The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (25 page)

“Your cat, huh? I feed him. I pay for most of his food.”

Mark stops in his tracks. “Don’t even try that. He’s my cat, damn it.”

He’s got a point there. Fine. He’s taking the cat. Fine with me. I don’t care. I don’t need either of them.

“Just leave,” I say. “Please, just get out of my face.”

“Fuck you,” Mark whispers. “Just you fucking go to hell.”

He walks out to his car, cranks it up, guns the engine, and leaves a spray of gravel behind him.

I walk over to the phone and hit the Redial button. Vicky picks up.

“What the hell’s going on over there?” she begins.

I press the Talk button, shut her voice off.

Whatever my problems, the show must go on. Church business must be attended to. So I sit snoozing in the confessional, Miss Emilia on the other side, murmuring like a setting hen warm in her nest. She’s fretting over her treatment of her husband, how she pinches his nose at night to stop him from snoring, how she used to lace his food with saltpeter to stop him from groping her at night, but now she’s thinking of getting some of that Viagra stuff because he just doesn’t seem interested at all anymore.

“I have needs, too, Father. A woman does.”

I wonder which soap opera she lifted that line from. It would be funny—if this hadn’t been the seven thousandth time I’ve heard Miss Emilia say it. That contented, almost purring sound she is making tells me that this talking obliquely about sex to a priest in a closet-sized room is one of her life’s little pleasures.

That purr also lulls me to sleep.

“Father?”

Her voice wakes me. But by now, I’m a pro at these things. “Yes?”

“I think that’s about it.”

“Of course. Of course. Anything else?”

“No, Father.” But before I can send her off, she starts again. “Well, I don’t know if this is the time or place.”

“What is it, Miss Emilia?”

“What are we going to do about that tent revival?”

I want to slap her for bringing it up. I was zoning out in here—drifting away from anything having to do with rabbits and Pentecostals. Now my chest is tightening up, my heart racing.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

“But it’s less than two weeks away.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I answer, unable to take the edge off my voice.

How could I forget? Signed contracts from vendors are showing up in my mailbox. Phone calls from other vendors that didn’t make the cut are pouring in, too. They want to know if there’ve been any cancelations. They want to know if I can save them. Denise drops by repeatedly for more petty cash to pay for more posters to paper more telephones poles and any other blank surface she can find. And Blackfoot’s calling me every single day. “You might think it’s overkill, Father, but I can’t fuckin’ emphasize e-fuckin’-nough that you’ve got to stay on top of this,” he says.

“So what are we going to do about the Pentecostals?” she asks again. The only silver lining here is that B.P.’s got my Rabbit Festival parishioners so worried, none of them will be turning into Pentecostals any time soon.

“Let me worry about it,” I say before dispatching her. I sentence her to a paltry ten Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition, knowing it will stick in her craw that her offenses were deemed so trivial in the eyes of the Lord. I know as well that it doesn’t matter what sort of penance I give her, that she will march out to those pews and have a kneel-off with Miss Celestine, each woman praying loud enough under her breath so that the other is sure to hear. I could tell Miss Emilia to run out, buy some Ecstasy, wire her husband up, and suck him off until her dentures fall out and his cock breaks. And she would do it. But only after stopping in the pew and praying the Rosary until Miss Celestine left.

Miss Emilia walks out and no one else comes in. Helen Dau-terive, one of the regulars and usually the last in line, is at home sick. I can enjoy a few minutes of peace if I can just clear my head of bunnies and B.P. I remember my sophomore year in college. I pulled eighteen credits, worked two jobs, and was a 2:00 a.m. DJ for the campus radio station. During breaks from my shift at the college bookstore, I’d go to a seldom-used men’s room and take a catnap in one of the stalls. That second semester was the time things had first gone wrong with my head, when I couldn’t sleep at night at all unless I drank myself stupid fast enough to get through the rage and jealousy chewing my insides, getting myself to pass out before I started seeing vivid images of Stephanie and her new boyfriend going at it while JuJu the dog watched.

And now? Now I’m fighting the battle all over again. I’ve secured myself in the safest profession I know and locked myself up in a tower guarded by rules and vestments and sacraments, but here I am all over again. Worse, infinitely worse, this time around I have to pretend, even to myself, that it’s not happening.

