The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (22 page)

“What did she say?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“When she dropped me off last night. What did she say? Was she pissed off or anything?”

“I don’t think so. She just looked tired. She said you obviously can’t handle your liquor.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” I say. “Just wondering.”

I’m in the kitchen of Mama’s house, scrubbing a pot so hard I might go straight through its bottom. I’m not ready to go back to the empty rectory.

Mama had her “Get out of Lent Free” party tonight, an affair she hosts right smack in the middle of Lent. She tells everyone they’re completely free to break whatever fast they’ve imposed on themselves. Mama’s not exactly a model Catholic. I invited Vicky and Mark. It was our first outing together in a while—I haven’t done anything with Vicky since the night she dropped me off. I simply can’t bring myself to go. I get panicky just thinking about being in a bar with her. I don’t need to do that to myself. Oh no. Much better to give myself other complexes. Like jealousy. Of Mark of all people. No, I haven’t been going out. But they have. And to hear him tell it, it’s just a blast. And when she does stop by the rectory, she and I are distant, while she and Mark seem to grow closer and closer. It’s a regular Mark and Vicky show.

And tonight, after all the other guests had gone home, Mark decided he was going to Esperanto and Vicky decided she was going with him.

“Fine, yall have fun,” I told them.

“You don’t want to come?” Vicky asked. Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed like she was just going through the motions, just being polite.

“Some of us have to work tomorrow morning,” I said. “Besides, I’m not really allowed in places like that,” I added, looking at Mark.

“What. Ever,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come down off your cross. Jesus needs it back.”

“Watch it,” I said, feeling suddenly sanctimonious. “Remember where you sleep at night.”

“Yes, Father,” he said, mocking me.

“Don’t make me separate you two,” Vicky said, laughing, as if this were all just some sort of joke.

So now they’re on their way to Lafayette and I have my hands in the sink and Mama won’t leave well enough alone.

“I think Mark and Victoria make a cute couple, don’t you?”

I see her sneak a glance at me, gauging the impact of her jab. Can’t hide anything from good old Mom. She’s like one of those people who knows exactly what time it is but insists on asking you to check your watch anyway. The thing is, she’s not so sure I know what time it is, she’s not sure I can see the clock right in front of my face. As far as I’m concerned, we’re in two different time zones entirely. I’m in one of those countries, like Afghanistan, that has an extra eighteen minutes thrown in there somewhere, screwing up all the timetables.

“Vicky deserves a good man, and God knows he could use a woman,” she says.

“I think Mark’s the one who could use a good man, Mama.”

“Now, Steve.”

“Mama,” I say, exasperated, “the man’s as queer as a three-dollar-bill.”

“I’ll tell you something, boy,” Tommy says, coming into the kitchen to pour himself a drink and pour me some unsolicited advice. “I know queer and that boy ain’t it.”

Of course. Tommy, the professional on male sexuality, probably still harbors lingering doubts about me. He wouldn’t know queer if it snuck up behind him and fucked him up the ass.

“Hell,” Tommy goes on. “Them two probably in the backseat of that big old car of hers right now.”

I tighten my grip on the glass I’m washing. Mama looks down at my hands and I follow her gaze. My knuckles are turning white, so I loosen my grip and finish the dishes hurriedly, in silence. Tommy makes three more comments about knowing what gay looks like and how Mark isn’t it before going to bed.

“I’m going to take a bath, then go to bed,” Mama says.

“Good,” I say. “I mean good night.”

She looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

I stare back at her.

“I’m gonna finish this beer,” I say.

“Okay.” She sighs. “Lock the door when you leave.” Before slipping down the hallway she throws one more glance over her shoulder, but neither of us says anything.

Alone in the kitchen, the fluorescent lighting looking not quite right in the old house, the refrigerator ticking, the pipes stirring to life as Mama turns on the hot water in her bathroom, I peel the label off my bottle. It’s almost empty and I want another. Then another. And another. My eyes come to rest on Tommy’s bottle of Seagram’s 7. I reach for it, turn it around on the counter so the label faces me. My fingers twist off the cap while the other hand pries a red plastic cup from the inverted stack on the counter. I fill the cup halfway, look up to make sure no one’s coming, and toss the whiskey back.

I pour another half glass and toss that back, recap the bottle, throw the cup in the garbage, and grab a beer before walking out to the car.

