Life on Easy Street

The light, woody fragrance of gum Arabic incense still permeated the sacristy as Father Eamon FitzHugh gently, lovingly folded his white stole and placed it in the appointed drawer. The Saturday afternoon Mass had ended and a peaceful evening spread before him. A pinkish-orange sunset and two glasses of pinot noire awaited him on the rectory veranda. Father Eamon preferred the Saturday Mass to all others. Few lingered to chat. They had more pressing weekend delights to enjoy. Thus, unencumbered by pastoral pressures, he could relax in the pleasures of Saturday solitude.

Ten years had passed since his ordination to the sacred priesthood and he had no regrets. His life had been rewarding and, in many ways, trouble free. He rarely cooked for himself, had few household responsibilities, no yard work or auto maintenance. His stipend more than covered his personal expenses. He did not suffer under the burden of student loan debt. No, all things considered, he lived on Easy Street.

As he pondered his good fortune, a tentative knock sounded on the sacristy door. Before he could bemoan the interruption, a strikingly beautiful woman entered the chamber. She teetered on stiletto heels as she tugged her yellow miniskirt knee-ward – with little success.

“May I help you?” Father Eamon asked.

“I hope so,” she replied.

An awkward silence ensued, marked by held breath.

“I so admire you,” the woman said, advancing two steps. “So, I’ll just out with it. I want you to be the father of my children.”