Her breasts were small and round, the skin smooth and white as the inside of a clamshell. The nipples were marbled mother-of-pearl-like faded pink summer roses. He thought he would faint at the sight of them. His head grew light, and a tingling came to his forehead, even as his eyes drank in the sight of them greedily. He felt like a starving man who had been watching a feast through a window all his life, and now that he was here, the table of delicacies spread out before him, his stomach rebelled at the sight of such abundance. Her body was achingly beautiful-and still it was not his to touch, to caress, to possess. Her mouth, marred by lipstick, was a red slash in the middle of the perfect white skin of her face.
He watched her through the crack in the white lace curtains, as her body rose and fell with passion. He felt his own body swell in response. She was his neighbor's daughter, and the space between their bedroom windows was so narrow that he felt as if he could reach out and touch her.
Samuel! Sam-u-el! You will burn in hell if you don't stop that right now!
If only he could make it stop, the sound of his mother's voice, harsh as a crow's, cawing at him, bleating, berating him, until he felt his ears would bleed.
Stop that right now, Samuel! The hand of God Himself will come down and strike you dead, and you'll go straight to hell forever!
He turned his head to avoid the arrows of her eyes, his face hot with shame. Even with his face turned toward the wall, he could feel the heat of her anger on the back of his head. He closed his eyes and waited for her rage to pass, to burn itself out…
Afterward it wasn't so bad, though-when she calmed down they would pray together, sometimes for hours at a time.
Pray with me, Samuel. Let God wash clean your spirit.
She would burn incense, and they would kneel together, the Bible spread out on the bed in front of them-though she had it memorized anyway. They would kneel in front of their little makeshift altar, with the figure of the bleeding Christ hanging over the head of the bed, the air thick with the smell of incense. Sometimes she would pray from Genesis, other times from Revelations or Ecclesiastes. After a while he had memorized the passages too, and he would kneel beside his mother until his knees ached… But still he was proud to be sharing her passion for God, proud that he could endure the discomfort and pain-a cleansing pain, to relieve him of the stain of his sinful ways-as long as she could, until his toes were pins and needles and he could no longer feel his legs.
He welcomed the numbness, the release from the shameful feelings of lust. He was grateful to his mother for saving him, and if it was difficult and painful, that was proof to him that he was on the right road. After all, as his mother had told him over and over, nothing worth having is gotten easily.
She had brought him to God, and now he would bring these girls too, offering them as proof of his devotion, his faith, his earnestness. He would save them from their own lustful urges-and from his own.
That Sunday, after the second girl, he sat in the cold, darkened confessional, perched on the hard, narrow bench, until the little door slid open and he could hear Father Neill's thick breathing, smell the spearmint mouthwash, and just beneath it the hint of Scotch whiskey.
"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned."
The priest stifled a belch. Samuel heard the rustling of his robes as he shifted on his bench, heard his smoker's cough.
"It has been two weeks since my last confession."
"Yes, my son?"
"I have had unclean thoughts."
"How many times?"
Samuel paused. It was important to be accurate.
"Three times."
"Say twelve Hail Marys."
It never occurred to him to mention the girls whose lives he had taken. That was not sin, because he was acting as the agent of God. He fingered the paper in his jacket pocket, snuggled next to the sharpened blade of his knife. The instructions on it were clear-and tonight he would do the work of his Master.
He left the church slowly, savoring the solemnity and grandness of the house of the Lord. He was at home here-everything was so much simpler, and he knew what was expected of him.