The young man assured me the pain would subside over time. Four days. Perhaps five. There would be swelling at first, a bit of blood. I’d take note when I put weight on my foot. But it would only be a few days.

I don’t normally receive my medical advice from, what shall I call the young man, a body artist? A tattooer? Or, do they call themselves tattooists, the way my nephew Jeffrey calls himself an internist? And he never asked why a woman my age -- I’ll be seventy-two the day after St. Patrick’s Day -- would blithely walk into a tattoo parlor on Dwyer Street and announce I’d like a small soccer ball inscripted on the inside ankle of my right foot. I didn’t wear panty hose today, of course. All that fumbling and undressing would have been indecent. Just a pair of brown pants and red socks. And a sweater, but I wasn’t about to remove that.

“I’m happy to accommodate you, Mrs.____”

“Helen. Feel free to call me Helen. And you?”

That comment brought about an embarrassed smile. He told me his name was Eliot. Eliot was a tall boy, as thin as a cracker, with a pony tail that must have stretched six inches down his back. But he sported no beard or rimless glasses as if he were one of the Beatles in the days of their ashram phase. Stewart and I saw so many of those types when he was stationed at Fort Ord before he was shipped to Viet Nam for two years. We were not cut out for the raucous absurdity of San Francisco. I was relieved he made it back in one piece. We settled in Bethlehem. He ran one of the stamping plants. And then, of course, U.S. Steel was gone.

I call Eliot a boy because he was so much younger than my own children. He had an eagle on both arms and a circle of red and green stars dancing around his right wrist. I’ve never understood tattoos, or body art, as he insisted I call it, why so many young people today bother with them, but then Eliot never asked why I was there, why I’d chosen a small soccer ball, or why it would be my right foot and not my left, or the inside of my right ankle to be precise. It was just as well that he didn’t ask. That was the way Benji used to kick the ball. He had the most wonderful smile, innocence in his eyes, all the potential in the world, and the desire to realize it. All those traits a grandmother wants. And then, Benji’s ball rolled into the street. He followed it, against everything he’d been told, of course. I need to keep a small piece of him with me or I’ll go mad.

Eliot washed my ankle and then rubbed it with an alcohol swab. “It will feel as though I’m snapping your ankle with a rubber band. Or perhaps a bee bite.” It hurt far more than that, of course. I winced at first, then closed my eyes at each prick of the needle.

“May I ask how old you are, Eliot?”

“I’m twenty-eight.” His eyes were set deep into his cheeks. His voice was measured. I assumed he’d become accustomed to speaking gently, as his customers, or clients, or canvases -- I wasn’t certain how he referred to those of us who exposed our skin to his needles and dyes -- no doubt were nervous about the whole adventure. He drew blood but then swabbed at my ankle with a small piece of gauze.

I’m hardened to men working over my body, of course. It took three doctors almost seven hours to remove my left breast and to scoop out the armpit. They got all the cancer, though, I’ll say that for them, which is why I’m still here. The treatment is so much more refined these days, but back then I had few choices. It was difficult to look at myself, of course. I was fifty-six at the time. Part of my chest looked like a caricature of an old lady, a breast that showed no life, with enough veins running through it to compose a crossword puzzle, and the other half like some dried out riverbed, cracked, and sore. Worthless. Maybe it was the closing of the mill the year before that broke him, but Stewart couldn’t deal with it. The idea of touching me frightened him. He said he didn’t want to bring me any pain, but the reality was he found me revolting. It was as though he had nothing in his life anymore except Jack Daniels. He always seemed to have money and time for that.

“Helen, may we talk? It seems as though you could use a friend and not merely a confessor.”

I’d always thought warmly of Father Braxton. He’d christened the children, visited Stewart when the mill closed to bolster his spirits, tried to involve him in the men’s club. He even spent the afternoon in my room at Lehigh Valley Hospital after my surgery. I considered him a friend and wasn’t surprised when he left his side of the confessional and took the seat next to me. I suppose the whole incident that brought me to St. Anne’s that day in the first place was my doing. If I hadn’t poured two bottles down the drain in a pique of anger, Stewart wouldn’t have lunged at my throat and I wouldn’t have grabbed a knife out of the drawer to the right of the sink to protect myself. God damn you woman. God damn everything about you. I rue the day I ever met you. Get out. Get out of my home. Get out of my life, you drunken bastard. I didn’t see him for three days and only discovered him when I heard the toilet in the basement flush.

