Authors: Steven Parlato
… going to B.A.R.K. every weekend, only taking Kaspar out if no one was there. Otherwise, we’d walk other dogs. When it was just us, Father’d take me right to Kaspar’s pen for his ritual. Sometimes he’d ask me to join him, saying “Don’t fret, Evan. I’d never ask you to do anything wrong.”
One day I said okay
.
Father hugged me, then took my hand. When we touched Kaspar that way, it was like watching a movie, unreal. I felt scared, but kind of excited, too
.
After, on the path, I knew something had changed; Father wouldn’t look at me. I started crying, and he rubbed my shoulders, said, “Evan, if you want, I’ll take you home and we won’t come again.”
I nodded, wiping my face on my sleeve
.
Then he went red, saying, “Naturally, you’ll need to return your drawing supplies. And when we get to your house, I’ll speak with your parents.” He scared me, the way his fingers dug into my shoulders, his face … and now, bringing up Mom and Dad. I asked, “Why Father? Why do you have to talk to them?”
Tapping a Winston from his pack, he lit it, took a long draw, and said, “I have to explain why we can no longer be friends. I need to tell them what you did.” Smoke poured from his nose, like a dragon’s, as he spoke. “What you did with Kaspar was wrong, Evan. Evil. Your parents deserve to know.”
Crying again, spluttering, I yelled,
“NO! YOU WANTED ME TO
DO IT! I WAS ONLY TRYING TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!”
He slapped my face, dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his shoe. Then he hugged me, stroked my hair, said, “God has asked me to test you, Evan. He considers you a special soul, but you must be purified. And I’m to help.”
I asked what he meant. Father stared into my eyes for a long time. “Evan, a special soul meets unique challenges. You’ve been chosen by God for great things. But there’s a darkness that feeds on exceptional grace. It’s as if you have a demon within. Today, praise God, we’ve identified it as a demon of lust. And that is the first step toward victory. Do you want to vanquish the demon, Evan? Do you want to serve the Lord?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Atta boy, Evan, good. But you cannot do it alone. And you won’t have to. You see, God has brought us together that I might help you achieve all He has planned. You must rely on me, Evan. Will you do that? Will you put your faith in me?”
I shivered. He wrapped his coat around me, gave me a piece of gum, placing the mint strip on my tongue like a communion wafer. In the car, I said, “I trust you with my life, Father.”
“
W
ith your very soul. But you must promise not to breathe a word about the things we’ll do. If you tell, if you break this trust, it will be a grave betrayal to God. You’ll be just another Judas then, and He’ll punish us both for your weakness. Understand?”
All I really understood was I’d done something wrong, and I was about to lose Father. So I said, “Yes, Father Fran. Please don’t tell my parents. I’ll do everything you say.”
“You bastard.” I lean against the car window, stare out; the garage swims like the windshield’s rainy. I stop the tape. I can’t process what I’ve heard. How to reconcile this poor, betrayed kid with the guy who taught me to tie my shoes, tweezed out my slivers?
I haven’t recalled that stuff for so long — the goofy rhyme he sang to help me make a bow, how he’d distract me with multiplication tables as he loosened a splinter — and now every thought of him’s linked to this freakin’ painting and what I’ve learned. I hammer a fist against my thigh, masking emotion with physical pain.
Pages of his words go with whatever else is on the tape, but I can’t take anymore. Mister Alberti said I’m not ready to carry his weight.
“You were right, Zio Joe.” I grimace saying it, wiping my nose on my sleeve, too gouged to reach for a glove compartment napkin.
A sudden realization: Mister Alberti knows. Dad must’ve told him about Father Fran. Maybe I should bring the tape to the restaurant, ask him. See if he can tell me what happened on encounter. But first I need to hear the rest, read his pages, exhume his misery. There’s no going back; God, I wish I could.
After that, things changed. We still got together most Saturdays, but stopped going to B.A.R.K. Usually we’d stay at the rectory, or ride in his car. A couple times we went to the movies
.
Dad was pissed I wasn’t around to help at home, but Mom said it was good I spent time with Father. She said he was “so good to take an interest in the kids like he does.” No one noticed his special interest in me, or questioned when he’d pull me from class to “help with a little rectory project.” Or when he’d give me presents: Wrigley’s gum, comic books, religious medals
.
