Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  And so, ever so subtly, Gus began conditioning a future crop of boys to serve at the altar.

  Chapter 3

  1

  “I’m really doing much better now.” Psycho sat in his traditional spot in Mr. Thelen’s office.

  Four months had passed since his psychotic episode on D-Day. A difficult four months, but also a therapeutic four months.

  He had been taken to the quiet room in full restraint. Once the drugs kicked in, the restraints were removed. For the rest of June 6th he rolled on the padded floor moaning indistinguishable gibberish. That night the staff left him to sleep in the room; coming in only to administer meds and offer water. The room had no toilet, but even if it had, his drug induced mind would not have been able to navigate it.

  His bowels and bladder evacuated directly into his clothes. From his mouth he drooled, from his nose he drained, his eyes mattered and clotted. Offensive fluids drained from every opening of his body.

  In religious and therapeutic circles, it’s known as a cleansing. The mind telling the body to rid itself of all that is vile.

  For Psycho, it was only the first day of a long cleansing.

  He was reintroduced to the unit and his meds were elevated dramatically. It was all he could do mentally to make his way to the dining room. Walking the tiles was out of the question, even the appeal of the smoke room was muted by his stupor. He spent his days laying in bed, ocean waves of anti-psychotics submerging and subduing his brain.

  After two weeks, his body becoming somewhat acclimated to the drugs, his sessions with Scott Thelen resumed.

  Psycho could now remember it all. The priest, Father Milliken, the telescope, the pain of being violated from behind, the apathy of his parents, the shaming, and on and on.

  And while he remembered, he was still far from coping. The first sessions were exclusively crying, anger, self-pity and blame. Healing takes time.

  Over the next weeks, the firestorm of emotions gave way to glimmers of intellect. Their discussions turned to the inability to change the past, but the power to respond to it. A concept with merit, but one that needs repetition and practice.

  And now, four months later, his commitment having been extended by the mental health board, Psycho sat placidly, waiting for his therapists reply.

  “Yes, I would agree, you are doing much better now.” The smile was sincere. His patient truly had made progress. “And I think we’re getting close to an important point. What are your thoughts about going home?”

  Psycho sat quiet for a moment, forming his thoughts as he had been taught, and then surprised Scott Thelen by his honesty. “I’m not ready yet.”

  It wasn’t a first, but certainly a rarity. It caught the therapist off guard. “Which part aren’t you sure of?” he asked awkwardly.

  Psycho had the answer readily this time, it was in his mind during the first question. “Father Milliken, what do I do when I see him?”

  It had been Scott Thelen’s contention all along that there was no Father Milliken, that no priest could ever commit such an act. Perhaps it had been a visiting relative, a drunken neighbor, even the boys own father that had buggered him. Hadn’t he said ‘daddy had a snow shovel’ during his psychotic episode? And wouldn’t it be easy for the mind to confuse father as in daddy with father as in priest? A mind mechanism of self preservation. Some other sicko, yes. But a priest? No.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure. His patient did NOT want to go home because he might see a priest. Things just weren’t adding up here. “Well if you see him, you walk the other way. What happened is in the past. We can only respond to the present.”

  Psycho persisted. “But what about church? I have to go to church.”

  “You could go to a different church.”

  “But there’s only one Catholic church in Elmwood; St. Marks. And I have to go every Sunday or it’s a sin.”

  The therapist leaned forward and put his chin on his folded hands. He stared into space for a few seconds and then said honestly: “Let me think about that.”

  Ever since D-Day, the details of this case had been tugging at Scott Thelen’s brain like a fishhook. And then today, after his patient’s most sincere statement, ‘I’m not ready, what if I see Father Milliken’ the therapist felt compelled to do something unconventional by professional standards, but noble by Scott Thelen standards.

  They finished their session and Psycho headed back to the unit. Scott Thelen, consulted his Tuesday patient load, then calculated the time and distance in his mind. He could be in Elmwood by 6:30. Seven o’clock tops.

  Back in his room, Psycho lamented the loss of his roommate Bill. A three month commitment (originally just like himself) Bill had been discharged in September, walking out the door in the same clothes, heels exposed on the same shoes, on which he had come in.

  They may not have been friends, but Psycho had the greatest respect for the man he had initially feared. During his time in the quiet room and the two weeks he lay catatonic in bed, Bill had not touched a single item in Psycho’s closet. Bill knew where the cigarettes were and yet had not helped himself to a single one.

  Only after Psycho was vaguely lucid and able to dole out a smoke did Bill speak. “I been ‘moking buttsies. I’m ‘lad you’re better.

  The man could have robbed him blind. But where Bill did not have brains nor social skills, what he did have was integrity.

