by Selena Kitt
The crowd quieted, but just for a moment. Then someone near the back, a voice even louder than Father Michael’s, cried out, “I’ll cast a stone all right. I’ll do better than that!”
And that’s when they started being pelted with garbage. Leftover candy boxes, popcorn tubs, cigarette cartons, half eaten apples, orange peels, soda containers still full with Coke. Marty got hit with a half-full soda can, and Leah felt the cold, sticky liquid splash her own legs. They were nearing the entrance of the bus, all of them hurrying, trying to ignore the crowd and push on, when Marty got hit in the face with half an apple.
“Ow!” Marty covered her eyes with her hand as she struggled to climb the steps of the bus. Leah helped her, grabbing an elbow, steering her to one of the front seats.
“Let me see.” Leah peeled Marty’s hand away from her face, inspecting her friend’s eye. There was no broken skin, but she had a raised, red welt. She’d probably have a bruised, black eye in the morning.
“Those stupid creeps.”
“Watch your language, Marty.” Father Michael frowned as he hopped on the bus, the driver closing the doors quickly against the people who were crowding the entrance. “Those stupid creeps know not what they do.”
“It’s their own fault, Father.” The driver had the bus in gear and he was pulling away from the curb. More people had lined up to yell obscenities, banging their fists on the side of the bus. Leah looked down at their angry faces, a whole mob full of hate. “If they hadn’t gotten themselves in trouble in the first place...”
“Right.” Marty rubbed the spot over her eye, wincing, and glared at the bus driver. “I forgot, these are all children of God. All immaculate conceptions. No penises were involved.”
“Marty!” Leah shushed her. She glanced up at Father Michael , who was counting heads silently, and knew he had heard. But he didn’t reprimand them. Instead, he picked up his guitar as the bus made its way through town, and began to play, urging them all to sing along.
“Are you okay?” Leah squeezed Marty’s hand.
“My pride hurts more than anything else.” Marty snorted a little laugh, returning Leah’s gentle squeeze. “How about you? Did you get it?”
“No. Not with anything physical.”
The truth, and they both knew it, was the words hurt far more than the garbage thrown. Leah felt those words in her bones—slut, tramp, whore—and they hurt more than bruises or broken skin. What crime had she committed except that of love? She knew God could forgive her. She knew He would. It wasn’t God she worried about.
It was everybody else.
Chapter Six
Erica didn’t know why she said yes to Chester “Buddy” Crenshaw. Maybe it was because she was lonely, spending all her time at home, listening to records. Maybe it was because Buddy asked right in front of Father Michael. Buddy had the audacity to do so not only in front of a priest, but right there in church, after mass.
“Aren’t you dating Yvonne Livingston?” Erica inquired, eyebrows raised, after Buddy asked her to go to the drive-in that Friday. “And isn’t it a little cold for the drive-in?”
Buddy explained his relationship with Yvonne was “long gone,” and it was the last weekend the drive-in would be open before spring. She was going to refuse him but then Father Michael had cinched it, saying something about the “passion pit” being more like a “pit of vipers.”
“I’ll go with you, Buddy.” Erica took Buddy’s hand—they were big hands, he played football, defense—and led him out of the sanctuary and down the long front steps. When she glanced up, she saw Father Michael watching them, scowling.
Good.
That was how she ended up walking home from the drive-in on Friday night.
Buddy Crenshaw drove a 1955 Chrysler Imperial—his father’s—very roomy, front and back. When he picked her up in it, Erica noted the couple he told her they would be double dating with was not in the backseat.
“What’s-her-name got sick. So it’s just me and you, doll.” Buddy slipped an arm over Erica’s shoulder, pulling her close, closer, to the middle of the bench seat. It was a double feature—VooDoo Woman and The Incredible Shrinking Man. It was already dusk when Buddy paid his dollar and pulled up next to a speaker.
“Want some popcorn?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Erica used the time to check her hair and makeup in the rearview mirror, wondering just how in the hell she had managed to wind up here, in Buddy Crenshaw’s Imperial. She remembered the look on Father Michael’s face. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, that was imminently satisfying.
Erica had actually never dated around much, so this was a new experience. She and Bobby had been an item for ages before she broke it off with him. Leah had asked her once if she was really in love with Bobby, and while she had reflexively said “yes,” she knew it wasn’t true. Bobby was safe, familiar, but she didn’t love him, not really. She still regretted giving her virginity to a man she didn’t truly love, which was a fact only her priest knew.
Buddy returned with popcorn and sodas, handing Erica a Coke. She sipped it while they watched the previews, and Buddy ate half the tub of popcorn before remembering her, tilting it in Erica’s direction and asking, “Want some?”
Erica shook her head, chewing on the straw. She was thinking about all those nights she’d spent in Bobby’s T-Bird, steaming up the windows. Sometimes it was her and Bobby in the front seat, and Yvonne and Buddy in the backseat. The windows had been impossibly foggy on those nights.
