. It's not true. I know it's not true. I heard him give a sermon one Sunday when he was helping out at the parish. And I talked to him after Mass and I liked him very much. And I asked if I could speak to him about..well, anyway he agreed and he's been really wonderful."

"Good God, Angela, how long are you going to drag this out? Please, we're all sick of this drama. Just divorce the sonofabitch and get it over with."

At this, Richard jumped in to support his Aunt. "It's true, Mom. Get it over with already. Seriously. He's like a ghost around here anyway. We'd all be better off without him."

Bella spoke up now at last. "I just met this priest, him," she pointed at the newspaper, "this morning."

"Father Flynn?" Her mother jumped at the mention of his name. "You met him? How? What did you think of him?" she said, emphasizing the 'you' as if she felt that Bella would certainly corroborate her impressions and that her opinion would be decisive.

With her daughter's first words, her mother's face fell. Bella shook her head. "Wow. Why am I not surprised? Of course, you know him,” Bella said.

"What do you mean, Bella?" Her mother, who was one of those people who are incapable of disguising their feelings, gazed at her daughter with the fearful eyes of a woman who knew betrayal too intimately and could smell its approach.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know," Bella said, still shaking her head. "It's just..it's just I'm so tired of all this constant drama between you and Dad. I don't even want to come home anymore. I feel like there's this, I don't know, this dust everywhere, this emotional dust all over everything, and it's making us all sick and all we do is talk, talk, talk. I'm so sick of talking."

"But honey, I'm trying--"

“No, Mom, you're not. You're just you. This is just who you are. The problem is, Dad's not like you, he's just an ordinary guy, just one of the elephants. He can't help it. I'm telling you, marrying you ruined his life."

"Oh, Bella!"

"Admit it for once. You're the problem, not Dad. Have you been listening to yourself? All that stuff about the Church and lonely priests and this guy who, frankly, is a first-rate weirdo and a fake priest, too--he admitted it to me, that he's a fake priest. Oh, he was only trying to be charming and he wanted me to like him because now I realize he knew I was your daughter, but he made my skin crawl. And what do I find when I come home? There's more dust! Dust piled up to the ceiling! This is the guy my mother idolizes! This fake priest! My mother, who's been trying to divorce a guy who isn't a fake anything, just a poor dumb slob who had no idea he'd married a woman who'd rather sleep with a rosary than her own husband."

Richard, unaware that he was breathing with his mouth open, watched her with admiration and fascination. Aunt Eleanor sat with her arms crossed on the table, leaning forward, unblinking, her mouth tight. Angela, who like the others could not take her eyes off Bella, at first had seemed to shrink under the onslaught. But gradually her whole demeanor altered so that it became far easier to see her resemblance to Eleanor at her fiercest. Bella knew her mother's anger when aroused was not explosive like Eleanor's but was nevertheless the more corrosive. It lurked and sulked inside her, was slow to dissipate and left scars.

"What's going on here?" Eleanor finally said. She was livid. "What kind of little hellions are you two? I've never heard such treachery come out of the mouth of a child."

"Oh, please, just be quiet Aunt Eleanor," Bella said wearily.

"No, I will not be quiet. Your mother--"

But Bella had stood and pushed back her chair. "Yes. She's my mother. Poor me."