Free Decatur by Patricia Lynch Page B

big TV set. Framed pencil sketches of St. Peter’s square and Basilica were hung over the sofa and weren’t half bad, thought Gar. “What are you doing?” exclaimed Father Troy in a choked way. Father Weston was leaning against the facing of the open entrance to the kitchen where you could see the spotless yellow Formica counters and the white plastic rack full of clean dishes.
    “I hate to overstay a welcome,” Gar said in a shy unhurried way, and Father Troy burned with the injustice of it all. Gar looked so beautiful to him, so vulnerable with his rope makeshift belt and so strong, the muscles rippling under a simple white tee shirt with his bare biceps. A shock of sun-streaked hair fell loosely over one eye, and Gar had a regretful, sad, perfect smile on his lips.
    Before he quite knew what he was doing Father Troy was pulling on the straps of the duffle bag slung over Gar’s shoulder murmuring, “No. You can’t. It’s not right.”
    A big tan hand closed over Father Troy’s thin one. “Hey, there, Father. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” But he put down the bag, noted Father Troy with a little rush of relief.
    Father Weston went over to the bar cabinet with the gold woven front and unlocked it, pulling out a bottle of Jim Bean and pouring himself three fingers in a short glass. “Father Troy, I think Gar knows what he wants. He’s a grown man, a traveling man. You’re hearing the call of the open road, right, Gar?” Then the priest knocked back the drink quickly because he couldn’t stand the beseeching look in his fellow priest’s blue-grey eyes behind his wire rims.
    “No, he’s not.” Father Troy shook his long hair. “Those carnies’ deaths had nothing to do with him, and you know it. They happened at the Lincoln Log Motel, miles and miles from here. Don’t listen to him, Gar.”
    “Heard about that. Evil men brought it on themselves if you ask me, and I think that’s what most people will think. But Father Weston, you tell the Monsignor good bye now for me, would you? We were fixing on putting in a St. Francis of Assisi bird bath in the garden, so tell him we’ll do it another time. Had it all picked out he did. Or maybe you could help him.” Gar picked up the duffle bag again, but slowly, taking his time, arching his back, pulling in his stomach so it was rock hard, his arm one long regretful extension as he reached for the bag. He felt like a boxer in the ring, he wasn’t going down this easy. This was his base and he wasn’t leaving until he found out what the Monsignor knew about the source’s life here in Decatur. This was it. His destiny. So he had no choice and neither did the two priests, he was staying put in the parish rectory until he found and fed his need.
    “Where will you sleep? You’re casting him out in the middle of the night and it’s not even your decision, you bastard, you hypocritical bastard.” Father Troy hated hypocrisy and how it corrupted the real values of the Church. It was everything he was fighting against. Gar looked like a sacred dancer to him as he reached for the duffle bag. Then the injustice and hypocrisy were too much and wet tears were running down Father Troy’s cheeks and he whipped off his glasses and ran a black sleeve over his eyes.
    Father W let out a long sigh and longingly looked at the Jim Beam bottle, the raw pain in Father Troy was unsettling and yet familiar in a distant way. The younger priest was on an emotional precipice and if he went over it would be Father W’s fault. So, crossing himself and mentally asking for forgiveness, Father Weston spoke with a calm deliberation that he didn’t feel but had practiced time and time again in the confessional and at the pulpit. “Well. Gar. Maybe you should wait. Could you wait?” Father Weston was forcing the words out of his mouth. “At least until morning to say goodbye.”
    “Yes,” Father Troy said, “You have to wait. Think of Mrs. Napoli, she wouldn’t want you to