"Let us turn our gaze from the barber's quiet war to the pillar of the community, to the man who carries the burdens of others. The fog continues its silent advance."
The stone walls of St. Jude's rectory were two feet thick, designed to keep in the heat and shut out the world. Tonight, Father Patrick Mallory felt the weight of them like a tomb. He sat at his large, oak desk, a gift from a previous parishioner, the surface polished to a deep, honeyed gleam. It was orderly. A leather-bound bible, a stack of correspondence, a small, framed photograph of his mother.
And the laptop.
It was closed. A sleek, modern, silver thing. It looked out of place amidst the old wood and the smell of beeswax and old paper.
Evening mass was in an hour. He could hear Mrs. Higgins, the elderly volunteer, moving about in the nave, setting out hymnals, the soft thump of her efforts a familiar, comforting rhythm. The gentle, dusty light of the setting sun streamed through his leaded glass window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air.
His fingers, long and pale, rested on the closed lid of the computer. His hands were perfectly still. He willed them to be still.
He had been preparing his sermon for Sunday. The Gospel was John 8:7. He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone. A powerful text. A text about judgement, and mercy, and the hidden failings of man. The words had flowed easily at first, a well-practiced homily on forgiveness.
Then his mind had wandered. As it so often did. To the digital world that lived inside that silent, silver box. A world of encrypted passwords and hidden folders. A world he had built with the meticulous care of a master archivist, a world he visited with the trembling dread of a man approaching his own execution.
He hadn't opened it. Not today. The temptation was a physical ache, a pull in his gut that was as much about self-loathing as it was about desire. He fought it by focusing on the mundane. He picked up a letter from the stack. It was from the diocesan office, a routine notice about a regional clergy conference. He read it three times, absorbing none of the information.
A knock at his study door made him start.
"Father? It's just me." Mrs. Higgins's voice was reedy, softened by age and a lifelong devotion.
"Come in, Eleanor," he called, his voice smooth, practiced. The voice he used from the pulpit. The voice of a man who had everything under control.
The door creaked open and Mrs. Higgins peered in, her white hair a wispy halo around her head. "I've finished the flowers for the altar. The chrysanthemums are a bit tired, but they'll do. Will you be needing anything else before I head home?"
"No, Eleanor, thank you. You've done more than enough. Get home to Arthur before he burns his supper again." He gave her a warm, crinkly-eyed smile. It was a good smile. It felt like a mask.
She returned the smile, a faint blush on her cheeks. "Oh, you. God bless, Father."
"And you, Eleanor."
The door closed, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had been wiped away. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. The laptop seemed to hum, though it was silent.
He stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor. He couldn't sit here. Not with it staring at him.
He walked to the small vestry to prepare for mass. The rituals calmed him. The crisp, white alb went over his head, a symbol of purity. He tied the cincture around his waist, a rope of humility. Finally, he placed the stole around his neck, the yoke of his service. Each garment was a layer of armor, a piece of the identity he had chosen, the man he desperately wanted to be.
He looked at his reflection in the small, tarnished mirror. Father Patrick Mallory. A kind face. Tired eyes. A good man.
The face in the reflection seemed to waver. For a horrifying second, he saw not a priest, but a stranger. A man with hungry, shifty eyes. A fraud.
He blinked, and the image was gone. It was just him again. Tired. He was just tired.
He heard the front doors of the church open and the murmur of early arrivals. His flock. Good people. Simple people. They came to him with their troubles, their confessions, their fears. They trusted him. They saw the collar, the vestments, the smile, and they believed in the man they represented.
If they only knew what lurked behind the eyes. The duality of his existence was a constant, screaming pressure in his skull. The pious, compassionate shepherd by day; the secret, shameful creature by night. The hypocrisy was a acid, eating him from the inside out. His work with the food bank, his visits to the sick—they were not just acts of charity. They were frantic, desperate attempts to build a wall of good deeds high enough to contain the filth within. To earn a forgiveness he knew he could never grant himself.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to compartmentalize. He had to lock the other Patrick away in a box, deep down, and become Father Mallory. For one more hour. He could do that.
He walked out into the nave. A dozen or so of his regulars were already in the pews. Old Mr. Dempsey, who always fell asleep by the second reading. The Pugh sisters, sitting ramrod straight in their usual spot, their hands clasped neatly in their laps. A young couple he didn't recognize, looking uneasy, holding hands tightly.
He genuflected before the altar, the motion automatic. He could feel their eyes on him. Expectant. Needing him to be strong, to be certain, to be good.
He turned to face them, opening his arms in welcome. The mask was back in place, the smile serene and warm.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he began, his voice filling the small, stone church, clear and strong.
"Amen," the small congregation murmured back.
As he led them through the familiar liturgy, his body moving through the rites by rote, his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't thinking of God. He was thinking of the laptop. Of the password he would type when he was alone later. Of the shameful, exhilarating rush of it. Of the crushing guilt that would follow.
He was praying, but not to God. He was praying for strength. Not against temptation, but for the strength to keep the two halves of his life from ever colliding. To keep the monster in the dark, where it belonged.
Outside, the sun had fully set. The bank of fog had swallowed the harbor whole and was now creeping through the streets surrounding the churchyard. It pressed against the stained-glass windows, a silent, patient audience to his performance.
It did not judge him. It merely waited.