  But now there was a new roommate, a backwoods hermit named Ed. If you’ve ever seen the hillbilly character on the old bottles of Mountain Dew, then you’ve seen Ed. The only difference was that instead of a cork flying out of a moonshine jug as an accessory, Ed had a sinuous scar from the middle of his forehead to the bridge of his nose. It looked like a centipede had fossilized on his face. No doctor had stitched this gap, this had been a home job with baling wire and a grappling hook.

  And as quiet as Bill had been, Ed was equally talkative. He had been in the security wing for the last six months and had earned the right to be on the low risk unit as part of his transition program.

  Psycho took the arrival of his new roommate as blandly as yesterday’s mashed potatoes. He had not the slightest bit of reservation or fear. Once you have re-lived a decade’s worth of nightmarish experiences, everything else is wallpaper.

  One thing that helped, was that he had exhausted his carton of cigarettes long ago, and was now buying them by the pack. He knew he couldn’t trust this new guy, like he had Bill, so the pack, and the few dollars he had left, he kept concealed with care.

  After the first week Ed talked himself out and mercifully went in search of fresh ears to hear his repeated tales.

  It gave Psycho time for reflection.

  The people he had seen come and go during the last 16 weeks were all really kids inside. Kids cowering in fear, kids begging for attention, look at me, listen to me. Kids who had been brutalized emotionally and physically far, far worse than he. Kids, who were now adults. Adults who were trying to come to terms with things that happened when they were kids.

  He knew of one patient, intelligent, fit, confident, who was frequently mistaken for a staff member. But he had been locked in a rotted cellar, on a daily basis, by his babysitter for almost two years.

  Another patient had gruesome scars on his legs, his step-father having dropped him in scalding bathwater for knocking over a beer bottle.

  Fondling, beating, choking, molesting, abusing, starving, drugging, drinking.

  This was where they came.

  This was where they learned.

  ‘I’m not the only one.’

  For many, the hardest part was just being locked up. By definition it wasn’t a jail, it was a hospital. But in reality, the only times your feet felt the grass and the sun hit your face were the day of your commitment and that of your discharge.

  And discharge was what they had been talking about with Psycho. He thought of what awaited him in the Elm. Top of the list, Father Milliken. The rest of the list, blank.

  He th
ought of a few things that could go on that list but they had no appeal. Home, if they would have him back, school, if they would have him back, the prospect hole, he was sure they would not have him back.

  He knew that his car was gone – repossessed. He suspected that his music was also gone – dumped in the garbage by his mother like so much Halloween candy. So what did that leave him?

  Pot.

  The word delighted his emotions and ravaged his intellect.

  ‘Just for the chance to feel again, to float, to have the world scroll by in animated slow motion.’ His emotions whispered.

  ‘It’s what got you in trouble in the first place.’ His intellect screamed.

  Psycho did not have the answers today, and that was alright. He knew he wasn’t ready and that he and Mr. Thelen would talk more about his future.

  For now, he was fine where he was at. He was safe, he was fed, he had cigarettes, and he had his routine.

  He was institutionalized.

  2

  Scott Thelen had never been to Elmwood. He had three stops to make; two of them planned, the third, more out of curiosity.

  Highway 91 took him to the edge of town where he made a preliminary stop in advance of his primary objectives. “Thank heaven for 7-11” he muttered to his own ears.

  He parked and then walked to the open-ended phone booth near the front door. The phone he didn’t need, what he did need was directions.

  “Sakes.” He could have predicted it. The street map in the tattered phone book had long ago been torn out by some inconsiderate moron. He replaced the book on the shelf and headed inside. The store was empty, the clerk unoccupied.

  “I’m looking for directions and the phone book…” “Street maps are right there.” The clerk clipped Scott’s inquiry off midstream and pointed to the rack of maps right in front of him.

  ‘City of Elmwood, Minnesota and surrounding area.’ 89 cents.

  Scott just wanted directions to his first stop, not buy a map. Especially not an 89 cent map that he would only use once. But the clerk had made his point and none too subtly. ‘Buy a map or get your directions elsewhere.’

  Scott relented. He made his way back to his car where he unfolded the accordion.

  Elmwood was platted on a simple grid and he easily found the first of his stops.

  3

  “Yes, based upon the files you sent and your description of his sincerity, I think he would be a good fit for our program.”

  Scott was talking with Frank Lister, director of Elmwood’s fledgling “Transitions” program. “We can help him get his GED or return as a regular student if that’s his choice. He’ll be able to come and go, we have no locks or bars here.” He spread his arms expansively. “He can work if he so chooses, the local 3-M plant outsources a few of their more menial duties with us. We just require that he attends group sessions, doesn’t use alcohol or drugs and has no run-ins with the law.”