“Come here,” Buddy said, trying to slide her closer with an arm around her neck. Erica relented with a sigh, feeling his leg against hers, his hand massaging her shoulder and arm. “See, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“I was just thinking...” She mused.
“What were you thinking?”
“About all those times we came to the drive-in, you were in the backseat, I was in the front.”
He grinned. “Now we’re both in front.”
“I noticed.”
“You wanna know something?”
Erica looked at him in the dimness, the cleft in his chin, the flattop haircut. Buddy worked at the Amoco service station near her house. He wasn’t rich, not like Bobby’s family, or her own. But he and Bobby had been friends a long time. Since middle school. About as long as she and Bobby had been “together.”
“I always wanted to date you,” he confessed.
“You did?” Erica raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What stopped you?”
“Bobby.” Buddy shrugged. “But you’re free now...”
“Free as a bird. Tweet tweet.” Erica giggled.
“You’re so pretty, Erica.” He breathed the words, the sweet smell of Coke mixed with popcorn on his breath, and then he kissed her, buttery lips melting into hers, and she let him. She let him touch her, the popcorn spilling all over the floor at their feet, and then their feet weren’t on the floor anymore.
Buddy pressed her down with the weight of his body, kissing her, hot and hard, and she felt him like steel against her crotch. She was wearing a skirt, of course, two petticoats, stockings, garters, a powder blue blouse and a white cardigan sweater, all of which he fumbled with in the dark, seeking skin, seeking heat. She felt his lust rising. She felt her own, and it scared her. She’d never been with another boy except Bobby in her whole life and she wasn’t sure what to expect.
He didn’t kiss like Bobby—he didn’t do anything like Bobby. Buddy Crenshaw slobbered on her neck, licking and sucking and leaving marks. She tried to push him away, but he was too heavy, too much. The boy had more hands than a ranch, and he managed to find what he was looking for, opening her blouse, pulling down her bra, sucking greedily at her breasts.
“No,” Erica moaned, the sensation overwhelming. It had been far too long since anyone had touched her. His hand found its way under her skirt, easy access, and he rubbed at the wet crotch of her panties.
“Pl
ease...” Erica begged him. “Stop. Please stop.”
Buddy ignored her plea, lifting her skirt and yanking at her panties, fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. He had one thing on his mind, and he was determined to see it through. Erica understood that all at once, realizing it with dawning horror. She grabbed hold of the elastic edge of her panties, pulling them up, but they were far too thin a barrier to keep him out.
“I said no!” Erica howled the words, thrashing, trying to get her knees under him, to gain some leverage, because her upper body strength paled in comparison. She couldn’t push him off.
“Oh you know you want it.” Buddy panted in her ear, chuckling at her resistance. It was a game to him. She was playing his game. “Bobby told me what a little hellcat you are. You’re a hot little thing, always wanting it. Well now you’re gonna get it.”
“Nooooooo,” Erica wailed, but he was inside her by then, pumping away, grunting and panting on top of her. Erica stopped fighting, letting her knees open, her arms go limp. Her head turned away, tears silently slipping down her face.
And then it was over. He groaned and grunted one last time, shoving himself in hard, taking long shuddering breaths, and then it was over. He was back in the driver seat, tucking and straightening. Erica didn’t move, still stretched out on the seat, splayed opened, knees apart.
“Get up.” Buddy took a cigarette out of his front pocket and lit it. “Fix your face. Your mascara’s running.”
Erica found her voice and screamed. Buddy just stared at her, open mouthed. Then, she bolted. She grabbed her pocketbook, shoved open the passenger side door, and ran. She quickly pulled herself together once she reached the end of the row of cars, blouse tucked back into her skirt. It wasn’t easy to run on gravel in heels, and she stopped, hopping on one foot, to slip them off, carrying them with her. She ran past the playground, where all the kids were swinging or sliding or teeter tottering in front of the gigantic movie screen, she ran out the front entrance, where straggling cars were still rolling in, she ran and ran and ran.
What finally slowed her was the horrible stitch in her side. She clutched at it, gasping for breath, doubled over with the pain. She looked around, not quite sure where she was. The drive-in was on the outskirts of town, so she was heading in the right direction for home. But she was a long, long way off. She would have to find a pay phone and call her father to pick her up. She didn’t relish the thought.
It was full dark now, no stars, streetlights buzzing overhead. Erica began to walk. She should’ve known what Buddy was after from the beginning. Last year, when she and Bobby had briefly broken up, he had started spreading rumors about her being “fast” and sleeping around. It wasn’t true. She’d never been with anyone except Bobby, and she’d made him wait through high school into her first year at Mary Magdalene before she gave in. But clearly her reputation preceded her if Buddy Crenshaw thought he could take whatever he wanted. She was damaged, spoiled goods. That’s just how she felt.
