Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  The words were lost on Whitey. He had his weed, now he had things to do. He rose from his chair unceremoniously and moved to the door. “Lemme know what you think.” The dealer called after him. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  As his client shut the door behind him the dealer smiled, ‘oh yes, you’re in for a special treat my friend.’ The white powder that he had liberally sprinkled on the product would return him to the status of repeat customer. Gaur-an-teed!

  Whitey left the brick building, the baggie stuffed comfortably in his jeans. He checked his watch: 6:20. Later than he had planned, but there was still time. In the fading daylight he looked to the horizon and saw the marker, the cross; his destination lay beneath.

  He stopped once, warming himself by browsing in the magazine aisle of the Rexall Drug store. He held his face close to the rags, not seeing the words or pictures, and, more important, not wanting to be seen. He thumbed through titles at random, Sports Illustrated, Vogue, Ladies Home Journal. He only became self aware when he realized he had been staring at an article about Toxic Shock Syndrome on one page and a strategically placed full page ad for Kotex Maxi Pads on the other.

  He dared a quick glance around, replaced the Journal on the shelf and again checked his watch: 6:45. Perfect. He left the store and covered the last four blocks, arriving across the street from St. Mark’s just as the first members of the fast exit crowd were taking leave.

  He watched as the parishioners extended their hands to someone just inside the entry. An arm draped in a billowing sleeve reciprocated and covered the expanse. There would be a quick handshake, and then the parishioner would be gone. Over and over he watched the arm extend from the recess. A few times he caught glimpses of a robe, and belt ropes, but never the full figure.

  Eventually it came down to the lingerers. Blessedly few on a Saturday night, and then they too were done. Mass was over, it was time for confession.

  5

  This was why he came. For confession. With confession you didn’t need to look someone in the eye, in fact the opposite was true. A heavy black mesh screen separated penitent from absolver. Anonymity between mortal men; full transparency for an all seeing, all knowing God.

  He waited two more minutes, then crossed the street and climbed the 13 steps to the church. The large doors that had been propped open to release the 6 pm service-goers were now firmly shit. Whitey allowed himself the briefest moment of reconsideration, shoved the thought aside, and entered the sacristy.

  He dipped his finger in the holy water basin, noticing with some amusement, the light scrim of ice along the edge. The cold air had searched for and found a target during the recessional. Apparently even holy water was not exempt from the elements of the mortal world.

  The church lay before him, empty but for 20 or 30 sinners scattered among the pews. Whitey was in no hurry. He would be one of the last, but definitely not thee last. It was unspoken courtesy that the final penitent informed the priest that they were the last one in the church. It prevented two things: Having the priest sit unnecessarily long, waiting for any lingering sinners, and, it avoided the awkwardness of the priest popping out of his chamber prematurely just as a sinner was climbing into his.

  He had time, and he had things to do. Whitey turned left, flanked the last row of pews, and made his way into the men’s room. He entered one of the two stalls, shot the bolt home, and took a seat.

  The first part was easy. He took a perfectly good cigarette and started rolling it back and forth between his fingers, loosening the tobacco. As it began to flake, he positioned it between his legs, the loose stuff fluttering harmlessly into the bowl. When just the tiniest clump remained, far back by the filter, he declared it good.

  Now the hard part. First he closed his legs, blocking the toilet water and creating a makeshift workspace. He pulled out his baggy and gave it a good once-over. Nice. Good golden color, lots of buds, and limited sticks and seeds.

  He regretted not having the opportunity to manicure it in advance. The small paper tube of the cigarette prevented him from using the plump buds. He would have to resort to the powdery shake at the bottom, and even that would be a bitch to funnel into the cigarette.

  He massaged the baggy up and down, getting all that was leafy and powdery to the bottom. Satisfied, he carefully inserted the cigarette, gathering up scoopful after tiny scoopful. The job was tedious but within 10 minutes he had re-packed the miniature paper cylinder with Columbian gold (and unknowingly, China White). He pinched off the end, then sealed it with a scrolling lick. Next he broke off the filter, and the stray clump of tobacco tumbled out. But the important stuff, the good stuff, stayed put. He sealed the second end, then licked the former cigarette (now joint) from end to end, fusing the paper to the powdery contents. A quick inspection and then he tucked the wrinkled joint back into the flip top. The sandwich baggy he rolled closed; providing one final lick, this one to the cover flap, then made the fold to seal the filmy package.

  Whitey got up from the toilet and shoved the baggy into his pocket. Until this point he hadn’t expected what to feel. In fact just an hour ago he was feeling what? Nothing. But now he was feeling good.

  Damn if he wasn’t feeling good! He glanced at the toilet and reached for the flush handle. There were hundreds of stray tobacco shavings, and one big cigarette filter, floating in the bowl. They looked like a massive armada of ships ready to invade some unsuspecting country. He worked up a ball of spit and let it slowly descend from his mouth.