The beer is long gone by the time I get to the rectory, where I find all the lights are off. No surprise there. It’s only nine thirty. Even if Mark and Vicky leave the club at midnight—which isn’t Mark’s style at all—it will be one before they get back to Grand Prairie.

Walking into the kitchen, I stumbled over Chase.

“Goddamned cat,” I say, and instantly regret it, thinking for a brief second that the cat, like the cursed fig tree, will shrivel up and die. Instead, Chase gives a plaintive meow, rubs some hair on my pants, and runs to his empty food bowl, where he meows again.

“Fine,” I say, and pour food for the cat and a drink for myself before plopping down in front of the TV to watch Friday night television, programming designed to appeal to people who have no social lives. I suffer through the late news and work my way through another drink. I find a small prayer escaping my lips, asking that the
M*A*S*H
reruns be funny enough to drive all this melancholy away. But Hawkeye just seems silly, Radar pathetic, and the clock’s hands make their merry way around its face and still no Mark or Vicky.

“And fuck Klinger, too,” I say to the TV.

Chase rambles into the room and hops up onto my lap.

“Off,” I mutter, pushing him down immediately to fetch another drink. Stumbling into the kitchen, I try to remember how many I’ve had, but can’t. All that matters is that I’m drunk. But I’m not so drunk I don’t know what time it is. It’s almost 2:00 a.m. and still no sign of the prodigal priest. Still no sign of the Virgin of Grand Prairie. And I’m definitely not drunk enough to drown out the voice of Tommy saying over and over again, “I know queer and Mark ain’t queer. Hell, they’re probably in the back…” And so on. It’s as if there’s a scratched CD stuck in my head.

Back in my chair, I pick up my cordless phone and study it, no doubt looking like an ape trying to figure out how to get to the inside of a coconut.

I can call them, they both have cell phones. But under what pretense? “Hi, I’m drunk and I’m having issues and I hate you both right now but could you hurry home? Please.” Still, just as I’d watched my fingers work the Seagram’s bottle at Mama’s house, I watch them dial a number, Vicky’s number. As the phone rings, I try momentarily to think of something to say. I’ll keep it light and airy. It’s not like I’m checking up on them. I’m just bored is all. Just bored and want to say a simple “Hey.”

Her voice mail picks up. “Damn,” I whisper, and hang up without leaving a message. Crap. Will that seem weird that I didn’t leave a message? I start to dial again, but stop myself. She’s already got one “missed call” from this number. What’s it going to look like if I call more than once? Stupid caller ID. How do stalkers and prank callers do it these days?

I’ll call Mark. That’s what I’ll do. Better that way. Hell, I can actually check up on Mark, right? He’s living under my roof. Yeah. Sure. Perfect.

Voice mail.

Have they turned off their phones? Maybe they can’t hear them. But it’s after 2:00 a.m. The club is closed now. Besides, Vicky always keeps her phone on vibrate so as not to disturb anyone. “And to get a little tickle,” she sometimes adds.

“To get a little tickle.”

The phrase goes caroming about my head, turning the lights on in all of the little rooms I like to keep locked up and dark.

“Get a little tickle,” her voice says.

“I know queer. He ain’t queer,” Tommy’s voice answers back.

For a moment, I can actually see the pink elephants on parade, or worse, their cousins, the heffalumps and woozles.

Their phones are off. They’ve turned their phones off and are doing God knows what in the backseat of Vicky’s car. Or they’re dead, trapped in a ton of crumpled steel wrapped around a telephone pole. And here I am accusing them of the worst.

Or they’re simply in a no-service area.

Ha. No-service area, my ass. I know damn well what’s going on.

I stumble back into the kitchen.

Meow,
says Chase.

“Shut up, I said,” says me. I throw an ice cube at him, but miss. I refill my glass and go back to the living room, this time taking the bottle with me.

An infomercial has replaced
M*A*S*H,
so I do a quick loop through the basic cable channels. Jews killing Arabs. “Go, Jews!” I say. The pope apologizing for something the Church once did. “Fuck that. Never say you’re sorry,” I advise the pope. Pakistan and some other Stans threatening to invade India. “Gandhi will rock your world,” I warn them.

The Disney Channel is showing a
Herbie the Love Bug
movie. One of the originals.

“Stupid fucking Volkswagen,” I say, but don’t change the channel.

