Sagging jowls. Brown spots on his temples, once of no consequence but now a cluster of brown smudges. Wrinkles, uninterrupted, flowing recklessly across his forehead.

Father Bernard touches the bathroom mirror with his index finger, following the reflection of deep furrows, a protracted exercise that seems to take longer every morning. Yes, he thinks, repulsive and quite generously distributed. How distressing. At forty-one years old his face resembles a road map, repeatedly used and incorrectly folded. Ruts of a cow path. Badly scarred tree bark. The routine aging process gone awry. Ugly priest, he mumbles. He turns from the mirror and heads to the church to say morning Mass.

Father Bernard was a looker in his early days, before the priesthood lured him from the secular life, before ministering the sick and dying at all hours devastated his health, before years of comforting the abused and neglected and the multitude of sinners who monopolized his time rapidly aged him.

Rummaging through his pockets in search of the keys to the sacristy door, he pulls out an envelope, unevenly folded, hurriedly stuffed there the day before when Father James, the pastor, entered the rectory dining room. He holds the envelope to his nose, savoring the scent of cologne. So pungent. So indiscreet. She must have soaked the letter and the envelope in it.

Father James had noticed the strong scent the prior evening at dinner. He sniffed the air before sitting down, his nostrils quivering, his eyes suspiciously roaming the room searching for the source of what his nose had seized upon. He looked warily at Father Bernard. "It’s frightening, Father," he said. "My nose has caught the aroma of my departed mother." Father Bernard gave him a questioning look. "Ninety-three she was when she died. Wore the same cologne her whole life, even on her death bed." He again sniffed the air.

Father James’ comments surface as Father Bernard again holds the envelope to his nose. An old woman? No, couldn’t be. Her writing sounds mature, not aged. She writes for more than simple companionship; she composes her letters as if with each word she pursues a bond that surpasses that which an old person would seek. He stuffs the envelope back in his pocket, but the thought of the woman he has corresponded with for nearly a year remains locked in place.

It began as a whim, an effort to find someone who had similar interests, an outlet for his thoughts that went beyond his confined world of church and rectory and Father James. He clipped the ad from the local newspaper. Addresses available for a small fee. People seeking a correspondent with similar interests. But there was a mix up. He asked for a man. They gave him a woman. Helen. Instead of correcting the error, the notion of writing to a woman fascinated him. Maybe just the tonic he needed. He decided to write, at least once, to see what kind of response he might get. Then, after his conscience had harassed him enough, he would apologize and explain the mix up, his curiosity satisfied.

Not an easy thing. The appeal was strong. Her response was addicting. All he had offered were a few lines about his interests. He liked to garden with the limited space he had. Reading was his favorite past-time. And animals, he loved animals, especially a kitten softy purring on his lap. Her response soon followed listing the same interests but with a style that made him shudder. She loved the scent of flowers on a spring morning, especially hyacinths. They filled her with feelings of tenderness, affirmed that there was still beauty in the world despite its harshness. He knew harshness and was searching for beauty. She wrote that she loved to cuddle up with a kitten on a chilly evening. The warmth of a gentle animal gave her a feeling of fondness for the creatures of the world. Although she enjoyed reading anything that was well written, she was partial to poetry. She ended the letter with lines from her favorite poem by Poe - To Helen.

Father Bernard wasn’t particularly fond of Poe, and he wasn’t quite sure how the poem applied to what he offered in his first letter. The only connection he saw was the name, and perhaps, he pondered, the beauty Poe proclaimed. He had been aroused by what she had written. He responded cautiously, giving cursory samples of his interests and his views on world affairs and again postponing his decision to cancel Helen. He didn’t mention the poem other than to say he also liked verse, particularly that which rhymed. She had also mentioned in her first letter, almost as if in passing, that she was a librarian and asked what he did. He sidestepped the answer in his next two letters, but she persisted. He could not make that admission to her. Not yet. Not when it might mean losing Helen.

In her fifth letter she called him Bernie, Dear Bernie, surprising to him that she became so familiar so soon. He was astounded she even continued to write after he admitted in his fourth letter that he had recently been released from prison. Okay, a lie, but one that would hopefully allow their correspondence to continue. Coming clean about his true profession would have extinguished what had become the only bright spot in his tedious life as a servant of the church and its countless sinners.

Yes, a convicted felon, he wrote. In for burglary, served two years. His choice of crimes was made after much deliberation. He didn’t want to come across as a violent person, or one who appeared to be a frequent offender. So he chose a property crime and presented it as one he committed impulsively because he had lost his job and became desperate. He had paid his debt and since his release was performing community service at the local food pantry and stocking shelves at night at the Wal-Mart. More lies. A counterfeit life that might cause her to end their relationship. A good thing perhaps measured by how each letter they exchanged intensified his guilt. Not a good thing when he considered how an end to their correspondence meant the departure of the only positive aspect in his life.

Her response to his admission made him weep, tears not for her compassion, but because her sympathy was the result of a lie, a sin, one, he believed, was greater than any he had absolved in the confessional. His guilt escalated. With each letter from Helen, his piousness and priestly standards diminished, his morality weakened and his soul hurt.

The torment of his damaged soul, while giving him sleepless nights and a pain in his gut whenever he prayed to God for forgiveness, was not enough to deter him from pursuing Helen, at least with the written word. In his next letter, he complimented her on her choice of colognes. The smell was subdued as if she had simply rubbed the paper against her wrist that she had earlier lightly sprayed with the scent. Helen seized on his flattering words. She saturated each successive letter with greater amounts of cologne. The scent became so thick he had to set the letters outside his window to eliminate the smell and thwart any suspicions Father James might have.

As he crosses the rear of the sacristy to prepare for Mass, he stops at the mirror near the bureau holding the sacramental wine. Ugly priest. Not because of wrinkles and spots, not this time, but because of his hideous soul mottled with dark spots of sin. He has been neglecting his soul, satisfying his body instead with earthly desires that he knows have no place in the life he has chosen.

He dresses for Mass. While the altar boys light the candles, he pulls the letter from his pocket. They should meet, she suggests. Maybe their relationship could expand. At a neutral place, somewhere halfway. That is, she concedes, if he is able. Yes, he would like that, but no it is not possible. He is able, in fact, most capable of escalating this paper liaison that will lead to his ruin, but he is dominated by an unwillingness to destroy a vocation he prays daily can be rescued from its decline. He will tell her that since he is on parole he will be unable to meet her at this time. Perhaps later. Perhaps never, he thinks. He must get out of this. It can only lead to disaster, so it must instead lead nowhere. But how can he so easily dismiss the lovely things she has written? What must he do to rid himself of the desires she has summoned in him, the appetite for a passion he has never experienced but wishes to, passion that has intensified with each letter, every word, each progressive explosion of the scent that has enthralled him? When must he do it? After the next letter? When the passion within him nears a perilous intensity? Perhaps it already has.

The altar boys call to him in a solemn whisper. He slips the letter into his pocket. It is time to begin. The church is full and the worshipers are restless. He also is restless, his soul troubled, his mind compacted with the burdens a simple clerical error has produced.

The prayers he recites at Mass are muddled, his usually precise timing and unblemished movements are unmanageable. The worshipers don’t notice; they are involved in their own soul searching. He holds up the chalice toward heaven. His reflection in the polished metal extends beyond the wrinkles and blotches the bathroom mirror disclosed, sinking deep into the repulsive innermost features that have multiplied as a result of letters he wishes he never would have written. Ugly priest.