  Pow! Five ships were decimated and the rest were bobbing precariously. Whitely laughed at the image. He was a bombardier pilot on a secret espionage mission, the enemy is in sight, bombs away! A second ball of spit was released. Bulls-eye! And next the filter, an aircraft carrier among destroyers, became his primary target.

  Bombs away! A miss, but a close miss. The aircraft carrier was listing badly and taking on water. Whitey hocked up a megaton loogie.

  The voice of one Sarge Denker filled his head. ‘Bombs away! So close! She’s still floating captain! Let’s make another run at her!’ Whitey let out a giggle over his ad hoc game and took to it with passion. Hock and spit. Hock and spit. Finally, when his ammunition had nearly run dry, direct hit! Captain Whitey memorialized the moment by triggering the flush handle and sending the fleet to a nautical graveyard.

  Good he was feeling good! And he couldn’t wait to smoke some of that reefer! But there was something he needed to do first. What was it? He looked around and tried to get his bearings. This was a bathroom stall, but where? Whitey fumbled with, then clicked the slide bolt. He saw the larger surroundings and felt familiarity. Then he felt sick.

  The church. He was in the church and he was here for confession. After that he planned to forget it by getting royally fucked up.

  He stepped out the bathroom door, walked to the main hall and then froze. Shit! The church was empty! Or nearly so. There were only a couple of people left in the pews and all were on their knees reciting their post confession prayers. How long had he been in the goddamn bathroom! He scanned the pews frantically like a lost child searching for a familiar face. All he saw were the unfamiliar backs of a few penitent’s heads.

  Panic swelled up in his brain and fought with his determination. Damn it! He had planned this so well! What happened in there?

  With everything he had, he measured his courage and then made his decision.

  6

  For all of his influence, Father Milliken knew it couldn’t be avoided. Contemporary people needed contemporary services. Saturday night services. Years ago the Catholic church had reluctantly approved Saturday evening mass as an acceptable substitute for the traditional Sunday offerings. The option to offer the additional service; would rest in the hands of each congregation.

  The St. Marks church council had approached the subject a few times, but Father Milliken had stood up to them, and justifiably so. “I’m a one man operation. There’s only so much I can do. Now if the council would
entertain putting out a call for a second priest, then yes, by all means.” The council was in no condition to put out a call to compete for the rapidly depleting pool of men entering the priesthood. This Father Milliken knew. But eventually the pressures became too great. Sunday attendance was dropping because neighboring St. Olaf's in Winona did have a Saturday service. And every sport fisherman in the summer, deer hunter in the winter, and day-tripper in the spring and fall who wanted their Sundays free, merely made the 15 minute drive on Saturday night and were good with the lord for the next seven.

  The effect was felt not only in the pews, but also in the collection plates. They agreed on a compromise. Father Milliken would be relieved of his responsibility to teach the Wednesday night adult CCD class, it would now be taught by the director of lay ministries. Also, Wednesday night confession would be moved to Saturday. We could have church at 6 and confession at 7.

  Gus thought about it. He was inwardly tickled to be out of the adult CCD role. It was the equivalent of creating an independent sermon in itself each week. A Saturday night service, not so bad. Besides, any altar boy willing to give up his Saturday night would be more likely to give up… “Let’s do it.” He agreed.

  The Saturday evening service also became a nice little dress rehearsal for his Sunday sermons. He could try new material with the smaller ‘contemporary crowd’ and if it worked, use it on Sunday. Gambits that did not go over well, were scratched out of his sermon notes.

  Over time, Gus grew to tolerate the Saturday night routine. The mass was not laid back by any means, but it was a little less stuffy. And confession? Confession (regardless of the day of the week) was nothing less than monotony.

  So on this November evening he paraded down the main aisle to the confessional. It was a signal to the sinners that the sacrament was ready to begin, and an opportunity for Gus to do a quick headcount and estimate how long he would be locked in the hotbox.

  It was a three-room chamber. Gus entered the middle one, closed the door, and turned on a little switch. A red light came on outside of the room. The priest was on duty, let the absolution begin.

  Sinners then took their turns in the rooms to the left or to the right. As the kneeler took the weight of their bodies, a pressure mechanism triggered a light outside of their own chamber. ‘Occupied’ it declared. Sinner at work.

  Gus swiveled in his chair, alternating between the two rooms. A sliding wooden privacy panel, no bigger than a number 10 envelope, was installed on each side. Slide one open, listen to sins, slide it closed, and repeat on the other side.

  He kept a tally sheet as he worked. He estimated there had been 30 people in the church, and he had made 26 tic marks. ‘Almost done.’ He ruminated. Below the tic marks he also had scribbled notations. ‘Crystal Fowler – Adultery – Who?’ ‘Unknown – Old Spice – Slander.’ His note taking was purely unethical; but it sure helped to pass the time.

  Confessional 1 was empty; had been for some time. From number 2 he was enduring the long-winded oration of lonely Mr. Fitzgivens. The man didn’t share a single sin, but prattled on and on about household duties he neglected or parking his car in front of his neighbor’s house. Father Milliken bullied forward with his penance: “Say five Our Father’s and five Hail Mary’s. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace, serve the Lord.”

