by Edward Lee
“But why?” she nearly whined in confusion.
The priest leaned back in the booth, one arm up, his beer in his other hand. The cigarette jiggled in his mouth as he answered: “I’m celibate because it’s a sign of the Kingdom where no one will be given or taken in marriage and our love will be universal as God is universal. I’m celibate because it makes me more available to the people of God, who themselves constitute the Church, which is the Body of Christ.” He shrugged lackadaisically, dragged his cigarette, spewed smoke. “I’m celibate in the imitation of Jesus, who elected to be bound to no one in particular, so that he might be embraced by all, in an eternal covenant of living sacrifice.”
Jerrica stared.
“See?” he said. “It’s that simple.” Then he laughed. “Shit. It ain’t for everyone, and it ain’t supposed to be. It’s another mystery of faith.”
The words seemed to disperse, like glitter in the air.
“But you’re so much in opposite,” she said next. “I mean, you’re a priest, but you smoke, you drink, you even cuss.”
“Smoking and drinking, hell, we’re allowed to. It’s about the only thing the Pope hasn’t jacked out from under our feet. And as far as cussing goes—well, communication is communication. If I say ’Holy Father, I beg thee to forgive my transgressions and my offenses against thee,’ that means the same thing as saying, ’Holy shit, God, I fucked up and I’m really sorry, so how about giving me a break?’ Same thing. God doesn’t care what words you use. Shit. He only cares what you mean.”
Fascinating. He was a uniqueness.
“But the Church does,” the priest rattled on. “And that’s where I have some big problems. That’s why I ain’t got my own joint.”
“Your own…joint?”
“My own parish. ’Joint’ is priest-jabber for ’parish.’ I cuss too much. I speak my mind too readily. And I don’t kiss ass. It’s employment harassment, you ask me. But I don’t give a shit. It’s God’s will, and that’s good enough for me. If God would rather have me psycho-therapizing clerical nutcases and reopening abbeys in the boondocks, then that’s what I’m gonna do. He must have a reason, and I ain’t gonna get in a pissing contest with God. I’ll do what He fucking tells me and I’ll like it.”
This continued conviction, however colloquial, did not cease to invigorate her. It only made him more fantastic, more out of the mold. I’ve never met anyone so interesting in my life…
“But enough of this religious talk,” he urged. “Tell me more about you.”
The inquest shocked her. “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “There’s really not that much to say.”
“Well, maybe there isn’t—not know. But there will come a time when you’ll have a lot to say. One day you’ll see your own call to God.”
She didn’t even believe in God, but she couldn’t tell him that, could she? Then again, though, she sensed very strongly that he already knew this, that he could tell.
So what did he mean?
Her own notice of herself changed the topic, which was probably a good time to do so. She ran her hand down her forearm and saw it come away faintly smudged. “I can’t believe how dirty I got at the abbey.”
“I told you it was a grubby place. Hot, dank, dusty. But no one’s fled the bar yet, so I guess that means we don’t stink too bad.”
Jerrica couldn’t help but laugh at his remarks, her fingers unconsciously rubbing her own bodily grit. “It was so hot in there.” And then her visions swept away; suddenly she drifted in the midst of her fantasies again. The afternoon heat of the abbey, the sweat drenching out of them, and the priest’s own sweat glistening on his naked chest like veneer as he swung the sledgehammer time and time again. Yes, the humid heat smothered her as she watched; it sucked on her skin, and the rising dust stuck to her like glue. Suddenly she was in the shower—with the priest. The cool torrent pouring down on them, revitalizing them. He stood behind her, his hands on her breasts, rubbing the soap to a thick lather. Then the bar lowered to her pubis, circled her hair, and brazenly slid across her vaginal lips back through the cleft of her buttocks. The sensation brought her to her tiptoes as his strong, callused hand worked the lather more thickly. An inquisitive finger probed the slit of her sex, then delved further, and sunk into her anus. Her nipples, suddenly, felt like nails sticking out of her skin; the brink of her orgasm threatened. So she turned, to stave it off, not ready to come yet. She likewise lathered him up with suds, letting the soap and the cascade of cool water wash away the day’s work of grime. She knelt before him, sudsing his pubic hair and penis. The penis came alive, a separate entity, when she sucked the glans into her mouth; at once it hardened to a good seven inches, nudged her tonsils. She sucked it very precisely and very hard, at the same time allowing one hand to slide around his buttocks, sink a finger deep into his ass to massage his prostate. He shuddered and came almost instantaneously, launching one string of hot-salt semen into mouth after the next. And in the suffix of the act, she sucked him down gently, milking out the last drop, swallowing the warm lump in her throat, and sighing. But she nearly shrieked at what he did next—he grabbed her hair, knelt himself, and hauled her roughly to the shower floor. Her neck jammed against the wall, and he was awkwardly pushing her knees into her face, extruding her vagina. At once the priest’s mouth was on her, eating her like a rich meal, his index finger on her g-spot, his pinky up her ass, and then she came like some sort of underground demolition, her fluids releasing as he sucked them all out, sucked her orgasm out of her like fresh juice from a crushed fruit…
She reeled in the fantasy. Stop it! she yelled at herself. You’re with a priest! She struggled to put back the pieces of her thoughts, remembered what she’d been talking about. “When you guys finally fix the abbey up, I hope you get air-conditioning.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will. The Church will dump decent scratch into the place. They want to turn it into a state-of-the-art rehab center.”