His voice starts to break. I can’t tell whether it’s emotion or the crappy tape. I lean close to the speaker.
Reggie, I don’t know how to say the worst. Some of it’s locked in this drawer in my head I don’t dare open. Because what I do remember … let’s just say it’s … um
His voice gets even quieter.
… it’s real bad
.
There’s a long silence then; all I hear is faint crying. I crank the volume to MAX; static fills the Tahoe, crackling dead air. I’m thinking that’s all, when his voice blasts, reverbing in my head. I twist the knob to normal and freeze as I hear,
I thought of killing myself. The stuff he did … I get flashes. The journal poems, that’s mostly what they are, images: the pinprick pattern on the ceiling of Father’s station wagon. I’d count dots as he … I, I can picture diamond shapes on the hall runner in the rectory. I see it in dreams, but worse, when I’m awake …
He used to lay me on that rug and he’d … he’d put his hands and … mouth … on me. He’d say not to look, to keep my eyes closed or study the stained glass Saint Agnes and her lamb. Sometimes I thought I’d hear her whisper, “Sweet boy, be still,” but really it was him I heard
.
The worst part is … there were times I liked it, Reg, the way it felt. And I know God will never forgive me for that
.
He’s crying again — not faint now, bawling. I join him in his fear and shame. When he starts talking again, his voice is different, mechanical.
He gave me wine, “blood to seal our covenant.” I needed it, Reg. It helped blur time. After, in the confessional, he’d make me “unburden myself,” describe things we’d done. Sometimes as I talked, I’d hear him breathing, and I knew what he was doing
.
Reg, so many times I wanted to just let it gush out to you or Mom. I even came close to telling Ro once. But I was so scared
.
Father said we’d go to hell if I told, but if I stayed the course, my reward would be great. He said, “Each time we partake of the flesh, we’re closer to conquering the demon, nearer God.”
He said we were “purging my evil urges by acting on them.” When I told him I’d never had those urges, he said the demon was trying to destroy our progress
.
So I decided it must be God’s will. And if He allowed it, so should I. Sometimes during Mass, when Father’s hand would stroke mine as I handed him the chalice, I wanted to scream and scream. But I never did
.
Exhausted, I hit Function: AM radio, low and out of tune. I rub my forehead, glance at my watch: 11:54. Amazing how much shit you can slog through before lunch. I can’t believe I’m spending winter break huddled in a freezing garage, reliving the freak show that was my father’s childhood. I’d have preferred Cancun. I laugh despite not having experienced anything remotely humorous in, oh, eleven months.
Catching my reflection in the rearview, I’m puzzled. I’m laughing, right? So why’s my face that sick gray shade? And what’s with the purple splotches where my eyes used to be? I look like laughing crap, Dorian Gray in reverse. Somewhere a portrait of me is looking GOOOOD. I laugh again; the sound makes me stop. Too much like Dad’s taped laughter: hollow, humorless.
Suddenly starving, reaching for the center console, I lift the lid. It’s stuffed with typical Dad debris: napkins and sporks, thumb-smudged sunglasses, about fifty ketchups. I dig beneath crumpled sweetener packets, empty Funyuns bags, and a blank 1997 day planner. Pay dirt: half a pack of Hubba Bubba and an unopened Slim Jim.
Always jerky-averse, I shuck wrappers, jam in three gum cubes. They’re powder sweet/rock hard, cold or old; not sure which. Beginning to work them, my jaw aches as they soften. Glancing left, I realize I’ve chosen the passenger seat, like I’d half-expected him. I’d offer him the last piece of gum; he’d spot the lump in my cheek and say, “Can you spare it?” Mourning his absence for the millionth time, I rummage again, face the fact: Jerky’s my only relatively edible option.
My wrapper inspection reveals no expiration date. Gambling that “hydrolyzed gluten and mechanically separated chicken” probably
can’t
spoil, I peel the plastic sheath. Raising the zesty stick, I salute the painting. “This one’s for you, Dad.” Shifting gum-gob to my cheek, I gnaw jerky, gathering pages. I lift the book, open to the sliced section, and reinsert the sheaf. The cut edges match perfectly. Swallowing the salty, processed animal, I read,
I’m ten years old
.