  “From what I see, I too believe it would be a good match.” Scott replied. “Understand though that my approaching you is conditional. I first want to visit with the boy’s parents. My preference would be to have him return home, however he has described his home life as dysfunctional. That, and the fact that his parents have not visited, called or even written him a letter since his commitment, leads me to believe there may be at least some merit in his observations.”

  “I would concur Mr. Thelen. Are you off to see them next?”

  “That I am, they live on Valley street. Are you familiar with it?”

  The slightest shadow crossed Frank Lister’s face. “Yes, from here you’ll head east. You’ll cross the train tracks and be right on top of Valley. Go another block further and your car will be in the Minnesota river.”

  The levity signaled the end of the meeting.

  4

  “Do you want some coffee! The cups are clean! I washed them! And the wise men came calling!”

  “Yes, coffee would be nice.”

  “I’ll hurry! Blessed are the meek for they shall turn on the stove. I need to count the spoons! Life everlasting!”

  Scott really didn’t want any coffee, but it got the mother out of the living room. Now he could have the father’s full attention. (If only he weren’t engrossed in Lawrence Welk) Didn’t these people have the common sense to turn off the television while talking about their sons well being?

  “I think your son is ready to come home.”

  No response from the other man.

  “But there’s one thing that seems to be holding him back. He continues to bring up an incident with a Father Milliken.”

  The boys dad pivoted his head oh so slightly, appeared to be on the verge of saying something, then returned his attention to Bobbie and Sissy who were dancing the Flamenco.

  Scott drove on. “Do you know a Father Milliken?”

  The closed ended question enabled a response.

  “Priest.”

  So he did exist.

  In the kitchen he could see and hear the mother flying across the room with no purpose other than to touch, return, and touch again. The boy had described his mothers actions during their sessions but Scott had not fully bought into the severity of it until now. On the OCD meter this woman was off the charts.

  He boldly continued. “Are you aware of any encounter that may have occurred between Father Milliken and your son?”

  The other man lowered his eyes from the screen and worked his hands nervously. He then looked at the strange visitor and formed the word.

  “Baptism.”

  Scott Thelen couldn’t help himself, he sat back in the cheap chair resignedly. He gathered himself and then tried again, choosing his words very carefully.

  “No” he said softly, “what I mean is, was there ever an incident, harsh words, or anything else?”

  Again silence from the parent.

  “Here’s the coffee, I have no kolaches, I didn’t bake, forgive me Jesus, I should have baked.” Scott reached for the cup, bracing himself for a finger scalding as it transferred from the woman’s manic hands. He feigned a sip, then feigned a smile of approval. He looked on both sides of his chair for an end table to park the cup. There were none. He was stuck holding it.

  “If I left the burner on the house will catch fire!” The mother dashed to the kitchen. “And the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, fire rained down for their sins! Is the back door locked, if I have to take out the garbage, dumping the grinds, ashes to ashes.”

  “Your son shared that when he was little, he went with you to the church, you shoveled snow while your son was with Father Milliken in his room. Can you tell me if anything happened?”

  Daddy held absolutely perfectly still. Forty years had trained his mind that the simplest answer was the best answer. The only answer.

  “I –shoveled snow.”

  Any additional information would create more questions, questions he could not resolve, answers he was unequipped to provide.

  Scott waited for him to continue. But there was nothing.

  He gave up on the Father Milliken line of questioning. If there was something there, it was effectively hid or repressed. More likely, there was nothing to it at all.

  “There is just one more thing, if I’m not being too imposing. I was wondering if I could see your son’s room.”

  Daddy, now relieved that the line of questions has been redirected, answered nimbly.

  “Yes.”

  They sat for another 30 seconds, Myron Floren fingering his accordion, Scott Thelen fingering his coffee cup, waiting for a signal, any kind of signal from the father. Inwardly he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Yes? That’s it yes? So you want me to just get up and find it on my own.’

  He shifted his coffee cup to the other hand and tried the question again, this time with a twist.

  “Could you show me your son’s room?”

  The clarification did the trick. Daddy rose as did Scott Thelen. The movement was detected in the kitchen and mommy followed the tw
o men down the hallway touching her therapeutic talismans.

  The door stood open, had been open since the public service officer had retrieved his clothing and cigarettes earlier in the year. The room had gone untouched.

  Where there should have been a floor, Scott saw only filth: Dirty laundry, fast food bags, packaging for 8 track tapes, candy wrappers, empty potato chip bags, and a mound of what may have one time been school papers and spiral notebooks unceremoniously dumped the middle and trodden with footprints.