Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Any final reservations vanished when Bill divulged his own groundless anxiety. “I’m ‘lad I ‘ot a ‘ice roommate. I’ve been in ‘ome bad ‘laces.” He pointed to scars on his cheek and forehead along with the nearly vacant rows of his gum-line. “hank you for being ‘ice to me.”
It was a threshold moment for Psycho. He made the connection between his own jaded perceptions and that of reality. He felt enormous relief having a living arrangement in which he was viewed as primary; his roommate subordinate. Yet it was an odd feeling. Never had he been in a relationship in which he was the leader of all things intellectual and social. Before, he had always been the subordinate. And even if it was just a mentally retarded man with the disposition of a newborn duckling, Psycho felt hope.
He also found sympathy. When B
ill exhausted his meager pocket change, he had to resort to smoking buttsies. Psycho thought of his own inexhaustible supply of cigarettes and money and took a risky proposition of charity. “Look” H
e waved his carton in front of B
ill while they were alone in the room. Bill
’
s eyes lit up, then became wary. He had been brutalized in the past for the sake of half a deck of smokes.
“I can give you one cigarette before each smoke break. But you can’t tell anyone I have these.” Bill doubted, then asked conditionally: “For free? I don’t ‘ave to do ‘othing?” The large man was nearly quivering.
“Nothing.” Psycho ass
ured. To demonstrate, he gave B
ill a cigarette in advance.
Bill turned it over and over in his hands. Feeling assured he said: “hank you. You are ‘ice to me.”
During his next session with Mr.
Thelen Psycho
shared his thoughts (and even some feelings).
“I’m glad to hear things are working out.” Scott Thelen was seeing a big opening here. His patient had talked more in the first 10 minutes than in all of their previous sessions combined. “And you discovered these things on your own. That’s a very good sign that you’re working on recovery.”
The therapist crossed his legs and redirected boldly. “Remember one of our previous sessions. We were talking about what happened in the courtroom and why you decided to come here.” It didn’t come out as ‘why you were sent here’ or ‘they made you come here’ it was ‘you decided to come here.’
The court transcript held the key to the repressed memory. (He fucked me in the ass. When you see heaven it will stop) But it couldn’t be forced out, it had to be discovered at will.
“I guess I got mad.” The courtroom scene was vivid in Psycho’s memory, but the details, the important details were suppressed.
“What was it that made you mad?”
“A lot of things.” The response was vague and expected. This time Mr. Thelen just nodded, sending the non-verbal message ‘yes – it’s okay, continue.’
“I was mad because…” The words refused. Psycho looked for a distraction. Anything to avoid going there. There was something deadly waiting for him if he finished the sentence. A glint of metal on the therapist’s collar caught his eye, so he deflected.
“What’s that?”
It was part question / part statement. He threw it out in desperation.
“What is what?” Mr. Thelen indulged in the deflection patiently.
“That thing that… you’re wearing…right there.” Psycho tapped at his own collar to indicate the placement of the object he had noticed on the therapist.
“Oh, this.” Scott Thelen fingered the postage stamp sized pin on his shirt. He pondered the words he would use to briefly describe the pin and then redirect the discussion.
“It’s an American Flag pin. My father served in world war two and he was among those who stormed the beach at
Normandy
. Today is June 6
th
and I’m wearing it in his honor. I think it’s important for all of us to remember.” He was eloquently making the segue back to topic. “He used to tell me about times when he was scared and mad, and how talking about the war helped to heal him.”
Psycho wasn’t ready, he needed more distraction. “So why is June 6
th
important?”
The therapist covered his annoyance and tried again. “During the war,
Germany
occupied the shores of
France
. The allies, the
United States
and other countries planned a secret attack that happened on June 6, 1944. They called it D-Day.”
Scott Thelen considered his next, but it never arrived. His patient had gone lily white in the face and had slumped back in his chair.
Psycho
’
s eyes rolled back in their sockets revealing a pair of glistening ping pong balls. His lips and teeth chattered manically. “De-de-de-de-de-de” He stuttered.
“What…” Scott
Thelen's
professional demeanor reverted to layman’s alarm. “What’s wrong?” He rose from his chair, unsure for the moment of what to do.
“De-de-de-de-de-Da-da-da-day!” Psycho involuntary screamed in a double lungful of air. His head thrashed from side to side, his arms flailing around his torso. “Du-du-du-du- De-de-de-de-Da-da-day. He fell, writhing on the floor in convulsions.
Scott Thelen acted. He hammered on the intercom. “Two orderlies! Now!”
The twisting, agonized body on the floor, physically a man, emotionally a small boy, wretched and howled. His knees came up to his midsection, his arms constricted around his neck, his hands compressing his head.