It’s my second dose of pay dirt: no missing pages. This picks up right where the chopped entry —
We’re in the rectory at Saint Anne’s and
— left off. I continue.
I remember hanging at the rectory drawing. Who knows why I’m dreaming that — so long ago. Maybe because Tony’s acting so weird about Father. Still, there’s something else, a feeling. And a smell: Wrigley’s spearmint. And some dog. God, I’m going nuts. We never had a dog like this, just that beagle when I was little. This is a big, hairy thing — Wolfhound? Mental. Must sleep
.
March 3, 1976 (middle of night)
Just woke with the raunchiest image: that dog, it only had one eye. I’m sure of it. And I think it was called … Cat (?) No that’s asinine. Who’d name a dog Cat? I still can’t remember who owned it. Why do I keep thinking it was Father Fran’s? Guess I could ask him about it after class tomorrow. I wanted to talk to him anyway, about Tony
.
“Don’t, Dad!” God, I’m like those people who yell at the screen during a slasher flick.
Cripes! My head hurts. Wonder if I should risk sneaking to the kitchen. Mom’s got an open bottle of Fontana di Papa in the pantry. Tastes like horse piss, but if I choke down a cup, it helps me sleep. Mom’d brain me if she found out, but it’s not like I haven’t been drinking wine since I was — Whoa! I almost said “since I was ten.” But that’s crazy, isn’t it?
So he didn’t remember it. How’s that possible? Some kind of shock or repressed memory? I wonder what brought it back on encounter. He said something happened there that made him realize his dreams were real.
“Got room for an old man in there?”
I scramble to hide the journal pages as Gramp climbs in the car. He doesn’t notice me shifting the stack of paper under my butt cheek.
He avoids looking at me; probably thinks I’ll freak. Wonder what he’s heard from Mom. As he messes with the auto compass on the dash, minutes pass; finally he prepares to speak.
I brace for the force of his words. There’s melancholy in the clearing of his throat, in the slight clack of dentures as he does a slow exhale. “You
tryin’
to kill the battery?” He turns the key to OFF. “Amazing there’s any juice left. When’s the last time you started ’er up?”
Not what I expected. Then again, when it comes to communicating, Gramp makes Dad look like Mister Sensitivity. I decide to pass on car chat, get right to it.
Mimicking his abbreviated way of talking, what I call Gramp-speak, I say, “She call you?”
“No, I’m a friggin’ psychic. ’Course she called. And she was none too happy to have to.”
“Sorry.”
“Least your mother was able to save a little face. She didn’t have to get past my guard dog. Lucky thing Cerberus is on one of her bus trips.”
I always laugh when he calls Gran that; she usually does, too, before smacking him.
“So, what’s this all about?” He seems uncomfortable asking.
Feelings are foreign territory for the old guy. He’s shifting in his seat, wearing an expression like somebody trying to pass a stone.
“What did Mom tell you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think this would go quicker if you’d stop answering my questions with questions.”
During the silence that follows, I seriously expect him to cuff me. Instead he asks, “You sure about that?” a sly grin crinkling his lined face. Then he does cuff me, but in a playful grizzly way. Twisting me into a headlock — the closest he’ll get to a hug — he spots the painting.
He stares, color sapped from his jowls. A sweat pearl slips from under his cap, coming to rest in the crease above his eye. He doesn’t blink, just sits, fixed on the painting, face white as his hair. He’s starting to spook me; I hope this isn’t how a stroke looks. I’m about to remind him to breathe, when he says, “Where in hell did that come from?” his voice missing its gruff vigor.
Then he coughs, a series of phlegmy lung-rattlers. I’m torn between ducking for cover and calling for backup.
“You okay?”
He waves me off, rummaging in the glove compartment. Hawking an alarming glob into a napkin, he says, “He painted that in high school.”
“So you’ve seen it before?”
“Not the finished product, but I caught him working on it in the attic. He tried to hide it from me. Guess you can see why.”
“Well, I suppose it is a little disturbing.”
“A little? That’s soft-pedaling, don’t you think?”