Free In God's House by Ray Mouton

how or why such things had happened in their little village, and happened to their children. No one wanted to believe their little boys had been sodomized by a priest who was popular, a man who always had compliments for women not used to receiving them, one who traded talk with the men about fishing, hunting and farming. They felt they were awake in a nightmare, living a horror their minds and hearts could not deal with. Mostly they shut down talking and cried quietly, waiting for the sun, hoping it would all be gone in the light of day.
    None of them knew what to do.
    Finally, Randy Falgout took control and called the rectory for the parish of Saint Bernadette, demanding an appointment with Monsignor Gaudet. He assumed the monsignor at the big church in Bayou Saint John, a few miles from Father Dubois’s parish in Amalie, would be Dubois’s boss.
    Now, in the town square, they were arguing. Randy’s baby sister and her husband were shaking their heads. The man said, “We can’t talk to nobody about this. I can’t think about it. How can I talk about it?”
    “I’ll talk,” Randy said. “I’ll talk.”
    The couple kept shaking their heads. His younger sister said, “No, no, I just can’t.”
    His other brother-in-law was looking down at his shoes. In a measured tone, he said softly, “Randy, if I see a priest today, I might kill him. My bare hands.”
    “I want to kill the bastard myself – beat him to death slow like, but we decided,” Randy said emphatically. “Last night we decided. First thing, we gotta get him outtahere. We can’t get him outtahere by ourselves. That monsignor across the street got to be his supervisor or something. He can get him outtahere.”
    Randy’s wife asked, “How many more boys do you think there are, Randy? How many?”
    “I dunno. Maybe every altar boy since Father Dubois came here. We can only do what we can do, honey. We gotta get the bastard outtahere now, today.”
     
    The three couples walked up the steps of the rectory. An officious housekeeper opened the front door and led them down a long corridor to an ornate chamber with an old-fashioned stuccoed ceiling and a wall of leaded glass windows. Monsignor Gaudet had his back to them. He was fussing with a spray of roses in a tall crystal vase. He turned around, walked past the couples and handed the vase to the housekeeper. “For the table, Annette.”
    Addressing Randy, who stood a few feet in front of the others, Monsignor Gaudet said, “My mother is coming for table.” He pointed to a black-and-white photograph on the wall. It depicted a young Phillip Jules Gaudet dressed in a sweater, slacks and saddle oxford shoes, standing next to an older woman in a long overcoat; they were in the Piazza San Pietro in Rome, in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica. “Mother,” he said. “She will arrive punctually with a friend of hers for noon table. We do not have much time. My secretary said one of you had left messages that you had some urgent business with me. Please sit down.”
    As Randy Falgout started to speak, Monsignor Gaudet raised his hand to silence him. He reached for the small bell on his desk and rang for the housekeeper, who appeared immediately. He asked for iced tea, offering nothing to his guests. Then he sat in a throne-like chair behind his desk, and nodded to Randy.
    Randy Falgout’s chest tightened as it had on the deck of his shrimp boat the previous afternoon. He wanted to reach acrossthe large desk and strangle Monsignor Gaudet with his Roman collar, but he knew he had to control himself. He knew he had to do whatever it took to get Dubois out of the area before he or his brother-in-law murdered Father Dubois, the man who had sent Randy’s youngest son to the hospital with a torn rectum. Randy was surprised by his own voice when the first words he spoke came out smoothly while his insides were screaming.
    “It was me who left the messages,” he said. “Our children – six little boys –have