FICTION
First Kiss
It was one of those new churches, all angles and timber and ceilings made of massive rectangles of glass to admit as much natural light as possible. Jesus hung high above the altar, backlit by green, yellow, and red stained glass, and there was a tiny fleck of red from His forehead just where the crown of thorns bites in.
The altar was at the centre of a semicircle, so that all parishioners could see and interact closely with the priest. The pews, which had padding on the knee rests, were at obtuse angles to the white brick walls. Four steps, covered in thick red carpet about two metres wide, lead you to the altar table. It was an easy climb for the oldies who came to collect the ciborium with the hosts to help distribute Holy Communion.
On one side of the altar there was an organ, a couple of music stands and space for singers and guitarists where local youth on guitars earnestly strummed to appease Sister Mechtilde, dressed in civvies, who conducted those of them who could sing. Mostly the guitars and voices were in tune. I felt, and still feel, at peace in these churches like they’re heaven, all light and bright and softness. Older churches are enormous, towering over us as though trying to tell us our place in the world, that we, in God’s scheme of things, are as insignificant as ants beneath our feet. As a seven-year-old, I was terrified of the local church that mum and dad used to take me to, but in awe of the rites, the songs in a language I didn’t know. Fear and awe, the two zookeepers keeping us in check. And yet … the vestments of the priest, heavy hanging robes with an embroidered gold cross on the back, the congregation murmuring together, the smell of the incense, the solemnity, drew me in.
On this day, this awful, exciting, guilty day, the pallbearers with the movement of their legs in perfect sync, left foot pause, right foot pause, the coffin resting dangerously on their shoulders, walk into the church to the background song of ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door.’ There are three guitarists from school, their uniforms perfectly fitting, and their faces scrunched up into balls of concentration, and they were softly strumming while our music teacher was singing. The church organist, Mrs. Weaver, who I reckon was due for a telegram from the king, was playing lightly. The music rose to the Heavens like the smoke from an incense container. A mystery to me was that someone who can barely walk, tottering along in a Zimmer frame, can still have the dexterity to move her fingers across the keyboard and keep in time with the other musicians who could be her grandchildren. God moves in mysterious ways, for sure. After all these years, I still haven’t figured Him out.
On this day, I am with my girlfriend, Lucy, who was clutching my hand with as much strength as her 14-year-old fingers could muster. The word ‘girlfriend’ was a very approximate definition of what she was. We had been to a movie and had had lunch at McDonald’s, but as yet we hadn’t kissed. She had make-up on, but a black line of mascara was trickling down her cheek, so she looked like a scary Halloweener. She was wearing a black dress and she kept tugging at it, nervously, maybe trying to preserve some modesty, though I don’t think anybody was noticing. Or cared. All eyes were on the coffin with her friend Teresa in it.
The service dragged on, the rites and rituals giving comfort to us present, the muffled sobs blending with the priest’s words.
Finally, the service was concluding and, as everyone filed out, sombre men in ill-fitting suits and sobbing women in once-a-year dresses, all walked slowly up to the coffin and touched it, or genuflected, a final gesture of goodbye. ‘Forever Young’ was being played by the musicians and who knows what Mrs. Weaver was thinking.
The coffin, shiny rose mahogany lined with white puffed satin, which could have been wedding dress material, rested on a stand at the foot of the steps. The lid was open, from the waist up, so we could see Teresa. She was wearing a polo neck jumper, which hid the marks around her neck. Her arms were folded across her chest, the classic position of repose, her red fingernails a stark contrast to her pale, bony fingers.
Her eyes, now sightless globes seeing whatever it was only the dead see, were closed. Thank God. Nothing is sadder than the eyes of the dead. Her long black eyelashes curled up like insect legs, and her nose, so long and straight and noble, could have been on a Roman coin. Her hair, neatly brushed, framed high cheekbones which reflected the bright glare of the fluorescent lights, which had been turned on because the day (it was July) was cold and grey. The whole scene was a cliché from a film, with the weather and the drizzle and the quiver of umbrellas at the church entrance. And her mouth. My God, her mouth.
Her lips, caked in red lipstick, formed a perfect bow, hiding what I knew were porcelain white teeth, which could have been from a model for toothpaste.
My turn came to farewell her, and I shuffled over, pulling my hand from Lucy’s desperate grip. Teresa’s face, angelic and tempting, smiled Mona Lisa-like like and I kissed her goodbye; my lips lingering a little too long on hers. I knew I would have lipstick stains on my own mouth, like some kind of stigmata, but I didn’t care, and my heart was thumping like the rapid-fire punches of a boxer, and the crotch in my pants was feeling a lot tighter. Lucy, who was behind me, coughed, and I inched myself away.
That was my first kiss.
I broke up with Lucy and finished school. I got into Uni, chopped and changed courses, but ended up leaving and joining the seminary, an old imposing gothic structure on North Head, Manly, which was the first in Australia. Once again, I was a terrified and awed seven-year-old, but I had returned to where I belonged, where I felt safe. Terror and awe, they were still the zookeepers guarding me in my cage.
I have been a priest now for some twenty years, back at my school church and have baptised, buried and married hundreds of people, the young, the old, the good, the bad, the indifferent. But that kiss, that first kiss, lingers in my heart like a stain on my soul. I know it is sinful to reflect upon the desires of the flesh, but maybe I am a weak man, a hollow priest, I don’t know. And God? He’s told me nothing.
And Lucy? She started calling herself Lucille, had a son, Jack, and was murdered by one of her transient boyfriends. I will be doing her service here this afternoon. And this is true, and if you can’t believe a priest who can you believe, I swear that the fleck of blood on Jesus’ forehead has gotten bigger.
Brian J Doughan: Secondary Teacher of languages (Italian and Japanese). Now retired. Very old. Frequently have escaped from Jurassic Park and now, along with my fellow dinosaurs, await a meteor which will blast us into extinction.
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