Mark and Vicky come to Mass together every Sunday. I deliver my homilies, staring off into some neutral space so that I don’t have to see the two of them sitting there.

After this past Sunday’s Mass, the parishioners herded us into a tight circle to pester us about festival details. We smiled as politely as possible at one another, answered the questions, cracked jokes. I don’t know about Vicky and Mark, but it made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stand to look at them. And then Denise started in on the tent revival. “They’ve covered up some of our posters,” she said. I was just about to give her a “There, there, child” when everyone else joined in. “I seen posters all the way on the other side of Opelousas,” somebody said.

“We have some out there,” I answered.

“I ain’t seen any,” someone else responded.

“Well, they’re there,” I said.

“My son works for the sheriff’s department,” proclaimed another voice in the crowd. “He said Brother Paul’s asking him for a police escort. Said they’re going to have a hundred-car caravan coming in on Friday evening. Right when our festival’s supposed to start.”

The crowd fell silent.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Vicky, shooting me a smirk. “I’m sure Father Sibille has it under control.” I went to one festival meeting after the fight with Mark and informed the board that, because of other duties, I was passing the reins over to him and Vicky.

So it goes without saying I don’t actually have anything under control. The most I’d done is make a mental note to call someone at the sheriff’s office but haven’t gotten around to it. Less than two weeks to go and I haven’t gotten around to it. Instead, I’m sitting in the confessional trying to wish it all away.

There’s a knocking at the screen. I gasp awake, thinking for a moment that I’ve come to in a coffin, that someone has declared me dead, sealed me up, and tossed me in a hole.

It doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

“Steve-o? What are you doing, sleeping in there?”

“What? Yeah. I guess I dozed off.”

“Poor form, Padre. Poor form.”

When the reality of her voice, the smell of her perfume sinks in, I feel my shoulders tense up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to make a confession.”

Great. What am I going to do about this?

“You fall asleep in there again?”

“Um. No,” I whisper.

“I can see how that would happen. Stuffy. Warm. Boring. Daddy used to bring a pillow, prop his head up.”

“Vick?”

“Yes?”

“Can we do this?”

“Do what, Steve?”

“The confession, Vick.”

“Oh, that? I was just shitting you. That’d be a little uncomfortable, no?”

What did that mean? What’s she been doing? Who’s she been doing? A green bolt of envy streaks through me. I pause, steady myself, steel up for some old-fashioned denial.

“Uncomfortable? Why?”

“Oh, c’mon, Steve.”

“What?”

“Uncomfortable, I guess, for the same reason you’ve been hiding from me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m just having a spat with Mark.” I suddenly feel like a rat in a cage. It’s all I can do not to start clawing at the door and run out screaming.

“If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you got bigger problems than I thought.”

Figuring anything I say will be the wrong thing, I keep my mouth shut.

“Steve, wake up.”

“I’m awake.”

“Steve.” Her voice sounds like it’s on a fine line between anger and laughter.

“Vicky, what are you doing here?” I almost sigh. This is the part where she tells me what a fool I’m being, tries to figure out some way to let me down easily because, of course, it would just never work. She’s right. And, now that we’ve arrived at this, there’s no point in arguing. It is being resolved. Why not skip directly to the end?

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says.

“You don’t have to come here to talk to me. You know where I—”

“Cut the crap. You’ve been avoiding me. You don’t answer when I call. You don’t answer the door when I drop by. How does that make me look, getting snubbed by the priest?”

“You? How does it make me look?” A hint of anger creeps into my own voice. “I mean, just what does it look like to have you coming over every day, staying for so long, me going to your place all the time and then Mark coming in and then now he’s living with you? Just what the hell does that look like? What are people going to think about me? What’s worse? That they thought I was fooling around with a woman or that I’m being cuckolded by a gay man?”

For a moment, there’s complete silence on the other side of the screen. Then a slow leak of air as she exhales and a slight tremble in the wood paneling as if she were shaking, as if the whole thing were about to come down.

“You!” she spits.

My head jerks back at the force of the word. For a full thirty seconds after that, nothing. Just as I’m about to speak, she starts.