Her struggles began to ease, more pieces refitting. “It’s still interesting, though. You know. The bricked up office, and all those personal effects still in the nuns’ dorm rooms. And what about that strange wall downstairs where there shouldn’t even be a downstairs? Someone tried to break through that wall. I wonder why.”
“We’ll find out soon,” Alexander promised her. And just the simple fact that he’d used the pronoun “we’ll” delighted her. It meant that he was including her.
“My tired old ass couldn’t bust through it, fine. Then I’ll rent a goddamn jackhammer, bust through it with that. Ten to one, though, we’ll be disappointed. Probably just an empty room back there. ’Unexcavated,’ just like the prints said—” The priest paused then, as if startled. All at once he seemed to be squinting at the wood-plank side of the booth. “Hey, what’s this?”
Jerrica leaned over the table, knowing that she shouldn’t—for the drastic incline of her upper body only highlighted her cleavage. Some devilish part of her wanted more notice out of his celibate self, wanted him to see her attributes. Does he fantasize? she wondered. Are priests allowed to do that? Does he wish he could go to bed with me if he weren’t celibate? She leaned further, her hardened nipples poking through the sweat-damp white haltertop. But—
The cruel inducement collapsed.
What was he looking at?
She saw scratches faintly carved into the side of the wooden booth. “What’s it say?” she asked.
“‘The Bighead Was Here,’“ he recited. “What the hell is that?”
“Oh!” Jerrica celebrated. Finally there was something she could tell him. “The Bighead,” she said. “It’s, like, a local myth. Charity was telling me about it last night, and so was some old guy at the bar. It’s some child-monster that supposedly roams the woods, looking for people to eat.”
Alexander refilled his beer mug. “What? And this myth is supposed to be true?”
“Well, no of course it can’t be true. But it’s part of the culture out here. All cultures
have their legends.”
The priest rubbed his chin, his eyes thinned. “Well, there’s something about legends that always seem to have some root in fact. Vampirism and porphyria, for example. Lycanthropy and lupine hebephrenic syndrome. Schizophrenics who believe they’re possessed by demons, aliens, what have you. My point is, however far-fetched, there are quite a few ’myths’ that actually harbor more truth than fabrication.”
It was an interesting point, but Jerrica couldn’t help but laugh nonetheless. “I don’t think we have to worry about a hill-bred monster-child trying to eat us.”
“Hope you’re right,” Alexander said. “I’m sure I’d leave a bad taste in his mouth, dirty as I am right now.”
Jerrica laughed again, tipsily now. Er, perhaps, a bit more than that. She’d only had a few beers thus far, but now she realized how thoroughly they’d snuck up on her. And it was no wonder. She hadn’t eaten all day, she’d been out in the sun, working in the abbey’s furnace-like heat. Of course alcohol would impact her more than usual. Suddenly her better judgment, if she even had any to begin with, slipped away. Her boldness surged as it frequently did. Her old self never failed her. She always knew when she was about to say something she’d regret, immediately before she said it.
“Father,” she said. Aw, Christ, the beer was whacking her now, dizzying her. She quickly jerked her head. “Can I—uh, would you mind if I asked a personal question.”