“I know we’re outside the confessional and shouldn’t be talking of what we discussed inside.” I remember how he swept he arm around the empty nave. “But no one’s around. It’s a sorrow, but not many people come around these days. Come with me. Let’s sit in my office for a spell.”

I remember how Father Braxton removed his robe and collar and washed his hands with a bar of Ivory soap that had been worn down to almost nothing. He even put a small dot of Pepsodent on his right index finger and ran it across his teeth. He didn’t bother asking if I’d like a bit of sherry. He just put the glass in my hand. It wasn’t until after it was over and I rushed to leave that I noticed he’d locked the door to his office.

“Are you okay, Helen? Your breathing has gone a bit shallow. I certainly don’t want to cause you any undue pain. Shall I stop for a bit?”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Eliot had long fingers. I noticed an oval birthmark about the size of a robin’s egg on the back of his neck when he leaned over my ankle and his pony tail fell over his shoulder. It reminded me of the small brown circle Benji had on the top of his right shoulder. I told him God put the dot there when He decided Benji would be right-handed. I doubt I’d be able to convince Casey and Paul to have another child, even if I found a way to broach the subject.

Father Braxton sat on his own chair initially and we talked about how the closing of the mill had stripped Stewart of his dignity. He asked how I was recovering from my surgery. It had been a little over a year. I can’t recall exactly what I said. I think it was something about how Stewart couldn’t even look at me any longer.

“I’m sure that makes you feel ashamed, but you shouldn’t be. You really shouldn’t. You’re a remarkably pretty woman, Helen.” He held up the bottle of sherry. I extended my glass, perhaps, in hindsight, too willingly.

Father Braxton put the bottle on the table and sat next to me on his couch. He put his arm around my neck. “A remarkably attractive woman.”

Should I have asked a priest of the Catholic Church why he was leaning in to kiss me? Should I have asked why a woman who lived by her marriage vows for nearly thirty years put herself in that position? Of course. The answers are so obvious from this distance. And yet when Father Braxton put his hand on left knee and then on my thigh I did nothing to resist. It had been years since Stewart made me feel like that. Warm in parts of my body I’d forgotten about. Even damp. And above all else, desired. Father Braxton fumbled so with my undergarments I found myself coming to his rescue. Was I a victim? I can’t say that. It would be unfair to Father Braxton. I was so willing. Submissive. It wasn’t until we both thought about what we’d done that we felt the weight of it set in.

“Are you okay, Helen?”

“I am.” I reflected a moment on the integrity of my answer. “I truly am. I should ask the same of you.” The phrase "Cardinal Sin" came to mind, but I restrained myself.

Father Braxton stiffened a bit at that point. He grabbed at his clothes on the pile on the floor, cleared his throat. “I’m glad I was able to make you feel yourself again, Helen. Honored, in fact.” There was a silence. And then he said, “We mustn’t speak of this. Not to each other. Not even to God in our confessions.”

“Isn’t God aware of this? Isn’t God aware of everything?”

I never did go back to St. Anne’s.

I felt a warm wash on my ankle. And then Eliot removed his latex gloves and rinsed his hands.

“Put some ice in a baggie and wrap the baggie in a washcloth. You need to keep the bandages dry.” Eliot helped me off the table. I felt a bit dizzy and sat for a moment with a glass of water in my right hand. My ankle was on fire. He handed me two white pills on a small green napkin.

“A couple of aspirin every few hours will help alleviate the pain. After a few days you’ll be as good as new.”

I smiled and thanked Eliot for his artistry. He took both of his hands in mine and wished me well.

“Eliot.” There was one more thing I wanted to say, but my voice must have been too soft, as he’d already turned to speak to his next canvas.

“Does the pain really ever go away?”