Free Alter Boys by Chuck Stepanek Page B

was thrusting into the boy in a manner that every farm kid has witnessed with the livestock each spring.  But, that can’t be right.  It’s not done that way.  Male?  Female?  Man?  Child?  Front?  Back?  Enter confusion – prepare for obscenity.  If there were any doubt, it vanished as daddy caught an eyeful of the priest’s erection being frantically withdrawn from the boys behind.  
     
    Daddy’s mind did not go through nearly as many gymnastic maneuvers as Corky had already experienced, but he did go through his share.  The word ‘done’ now fully erased from the blackboard, he called upon one of his best stock words when he need to buy time.  And fueled by some guttural force that he had been holding in reserve during a lifetime of constraint he had roared:  “WHAT!?”  “WHAT’S – GOING ON – IN ---HERE!”
     
    They were the last words he would ever utter to the priest.
     
    That’s not to say that Father Milliken didn’t have a few words of his own to offer.  After his first fumbling ‘it’s not what you think.’ He floundered badly through his pre-planned repertoire.  ‘I was giving a hug to the—‘  No, that wouldn’t do.  ‘He was sliding off the stool and I tried to catch—‘  Strike two.  ‘You know how boys like to tell stories—‘  Bad move, there was no story.  He had been caught in the act.  He had been caught and now all he wanted was to get this screaming kid and gawking sasquatch out of his room so he could begin to restore his dignity…and maybe, just maybe find a way to salvage his career.
     
    Daddy had not moved.  He neither went toward the priest in anger nor in compassion toward his son.  His hands remained gripped - left on the shovel, right on the doorknob.  After his initial outburst of speech he had visibly recoiled, alarmed by the alacrity of his voice.  And he had frightened himself.  He had shouted.  Shouted at a priest!  In a rectory!  It may not quite be a church but it was close.  He swam with guilt for what he had said and what he was seeing.  A word tried to form its way from his lips.  ‘sorry.’  But what words there were had already been spoken.  And so he stood; oblivious to the needs of his son, blind to an y action to inflict upon the priest.  He was a man who needed direction; who responded to orders.  Fortunately Father Milliken gave both.  
     
    “Take your boy and go.”  The words came out as half command – half plea.  “Just go.”  He added for emphasis. 
     
    Only now, having been instructed, did daddy go to his boy.  He had released the doorknob willingly enough but the shovel had trailed along as he crossed the room.  Squatting to the boy below him, and with a two handed operation to perform, only then did he notice the shovel.  He rose again and turned back to the hallway, intending to return the shovel to the large supply closet near the front of the building.  He had neglected to return it when he re-entered the building (subconsciously perhaps) as it symbolized the work he had done and possibly the work the priest would still like him to perform. 
     
    “Leave it!  Just go!” Gus flamed.  Daddy leaned the neck of the shovel against the bed and turned back to the boy.
     
     
    14
     
    Tears were unaccustomed to Corky.  His sedate life of TV, sleep and more TV left little opportunity for tears of any form or fashion.  He very well could have been just another piece of furniture or spool of thread among his family’s possessions.  He held a place of importance that was below that of lunch buckets and coffee pots.  He was a thing, an object, a tolerance at best.  That which is benign is not entitled to experiencing human emotion.  And any practice with tears cried in the past had gone unresolved.  No soothing, no cuddling.  When he was done crying (for whatever the reason) he was just plain done. 
     
    But this was no ordinary crying, and the time when it would be done would