“Hey, personal questions are the best kind,” the priest said, and with that, Jerrica staid another laugh; she’d told Charity the same exact thing just yesterday, during their conversation about Goop.
“I mean, you don’t have to answer, I mean, you know, if it puts you on the spot or anything, but—” She blinked hard, to clear her head. What on earth is wrong with you, Jerrica! she hollered at herself. You can’t ask a priest something like that!
Of course she couldn’t. But she asked anyway.
“If you weren’t, you know, a priest, would you, you know… Would you be attracted to me?”
After the words left her mouth, the regret fell on her head like a cave-in.
But Father Alexander shot a sly smile. “Hey, if I weren’t a priest, I’d be all over you like black on a bible,” he said.
What an answer! Jerrica blushed, and that wasn’t easy.
He laughed outright at her expression, poured them two more beers. “But I don’t want you to think I’m teasing you, so I’ll give you the whole gist.” Shit. He was getting serious now. “You’re a beautiful woman, Jerrica, and the grace of God allows me to perceive and admire and acknowledge the beauty of women, and of all people. But that’s where the buck stops, just to set the record straight. I got holy vows that I’ve made to God, and I ain’t gonna break ’em for no one.”
“Oh, but I didn’t mean th—”
“I know you didn’t, I’m just saying. I can’t look at a woman in lust, I can’t look at a woman in sexual desire. I’m not allowed to, so I don’t. I admire your beauty because God gave it to you, and anything God gives is beautiful.”
She tried not to show her disappointment with this vocal appendix, and she knew it was ridiculous to be disappointed at any rate. He was a priest, for God’s sake! What was she thinking?
Thankfully, he broke the ice of the silence, laughing, “And besides, you should’ve seen the stuff I was doing when I was a teenager. I made Ted Kennedy look like Mr. Rogers.”
She laughed it off. Of course she did. She couldn’t possibly have been thinking—
“Hey there, blondie,” a sudden voice intruded. “I’se say, you’re about the purdiest thing I ever did see. You’s make my whistle blow, shee-it!”
Both Jerrica and the priest looked up at the same time. Some tall lean redneck, with long stringy hair, a tractor hat, and a sparse goatee had stepped right up to the front of their booth. Beer reeked in the wake of his voice, and some fat kid stood right behind him.
Alexander didn’t falter. “Hey, man, bug off. Can’t you see the lady and I are having a private conversation? Private means you ain’t invited.”
“Hail, holy man, who’re you, huh?” The guy leaned back, hands on hips, and laughed. “I’se ain’t talkin’ to you, I’se talkin’ ta her.”
“Yeah?” Alexander mocked, “Well’s lemme tell ya somethin’, Einstein, I’se talkin’ ta you, an’ I’se tellin’ ya ta beat feet an’ mind yer own business.”
The bearded kid grinned. The grin was menacing, His pecs flexed beneath a black t-shirt that read showed a Care Bear proffering a middle finger. “I’ll’se do you a big favor, priest, an’ pretends I’se didn’t hear that. I’se talkin’ ta the lady, see, and a lady this hot is my business.”
“Fuck off,” Jerrica said, her face crimped with distaste.
The kid and his fat sidekick laughed. “Don’t’cha know no respect? Cain’t be sayin’ words like that’n front of a priest.”
“Fuck off,” Alexander said.
“My, ain’t you somethin’! What’cha gonna do, Father? Shoo me off with that collar’a yours.”
“I’ll kick your ass up and down the street,” Alexander said very coolly, “if you don’t grow up, get a life, and leave us alone.”
Silence descended on the bar as though the roof had fallen in. Still faces peered. Alexander recognized the situation: a redneck stalemate. But something was going to happen, and it was the bearded kid who’d have to make the first move.
The kid rubbed the crotch of his jeans, smiling sharp as ever. “What’s a purdy thing like you doin’ in a bar with a holy man anyway, sweetcakes? He fuckin’ you? You suckin’ his cock? Hail, I’se thought priests weren’t supposed ta do stuff like that, ’cept ta each other, ain’t that right, Dicky?”
“Uh, that’s right Balls,” the fat kid said, hefting his gut. “An’ would ya git’a load’a the titties on ’er? Shee-it! I thinks I just gotta have me a squeeze on ’em, an’ I’se think this old man priest here ain’t got the nuts to do nothin’ ’bout it.”