It doesn’t matter. My mind is shutting down now. I can see it. It’s like the lights being turned off in a large auditorium. Way, way down at the far end, the first row goes black.
Thunk!
Then another row.
Thunk!
Then another.
Thunk!
And so on. And up here in the foreground, in the only light still available, are Vicky and Mark pawing each other and grunting away. Otherwise,
thunk! thunk!
It can’t come fast enough.

It seems I’ve just nodded off when the phone springs to life in my hands.

“Where the hell are you two?” I growl into the phone.

Silence on the other end. I hold the phone away and blink at the caller ID.
Out of area.

“Hello?” I say again. “Who is this?”

“Father Sibille?” The man’s voice on the other side is confused, tired.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yes.” I try to call up the sober reserve. This could be a parishioner. This could be serious.

“This is Dr. Prejean.”

Oh no. They’ve been in an accident. A drunken Mark drove them right into a telephone pole. I’ll kill him.

“It’s Miss Simmons. She’d asked me to call.”

“Miss Simmons?” It’s all I can think to say. Who the hell is Miss Simmons? I try to remember the parishioners, but can’t.

“Yes, Father. Miss Rita Simmons.”

Rita Simmons? Rita Simmons? Simmons? Simmons? Rita?

Rita.

“Oh, God.”

“She started to go and they called me and she asked me to call you.”

“Oh, God,” I say again. I mean it as a prayer, I think. “Oh.” I try standing up, but the room swoops in on me, pushes me back into the chair. “I’ll be right there.”

How the hell am I going to drive all the way to Opelousas in this condition?

“Just give me a minute,” I say.

“If you want, Father. But she’s already passed.”

“What?”

“She’s gone, Father. About five minutes ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have someone call you in the morning.”

“Yeah, of course.” My voice is a whisper now. My mouth has never been drier. My stomach is churning, sour.

I press the Talk button to hang up the phone. The beep seems impossibly loud. I press the button again.

But who am I going to call? Who?

I press TALK a few more times, then force myself out of the chair and into the kitchen and return the phone to its base. I notice Chase in his kitty bed and shuffle over, pick him up, and hold him in my arms, slide down against the wall. The cat squirms some, then settles down. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d squirmed free and abandoned me. I pull Chase in closer, bury my nose in his fur, and cry, a little for Miss Rita and her family but mostly for my own sorry self.

When the sun comes up, I force myself out of bed. I vaguely remember Mark coming in, finding me on the floor. I can’t remember if I told him anything.

I call the diocese to find a substitute for Saturday afternoon and possibly Sunday.

“Well, did you try finding a substitute yourself?” the secretary asks me.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you try to find—”

I cut her off. “I heard you. No, I didn’t try to find one.”

“Well, Father, it would probably—”

“Listen, you take care of it. It’s your job and I don’t have time.”

“But, Father—”

“Look, do whatever you want. I’ve got funeral arrangements to make. So if my parishioners show up today and tomorrow and there’s no priest, well, so be it.” This is insanity, talking to a church secretary like this. She can make life difficult for me later on down the road, but I can’t help it.

“Father, I don’t think that tone of voice is necessary.”

I can tell she’s already planning to obstruct every phone call I ever make to the diocese again, will screw up my requests for appointments with the bishop, will make sure I get the worst seats at big dinners, exclude my name from parties. Every church lady has a shit list and I’d just worked my way to this one’s top ten.

“Hey, one of us gets fired, so be it. But we both know the Church is far too short on priests and there’s enough power-hungry little snits just like you to fill up seven circles of hell,” I say.

“Father!”

I hang up the phone. Then call back.

“You know what?”

“Listen, Father.”

“No, listen. Forget it. I was wrong. I’ll take care of it. No sweat.”

“Father, are you—”

I hang up again and walk into Mark’s room. “Mark, wake up for a second.”

“Huh,” he says from under the blanket.

“Look, you’re gonna have to do something for me.”

“What?” He blinks. “Oh my God, Steve. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“About you and Vicky?”

“Me and Vicky? What are you talking about? No, something else. Last night—”

“Just save it.” It’s not about him and Vicky and I don’t have the time or energy for any of his cute-boy bullshit. “I gotta go see about Miss Rita and her family and I need someone to say Mass this afternoon and tomorrow. They’re giving me a headache down at diocese, so you gotta find someone for me. I know it’s a pain but—”