“You son of a bitch, you,” she hisses. “What will people think of you? You? It’s always about you, isn’t it? Steve needs some altar boys. Steve doesn’t know what to do with the altar girls. Steve needs a distraction. Steve needs a festival. Steve needs a friend. Wait, what’s that? Steve can’t even wipe his own ass? Miss Emilia, can you help him out there? Mark, do this. Vicky, do that. What do people think of you, Steve? If they could see beyond that collar of yours, they’d think you’re a selfish prick.”

It all comes out in such a rush that I don’t have the time to process any of it before she circles back to her original question.

“And what about me? What do people think about me? What do
you
think about me?” she asks.

“I just thought you needed some attention.” I hear the words stumbling out of my mouth and immediately regret them.

“Fuck you,” she growls. There’s a loud
thwack
on the screen. “You self-absorbed bastard. You have some nerve. You’re going to sit there and call me a whore for attention?”

“That’s not what—”

“If this screen wasn’t between us I’d haul off and slap the living shit out of you.”

With that, she leaves, slamming the rickety door of the booth behind her. Then my door is yanked open and she’s standing before me in all her red-faced, tear-streaked fury. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It terrifies me. Then she does haul off and slap me. The report echoes through the church.

“And that gay man you’re referring to is one of the best friends you have in the world. He’s been moping around my damn house, feeling like he’s got no family left. But I guess your head is too far up your ass to realize that. You’re like a goddamn teenager. You think you’re the only tortured soul in the whole wide world who goes to bed at night alone.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, turns, and walks away.

Miss Emilia and Miss Celestine, still on their knees, spin their heads to watch her go. Their Rosaries fall silent.

Vicky stops at the front door and turns around. “Ladies, I’m sorry to interrupt. And don’t forget we have our last meeting next Wednesday. Miss Emilia, it’s your turn to host.”

With that, she’s gone.

Miss Emilia and Miss Celestine look at me. I can think of nothing better to do than shrug.

Miss Emilia looks down at her Rosary for the briefest of moments, blinks away any crisis of faith brought on by my obvious fallibility. Then she and Miss Celestine, at the same time, cross themselves and shuffle hurriedly after Vicky.

Not quite sure what to do about Vicky, I resort to the only other person I know who can help. Besides, judging by what she told me, he’s just waiting by the phone for me to call and take him back.

“Mark,” I say into his cell phone’s voice mail. “I’m sorry. I was an ass. A major, major ass. I want to apologize. And…well, call me.”

Two minutes after I flip the phone closed, it vibrates.

“Steve?” he says, as if expecting someone else to answer.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

There’s ten full seconds of silence. It feels like half an hour.

“So,” I say.

“So,” he says.

“I guess we should talk.”

“You guessed right.” He sounds wounded and angry.

So he’s not going to make this easy.

“Look, Mark. I’m sorry—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“That’ll do for now.” Men are so much easier than women. “I’ll make you suffer for such extreme asininity at a later date, but boy, do we need to talk!”

“But…” I don’t know what’s going on. So I ask, “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain in about ten minutes. Just fire up your computer, I’m coming over.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s bursting through the kitchen door without knocking, and he’s carrying an armload of posters. An equal mix of bright red and brighter yellow, they’re all torn at the corners. Some still have staples hanging from them. I take one from him as he tries to crumple up the rest and fit them into the garbage can.

“Hey, these are posters for B.P.’s revival,” I say. T
RAIN TO
G
LORY
shouts the headline on this one. The locomotive looks more possessed than holy, like it’s heading right for me, intent on barreling over everything I’ve half-assed tried to accomplish.

“That fucker,” he responds. “I keep stealing them. But as soon as I tear them down, he’s got that Little Red Riding Freak of his back stapling them to telephone poles.”

“How long have you been tearing them down?”

“About five minutes after the first ones went up.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t come blaming me,” I say.

“Probably would have, but I told him to his fat smiling face it was me.”

“What? Why? When did you do that?”

“First time he caught me.”

“And he didn’t beat you senseless?”

“I’m sure he would have loved nothing more,” Mark says, straightening up from the garbage can, and sticking his right leg in it to stomp down the posters. He’s got a wide smile on his face. “But there have been developments.”