A New Genesis

I

It was a nice little town. All things considered, anyway. Nice and little. She probably should have gone to a big city somewhere. Or gone abroad. She'd always wanted to travel. This was her chance, after all. But when it came right down to it, Jean Beazley did not want to live in a big city, and she did not want to live abroad. And she especially did not want to do either of those things alone.

She had started over alone before. When her husband died and her children were grown and she needed a way to support herself, Jean had gotten a good position as a housekeeper. If a farm wife knows anything, it's how to cook and clean and care for a homestead. Thomas Blake's homestead was not sprawling acres of fields with animals to tend, but a surgeon's practice with a small garden in the heart of Ballarat. He was happy to let her tend the garden and grow flowers in pots in the sunroom. She fed him well and kept things tidy. He had taught her how to keep the books and the appointments and how to take inventory of supplies and order more. She managed his home and his practice in an exemplary fashion. And Doctor Blake had given her a home and been a friend when she felt she had neither.

When his illness took hold of him, they both worked less and talked more. He shared with her so many things in those final weeks when she and the district nurse helped ease him to the end. Doctor Blake had lived a long life full of success, but he was haunted by the loss of his family. His wife had died over thirty years earlier. His son had been lost in the war. Doctor Blake was not bitter; he accepted his losses and held his grief deep in his heart, not ever bothering to curse his fate or wish for better. It was a dignified life he'd led, and it granted him a dignified death.

One week after Thomas Blake was buried, the solicitor came to the house to share the will with Jean. Apparently he had changed it less than a year before he died. His medical equipment was all donated to Ballarat Hospital. Jean was free to take any of the furnishings and books and such that she wanted. The rest was to be sold. The house was to be sold. And the proceeds were for Jean. Provided that Mrs. Jean Beazley uses the funds to buy her own home somewhere outside of Ballarat, the will stated. It is my fondest wish that Mrs. Beazley make a new start for herself, to explore the world as she has always wanted, and to escape the ghosts of her past.

And six months later, Jean found herself here. In this nice little town. With a cottage all her own for the first time in her life. This was not a farm belonging to her parents. This was not a farm belonging to her husband. This was not a house belonging to her employer. This was her house. It was only four small rooms: kitchen and living room, bedroom and bathroom. But all four of those rooms were all hers. She took the bedroom set from the room she had with Doctor Blake, since it was beautiful and she wanted to retain something from that life. But she purchased a new dining set and new sofa and rugs for herself. She painted the walls of the living room a pale robin's egg blue and made her bedroom pink. The bathroom was a clean white and the kitchen cabinets were forest green. She had never really taken the time to design things for herself, for she always had others' tastes to consider. But all of this, this was hers.

That first night on her own in her new home, Jean said a prayer, asking God to watch over Christopher Jr. and his wife and her wayward Jack, blessing the memories of her Christopher and Doctor Blake. And she thanked God for all the gifts he had bestowed upon her, amen.

The prayer was one she'd said nearly all her life. The people in the prayer had changed over the years. But at the core it was always the same. Did it ever make a difference? She was not sure it did. The words felt hollow in her throat and were numb in her heart. The prayer was habit, more than anything else. Perhaps her faith had left her just like all the people she prayed for.

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen."

He let go of his parishioner's hand, hoping his face conveyed more sincerity than he felt in his heart. The words of the Hail Mary tasted like bitter metal in his mouth. They'd tasted like this before. For a long time now. He'd tried to ignore it, tried not to be reminded of the time he'd spent with that metallic filth on his tongue. The days and weeks and months and years of blood filling his mouth so often that he had forgotten what it was to live without it.

It had been many years since the taste of blood in his mouth had been the norm, but that taste…that bitter taste of hardship. It was back. There was no blood in his mouth, but he felt that old familiar loathing of his circumstance and of himself.

"Thank you, Father."

"Of course," he replied.

And Mr. Collins crossed himself at the altar and left the church.

There were no other parishioners left in the church. No line for the confessional. No one to bother him with their problems. Thank God.

The phrasing amused him. A silly thing for a priest to do, to thank God for anything. Well, perhaps it was exactly what a priest was supposed to do. But a priest who lost his way was something else entirely. Perhaps he could go back to the rectory and get back to his scotch. He'd only had about a third of it this morning before duty called.

It was a blessing and a curse—so to speak—that he had regular hours to keep each day. Confession at ten each day during the week, at two on Sundays. Mass performed each Wednesday evening and Sunday morning. Baptisms on Saturdays. Funerals on Friday. Catechism every Tuesday and Thursday. Mondays were spent training altar boys and tidying the church and whatever other chores needed doing. It was a lonely life, for the most part, shepherding this small flock in this small town. But it was a relief from the life he'd known before, with its messy entanglements and unspeakable cruelty. He would rather be alone and living by rote like this than going back to the horror he'd known before. Yes, it was better to be lonely than miserable. Loneliness brought its own misery, but it was safer this way. And it gave him plenty of time to find friendship in the whiskey.

He was about to go out the side door of the church to get piss drunk before he had to roust himself for catechism when he was rudely interrupted.

"Father Blake?"

With a small grumble to himself, he turned and pasted a smile on his face. "Good day to you, Mrs. Hooper. What can I do for you?"

"Is it too late to give confession today?"

"No, never," he answered kindly. He led the elderly woman into the confessional and closed the creaking wooden door behind him.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Mrs. Hooper said shakily. "It has been six days since my last confession."
"Tell me of your sin, my child." He always felt stupid saying that. None of these people were his children. Particularly not Mrs. Hooper who was older than his father.

Mrs. Hooper waffled on about something pointless. Vanity was her sin today. Last week it was avarice. No one ever had anything interesting to confess. They were sins, according to the bible, but they were harmless feelings, all in all. And he had very little sympathy for the guilt such things brought to these people who confessed to him.

His mind wandered as Mrs. Hooper went on and on, getting a bit teary as she did. Eventually, he had to stop her. He could not stand to listen to it any longer.

"Say three Our Fathers and two Hail Marys before bed tonight. We will say Our Father together now."

"Our Father who art heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen."

Mrs. Hooper thanked him profusely, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose on her old handkerchief. And when she was finished, she left. And he was alone again.

Before anyone else could come bother him, he left from the church and went out to the rectory. It was still part of the church, strictly speaking, but it was his. He had a home here. A roof over his head and a fire and a bed. It had not always been this way for him. And here, in his own room, drinking his scotch, he could finally shed his mantle of Father Blake. Here, he was just Lucien.