She didn’t hear the car pull up beside her, she was too lost in thought, but when it stopped and the driver rolled down the window, she was suddenly afraid.
“Erica?”
She bent down to peer in to the vehicle, her whole body sighing in relief. “Father Michael ?”
“What are you doing out here so late?” He frowned, looking at the shoes in her hand. “Did your car break down?”
“Not exactly.” She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to tell anyone. “Can you give me a ride home?”
“Hop in.”
Erica opened the passenger side door and slid into the car, closing it behind her. Father Michael glanced in his rearview mirror, and then merged back into traffic on Gratiot. Friday night was busy on Gratiot and Woodward, two prime cruising streets, cars full of kids with windows cranked open and saddle shoes sticking out, beer cans and bottles clinking around on the floor. I should be IN one of those cars, Erica thought. Leah and I should be out having fun. Instead, she had just been raped and her best friend was God only knew where. This wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out.
“Are you okay?” Father Michael inquired, glancing over at her.
“I’m fine.” Erica looked out the window at the passing cars. They drove in silence until she turned to him and asked, “What are you doing out so late?”
“I was giving last rites. A young woman from our congregation. Ovarian cancer. She’s leaving behind two small children. At least she was able to die at home.”
“Whoa. What a job.”
Father Michael smiled. “I don’t think of it as a job. It’s who I am. What I do, I do it out of love. For God and for people.”
She sighed. “Well you just reminded me it can always get worse.”
“It surely can.”
She changed the subject. “I heard a rumor Leah is attending the American School of ballet in New York.”
He nodded. “I heard the same rumor.”
“My father says she’s not there.”
“How does he know?”
“He went to New York to look for her.”
He looked mildly shocked. “He did?”
“Father Michael, is Leah in some kind of trouble?”
“Erica...”
She sighed again. “I know, you can’t tell me.”
“Would you like to stop at Mayflower for some coffee?” he asked.
“Um...” She hesitated, unsure. What she wanted to do most was get home and cry in the shower. A long, hot, scouring, cleansing shower.
“I thought you might want to talk,” he offered.
“Sure.” She didn’t know why she said yes, except the look on his face, the genuine concern, the interest there in his eyes. Maybe she imagined it, but it felt good just the same.
The Mayflower coffee shop was still open and they went inside and got a table. Father Michael ordered two coffees, his black, hers with lots of cream and sugar. They sat together at a booth, sipping and looking at each other. Father Michael was wearing a suit, dark black, and his clerical collar. It was a stark contrast to Erica’s date night ensemble.
We must look strange, Erica thought, glancing around. There were a few other couples sitting at the booths, feeding the pay radio and drinking coffee or hot chocolate or cherry Cokes. Everyone else was clearly on a date, but she and Father Michael were not. She felt as if she had brought confession, something done best in the dark, out into the light. She felt vulnerable.
And of course, there was Leah. He knew where she was, but he wasn’t going to tell her. She couldn’t stand the thought he knew something she didn’t. If only there was a way for her to make him tell.
“So what do you want to talk about?” Erica dumped another spoonful of sugar into her coffee, making sweet sludge at the bottom.
“Whatever you like.” Father Michael sipped his coffee, looking over the rim at her.
“Did you know all the girls call you Father Far-out?” Erica didn’t even know where that came from, she just blurted it out.
“Do they?” Father Michael’s ears turned a little red.
“They all think you’re super dreamy. Way cuter than Elvis even.” Erica smiled at the way his eyebrows shot up at that. “Why did you become a priest?”
Father Michael put his coffee cup on the saucer, leaning back in the booth. “I was an orphan. I was raised by nuns. No one wanted to adopt me. Adoptive parents want whole, healthy babies.”
“Your limp?” Erica glanced at the cane propped against the wall. “The girls all think it’s romantic. A war wound or something.”
“No, nothing so glamorous.” Father Michael smiled and shook his head. “I had polio. They didn’t think I was going to live. But I did. The nuns took me and raised me, and ultimately gave me over to the rectory.”
“So you felt obligated to become a priest?”
“Not exactly obligated. I was raised surrounded by God and God’s love. It wasn’t difficult to hear my call.” Father Michael inclined his head, catching
her eye. “So are you going to tell me why you were walking home?”
Erica felt the heat in her cheeks. “I’d be ashamed to tell you.”
“Why? Nothing you can tell me would make me love you any less.” Father Michael saw the look she gave him, replaying what he had said in his head. She could see it on his face, in his eyes. That had slipped out, but he meant it. She couldn’t breathe. The way he looked at her… How could she have missed it? Was she mistaken?
Father Michael cleared his throat. “Nothing you could say would make God love you any less, that’s what I meant.”