  The priest allowed the courtesy time to elapse for Mr. Fitzgivens to return anonymously to the pew. He was about to switch off his ‘on duty’ light when the creaks and rumbling from number 1 informed him that he had yet one more customer. At first he sighed, then brightened at the thought that maybe old man Fitzgivens would be done with his 10 prayers and gone by the time he exited the confessional.

  A set of knees hit the wooden plank in number 1. The light illuminated, the security panel slid. Father Milliken put a 27th tic mark on his tally sheet and the penitent began, slowly, deliberately.

  “Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been 18 months since my last confession. I am guilty of the sins of lust, adultery and coveting of my neighbor.” Father Milliken perked up, this could be a nice cap to his evening. He leaned in to try and detect: a body odor, a cologne, even a whiff of Juicy Fruit gum. Nothing. He would have to focus on the voice. “Yes my son, continue.” He wanted details.

  “I have sinned by lusting after little boys.” The priest felt a tinge of alarm, then intrigue. Pedophile confessions were exquisitely rare. “I took advantage of a family; put them in my confidence, for the purpose of exploiting and molesting their boy.”

  The voice was deliberate, the words well practiced, it suggested that the penitent had been thinking a long time just how to make his peace. But could he place the voice? No. Identification would have to come through detail. He prompted: “There is forgiveness in sharing. Tell me what happened.”

  “The boy was four, maybe five years old.” The sound of another straggling sinner climbing into number 2 startled both of the pedophiles, priest and penitent. “It’s alright, you may continue.” Father Milliken assured. The man on the other side of the black mesh wavered, unsure; then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I had asked his father to come help with a project outdoors, and offered to watch the boy in my room. While the man was outside, I showed the boy around. He was especially interested in my telescope.”

  Father Milliken’s brain nearly imploded. ‘Coincidence!’ he chided himself. The penitent was continuing. “I put the boy up on a stool so he could see in the scope. I saw his body and I lusted. I pulled his pants down and inserted my---“

  “Stop!” The priest hissed. He was now flat out scared. “Must you be so…. so graphic!” The words were intended to be a demand but came out as a plea.

  “Yes, father, I must tell my full sin. I inserted my penis into his rectum and brutalized him. I threatened him to hell if he told. And then his father, who had been shoveling snow, walked in and caught me in the act.”

  Gus Milliken, no longer Father Milliken, had gone catatonic.

  “The memory torments me. But I know that by confessing my sin, I will again see heaven. And when I see heaven, it will stop.”

  The man in the other room shared one last thing. “My final confession…is that everything I just told you is a lie.”

  Gus tried to process it. The young man had described a scene from long ago so vividly, and yet he said it was a lie? Was this some kind of game? He put his hands on either side of his head and pressed hard. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion.

  “Yes, everything I just told you is a lie.” The penitent repeated. He then leaned in and pressed his face against the mesh; raised his voice to street level and declared: “I didn’t do those things, but I do know who did.”

  Silence saturated the confessional; silence of vindication for a penitent, and the silence of incrimination of a priest.

  The man rose and exited the cubicle. Gus Milliken’s mind screamed at him to burst out of the chamber and confront his accuser. But that wasn’t right. The man had not accused him directly. And exploding out at the confessional would suggest that he was being accused and would seal his fate.

  But he had every detail, and his voice had been so confident. He said he knew! He knew for God’s sake! And if he had the courage to face his tormentor, if even through a black mesh, then he had the courage to talk to others. Police, church council, or any of the two dozen other boys who had been--

  Gus leaned forward in his chair, clenched double handfuls of hair, and rocked his body methodically. He was busted, fingered, accused, guilty. No! No…No…NO! His head screamed. It’s just a coincidence! But it’s true, I’m guilty, I have sinned! A man of God!

  He tortured himself in the confessional for another 10 minutes before flinging the door open and making tracks for the rectory on a dead run of inspiration. He would make this right. By God he would fix everything once and for good.

  7

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Sutz peeked her nose out of confessional number 2. She had waited as long as she could; showing patie
nce for what must be a very important confession taking place in the other room. But now, she could wait no longer. She had to pee.

  The church was empty; the other confessional doors oddly wide open. She scampered her way quickly on tiptoe to the ladies room where she gratefully relieved herself.

  It was very unlike Father Milliken she thought. Perhaps the father and penitent had very important matters to attend to.

  Important matters indeed.

  Chapter 3

  1

  Whitey left the church fueled with adrenaline and with two thoughts in mind: To get totally fucked up stoned, and to forget.

  Not bothering to descend the steps or seek out a darkened corner to fire up his works, he fingered the makeshift joint from his pack, cupped his hands to block the wind, and lit up.

  The first toke hammered him like a rocket sled. ‘Wow! I had forgotten how good it was.’ He marveled. He descended the steps, and turned his face skyward.