Alexander stubbed out his butt. “If you touch her, I’ll smack you in the head so hard you’ll see stars.”
“Yeah?” Another guffaw. “We’ll’se see ’bout that.” The grin held, dark eyes slitted over it. Then—
“You better not,” Alexander calmly warned.
Then this bearded, long-haired kid reached down very quickly and grabbed Jerrica’s left breast. She winced, squealed, and—
SMACK!
—Alexander punched the kid in the side of the head so hard he saw stars. The kid reeled back, arms reeling, landed on a table and broke it. Then he slid to the floor.
Alexander stood up, fists clenched but with a look of total peace on his face. “How about you, fat boy,” he inquired of the other. “You want some too?”
The fat kid stammered, took a hesitant step forward. “I’se—I’se’ll bust yer head, priest! I’se—”
Alexander nearly smiled. His left hand darted, grabbed the kid’s lovehandle and pinched down like a claw. The kid wailed. Then Alexander’s right fist collided solidly with the kid’s jaw.
SMACK!
A strange sound, like a bat striking a cement floor. Pain contorted the fat kid’s dumpling face as he, too, reeled backward and fell.
“You boys get out of here before you start to bother me,” Alexander said, then kicked the first guy in the butt as he was crawling up. “You don’t want to be late for bedcheck at the reform school, do you?”
Both of them stumbled away, grumbling and wobbling for the door. Patrons laughed and applauded.
“That was…wonderful!” Jerrica celebrated.
“Not for my hand it wasn’t,” Alexander replied, shaking it. “Like punching a couple of big rocks. Those boys must have concrete where their brains should be.” Then he looked dismally at the broken table, groaned, and whipped out his diocesan checkbook. “Sorry about the damage,” he apologized to the crusty keep at the bar. “The Catholic Church will be more than happy to reimburse—”
�
�Forget it, Father.” The keep was chuckling. “Believe me, it’s worth the price’a fixin’ a table to finally see someone kick tail on those two punks. Gracie! Git the father and his friend here another pitcher—on the house.”
“Hey, thanks,” Alexander delighted. He sat back down with Jerrica. “That’s damn nice of him, slipping us a free pitcher.”
But Jerrica remained astonished by his previous feat. “You really are a trip. I can’t believe it, I just got to watch a Catholic priest beat up two rednecks.”
Alexander lit up again, shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta break bad on these kids—it’s the only way they’ll learn. But I’ll tell you, when I was their age, the bad guys were a hell of a lot badder than that.”
Outside, a heavy motor could be heard rumbling. Then tires squealed out of the lot.
Alexander chuckle under his breath. “Naw, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about those fellas anymore.”
— | — | —
ELEVEN
(II)
The Bighead were gittin’ horny again, an’ hungry. It’d been a long day hikin’ through the woods an’ over the hills’n dales, an’ bys now, the Lower Woods where Grandpap raised him seemed farthers away ta him than the moon.
Yeah, the Lower Woods, they was behind him now. They weren’t his home no more.
The Outside World—that were his home now…
The sun were dippin’, takin’ its fine bright light from the sky. Darkness were comin’, it were. And as The Bighead clopped along, through bushes’n vines’n the thicket, he was rememberin’ his Grandpap an’ alls the things the old man taughts him. Fer years, old Grandpap had hisself a truck, an’ he’d drive out fer a spell ever now’n then, ands come back with some rube gal he’d picked up hitcher-hikin’ er somethin’, an’ that’s how Bighead learnt ’bout the birds’n bees an’ ’bout how ta bust a gal’s poon an have a nut. A’corse, it never worked out quite like the way Bighead thought it’d. “Tarnations, boy!” Grandpap’d wailed once, after watchin’ The Bighead bust a chick. “God shore did hang a pecker on you, He did! Big as Grandma Meyer’s rollin’ pin it is! Problee ain’t never gonna git ta come proper hangin’ a pecker that big! S’post ta fuck ’em an’ come in ’em, Bighead, ands give ’em a baby! Ain’t s’post ta kill ’em!” The Bighead were confused by this; he wanted ta do what were right, but it didn’t look like he were doin’ it, no sir. His dick so big it were killin’ gals, that weren’t the way it was s’post ta be, not accordin’ ta Grandpap. But what could he do!