Page 39 of House of Sin
Every time our eyes met, a sick knot twisted deep in my belly, half longing, half hatred, for her, for myself, for this unbearable desire that clawed beneath my skin. I tried to drown it out with prayers, with scripture, but when she was near, my body betrayed me. I was meant to be pure. A man of God. But instead, I was a slave to her shadow, trapped in a cage of lust I built myself.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, but the images stayed, vivid, relentless, crawling beneath my skin like worms. My mind wandered to the brothel, that cursed place festering at the edge of town. A place that seemed to hold all the answers to my confusion, yet none of the salvation I craved. The rage boiled beneath my calm façade. How dare that place exist? How dare she? And why does Father Cyrus allow it?
A part of me wanted to believe that perhaps the old priest was doing the right thing. After all, the townsfolk loved him, respected him, and if they truly had been living in sin, would they not have turned on himlong ago? But another part of me, the part that tugged at my very soul, rebelled against this idea. I had been taught that sin must be confronted, that those who stray from the path must be brought back to the light. Yet here in Butte, in Father Cyrus’s church, there was no confrontation, no judgment, no salvation.
How can I accept this?
“Father Frederick,” came the voice of Father Cyrus from the doorway, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I turned abruptly, my face a mask of frustration and confusion. My hands trembled slightly, a clear sign of the inner turmoil that had consumed me in recent days. “Yes, Father Cyrus?”
Father Cyrus smiled warmly, his presence so calm and steady that it only made my frustration grow. “You’ve been in here a while. I thought you might want to join me for a walk. The weather is beautiful today.”
I clenched my jaw but nodded, following Father Cyrus out of the rectory and into the sunlight. We walked side by side, the comforting hum of the town surrounding us, the sound of children playing andmerchants haggling in the distance. The day was bright, and the sky was a deep, cloudless blue that seemed to mock the darkness inside of me.
We walked in silence for a while, the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet filling the space between us. Father Cyrus, as always, seemed at peace with the world, his slow, deliberate steps in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the town. But for me, each step was a heavy reminder of everything I couldn’t shake. I was hyper-aware of everything, the warmth of the sun on my face, the cool breeze tugging at my cassock, the quiet pulse of the town around me. It was all too normal, too perfect, and yet, I felt like an outsider, like a man standing on the edge of something I could not be a part of.
Father Cyrus led me down the familiar path, past the white picket fences and quaint houses, until we reached the town center. The brothel loomed in the distance, its faded sign swaying slightly in the breeze, its entrance marked only by a small, simple door. The building was modest, unremarkable in its outward appearance, but to me it represented everything that was wrong with Butte. Its very existence was a stainon the town’s otherwise pristine image. My stomach churned as we drew closer, and I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of disgust. My chest tightened and a coldness settled over me as though something unseen was pressing down on my shoulders, urging me to turn away. But I couldn’t.
Father Cyrus stopped at the entrance of the brothel and turned to face me. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, Father Frederick,” he said, his tone gentle. “But this town, these people, are good, despite their flaws. They live their lives, they struggle, they fight their demons, and I believe they deserve grace. All of them.”
My eyes narrowed, a mix of disbelief and anger flashing across my face. “You’re okay with the brothel? You condone it?”
Father Cyrus’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “I don’t condone it, Father Frederick. But I understand it. People fall. They make mistakes, and sometimes, they need a place to go where they can find solace, even if it’s in the arms of another.”
“Solace?” My voice rose slightly, though I quickly tempered it. “Sin is sin, Father Cyrus. The womenwho work there—” I stopped myself, biting back my frustration. “They are prostitutes. It’s not a mistake. It’s not something they deserve forgiveness for. It’s something that they choose every day. And you ... you just let it go on. You let them sit in your pews, you let them take communion, and you do nothing to stop it.”
Father Cyrus’s gaze hardened for a moment, and I braced myself for a rebuke, but instead he simply smiled, though there was something sad in his eyes, something that made my chest tighten. “You’ve been taught well, Father Frederick,” he said quietly. “But you have a lot to learn. God’s mercy isn’t just for the saints, it’s for the sinners too, all of them. Even the ones who sell their bodies, and even the ones who find solace in their weakness.”
A cold knot twisted in my stomach, and my thoughts turned again to Violet, to her face with that distant, knowing look in her eyes.How could she, how could anyone find solace in something so revolting?The question hung in my mind, unanswered.
Father Cyrus patted me gently on the shoulder, guiding me away from the brothel. “Come now,Father Frederick,” he said softly. “Let’s continue our walk. There’s more to see here than this place.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. I nodded stiffly, following Father Cyrus as we walked away, our footsteps fading into the background of Butte. The brothel, still looming behind us, remained a silent witness to all that had been said, and all that had beenleft unsaid.
24
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING NICE TO SAY...
As I made my way to St. Ann’s, the wind clawed at my coat, dragging dust and sleet through the streets of Butte like it was trying to skim the town clean. Spring didn’t come easy to this place; it scraped its way in, rough-edged and stubborn, just like the rest of us. The sharp tap of my heelson the cobblestones announced my arrival long before I reached the side door that doubled as the entrance to the shelter. The humble offering of St. Ann’s to the unwanted misfits of the town only opened once a month and was always packed with unclaimed mothers and the children born out of season and out of wedlock. These were people that polite society named in their prayers, but never invited to dinner.
Inside, the sounds of sighs and shifting feet filled the room, mingling with the steam and weariness, carrying the scent of overcooked potatoes and weak broth. I paused just inside, letting the warmth lick my frozen skin and allowing the silence that followed my entrance to settle like dust. Every woman in the room went still. Some dropped their eyes and some didn’t bother. I briefly scanned the room until my eyes fell onher, Mrs. Henderson, standing ramrod straight by the fire, gripping her ladle like a weapon, jaw set so tight I could practically hear her molars grind.
I offered her my slowest, most deliberate smile, making certain I showed my teeth. “Mrs. Henderson,” I purred. “How’s the soup today? Still taste like penance?”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, mouth curling like she was deciding whether to scold me or summon God Himself. “Bernadette.” She spat my name like a curse. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I stepped further into the room, brushing snowflakes from my shoulders. “Well, that’s funny, I thought this was a place for the forgotten, the fallen, and the barely hanging on. You sure I’m not exactly where I belong?”
A few of the women looked away, but I read it in their expressions. Some smirked, some winced, and some wanted to applaud. That was always the game in these places; some loved to hate me, some hated to love me, and most weren’t brave enough to admit they’d ever darkened my doorway when the world got cold.
“You think feeding the poor absolves you?” Mrs. Henderson hissed.
I let my smile widen. “Oh honey, I don’t need absolution. I’m not here to be saved, I’m here because I remember what it was like to be hungry and scared and invisible. You think I do this for atonement?” I edged nearer. “I do it because hardly anyone else does.” That shut her up.
I turned away before she could sharpen her tongue again and spotted the reasons I kept coming back to this godforsaken place: the kids. They were huddled near the hearth, knees drawn to chests, hands wrapped around chipped mugs of broth. One little boy caught my eye, his big brown eyes too large for his pale, pinched face. I walked over and crouched beside him. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
He clutched the mug tighter, his small fingers white around the handle. He looked to his mother, the question already in his eyes. At her slight nod, he turned back to me and whispered, “Samuel.”