Within seconds, the orderlies crashed through the door. And with them came crashing screams from the patient.
“DOUBLE-DEE-DAY! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY!”
It took the three men, two orderlies and one therapist, all they had to secure the straightjacket. The patient thrashed, stuttered, screamed, wept.
And from that long forgotten chamber of blackness within, the multi-
tentacled
monster that had tortured him, was now fully exposed. For years it had clawed at Psycho
’
s mind relentlessly, in a game of emotional hide and seek, finding ever-new areas to infest. Only this time Psycho had been the seeker, and had found, it.
“HE FUCKED ME UP THE ASS! THE PRIEST! DADDY HAD THE SHOVEL! YOU’RE A GEORGIE PORG
IE
GIRL! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY ! YOU MUST SEE HEAVEN! THEN IT WILL STOP!”
His screams continued unabated as they muscled him onto a gurney, juiced him with powerful syringe cocktail, and wheeled him off to the quiet room.
Chapter 2
1
It really was the only drawback. You just couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without somebody either questioning why you weren’t at your post, or worse, requesting your services when you were legitimately away from your post.
Otherwise, it was a pretty good gig.
For twenty plus years, Gustavus Milliken had served the needs of his congregation either behind the pulpit, in the cemetery, or at the rectory. In the early days he had learned that it was NOT acceptable to take in a movie at the local cinema, nor was it okay to show up in the stands at the local high school football game. Hell, he couldn’t even go for a walk in the park without the scrutiny of some parishioner wondering why he wasn’t back at the church praying for those of us who can’t even pray for ourselves.
And if perchance he was on a hospital visit and decided to pop into the gift shop because something caught his eye, well hells bells if his blasted stiff collar didn’t attract the attention of some needy person who wanted to talk for ‘just a minute’ and then went on yapping for the better part of an hour about their uncles distended bladder.
Every waking, breathing moment had to be spent on stage. That, or pent up in the solitude of the rectory.
But by the late 70’s there was an unspoken relaxation of the standards. A more contemporary, freer atmosphere allowed
priests just a little more wiggle room. People found a new affinity for hobbies, outings. Socializing became less obligation and more opportunity. The trend even carried to the church council meetings where, yes, they still conducted business of the spirit, but they also engaged in unashamed chit chat about their worldly interests and activities.
And it was through one of these casual chats, that the subject of Father
Milliken’s
telescope came into play. “Father we know how much you love your telescope.” Council Secretary Linda Wilcher was smiling modestly. “I got to thinking that it might be a good social activity for the church to have weekly stargazing sessions on the front lawn.” The other council members warmed to the idea speculatively. “We’re always trying to attract young people to the church and I think it would help some of our regular members to get to know each other too.” Many of the council members were nodding their assent. Father Milliken was smiling. Inside he was steaming.
Right, and just who is going to haul that 60 pound thing in and out of the rectory each night. And have you noticed, the lights from the parking lot will drown out anything worth seeing. And then who’s going to be the celestial expert answering every clodhopper
’
s stupid questions? Me? I couldn’t tell you the difference between Venus and a levitating pumpkin! Besides, the only reason I have the telescope in my room is as an enticement for---
“Yes, I think it’s a grand idea!” He smiled at the entire council, reserving his most gregarious gleam for the trouble-making Wilcher woman. They settled on Tuesdays.
The first few weeks drew modest crowds that arrived in interest and left mostly in disappointment. About the only good thing in the viewfinder were the craters of the moon. A 30 second peek, and then you were done.
Many asked to see the rings of Saturn or even Pluto for Christ
’s
sake. Father Milliken had to explain that you would need to be
out in the country, away from any artificial light, and, have a very powerful telescope to even get a glimpse of such wonders.
Weeks passed. Father Milliken lugged out his scope at 8:30 and lugged it back in at 11. And while attendance dwindled, he found that he had started to enjoy the routine. Twenty years ago, hell 5 years ago, if he had been seen out on the rectory lawn fooling around with his expensive toy, there would have been congregational revolt. At least this kept him from going stir crazy.
Plus, there was another thing. He had developed a small following. A group that came nearly every week for yet another look through the viewfinder at the moon, the pulsing airport beacon at the edge of town, or even a swarm of gnats circling some distant streetlight. They came early but by 10 o’clock they would be gone; mindful of their parent’s strict curfew. Father Milliken’s greedy eyes inhaled the small bodies; while any stray adult that happened along went virtually ignored.
“Are you going to be one of
my altar boys someday?” “Yes F
ather Milliken.”
And to the girls: “Are you going to be nuns when you grow up?” “Yes Father Milliken.”