Thomas M. Disch (16 page)

“You’re always putting down Las Vegas and making out the Twin Cities to be some kind of Athens. Believe me, when it comes to entertainment, it’s more like Sparta here. Anyhow, don’t keep me in suspense. Were you burned at the stake?”

“That’s when the dream turns into something out of George Romero.”

“Now you’re in my century. Oh damn, wouldn’t you know it? I’ve got another call. Can I put you on hold? I told you I volunteered for this suicide hot line, and though I’ve never had a single call (which is a blessing), I should pick up. If it’s not something important, I’ll ask them to call back.

Okay?”

“I think call-waiting is destroying American civilization, but what can I do? I’ll wait.”

Bing pressed the appropriate buttons and said, “Hello?”

A voice said, “Bing Anker?” and there was no doubt whose voice it was.

“Father Pat! After all these years. My goodness, what a surprise. Could you hold on just a moment? I’ve got someone else I have to say good-bye to.”

Without waiting for an answer, Bing switched back to Father Mabbley’s line.

“Mabb, you won’t believe who just called. Bryce. I’ve put him on hold. Do you want to listen to what we say? Be the good angel on my right shoulder?”

“Without his knowing?”

“My telephone can do that. It’s Japanese and very clever. Come on. He may say something indiscreet.”

“And then I’d be a witness to it. I’m not sure I like that idea. How did he get your number? I thought you said he didn’t know who you were when you were in the confessional.”

“I don’t know. He probably racked his Rolodex. I gave him enough clues.

I’m going to press the button now, so it’s a conference call and you can eavesdrop. But don’t sneeze. Please?”

“Okay, hide me behind the arras.”

Bing switched back to Father Bryce. “Father Bryce. My goodness, how long has it been?”

“Since yesterday afternoon.”

“You didn’t seem to know who I was in the confessional. But I guess I jogged some memories?”

“Why did you come to church dressed in women’s clothing?”

“Now, how did you know that? Is there some kind of camera system for spying on people inside the confessional?”

“You also vandalized church property.”

“The stickers? You call that vandalism? I guess it’s been a while since you were in an inner-city parish.”

“This is intolerable and aberrant behavior. I will not allow it.”

“Intolerable and aberrant behavior. That sort of gives us something in common, doesn’t it, Father?”

“I will also not allow you to taunt me with accusations and innuendos under the guise of going to confession.”

“You seem much more sure of yourself today. I guess you must have been talking to a lawyer? And he explained about the statute of limitations. My legal counsel went through all that stuff with me, too.” Bing paused a beat to let Father Mabbley appreciate his tip of the hat. Then, in an icier tone, “But I explained that I don’t care about winning a legal case. My interest is just in exposing the Church’s hypocrisy. And there’d also be the excitement of being in the media limelight. I’d probably be on TV. Who knows, the story might go all the way to Geraldo, or Sally Jessy Raphael. It’s a hot topic these days. And to be perfectly honest, I would get off on a little limelight.

You do, don’t you? Whenever I see you on TV, like when you were at the unveiling of that tacky Tomb of the Unknown Fetus, you seem to revel in it.

Your voice goes down about an octave. Your brow furrows. It’s just like when we said Mass together. I remember it so well. You would say, ‘
Introibo adaltare Dei
, ‘I will go unto the altar of God. And I’d reply, ‘
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam
,’ To God, who gives joy to my youth. And I would smile to myself at the idea of what they would have thought out there in the audience if they’d known it wasn’t just God who gave joy to
juventutem meam
.

If you know what I mean, and I’m sure you do. You studied Latin at the seminary. And a little Greek?”

“You disgusting little faggot.”

“Oh, Father Bryce, you do know how to get a boy excited. You might even say that that has been your tragic flaw.”

There was a silence, and the silence lengthened. Bing had worked as a dealer at various Vegas casinos, and he knew that when you’re playing poker against a desperate and inept player, the best strategy is to stand pat and wait for the person to do something stupid. He didn’t have to wait that long.

“Are you after money?” Father Bryce asked. “Is that what it is? Because if you are, I can’t help you.”

“Father Pat, are you suggesting that I have been trying to
blackmail

you? Have I said one thing to make you think that? Have I
mentioned
money?

When I came to confession, did I speak of anything but the
sin
we committed?”

“Bing, if there was any sin, it was long since forgiven.”

“By the confessions I went to right after we’d had sex? Do you really suppose those were valid sacraments? I can’t believe that. In fact, it’s a wonder I can believe anything at all, that I didn’t lose my faith then and there. That’s what usually happens, and it happens a lot. When I first shared my experience with friends, in a consciousnessraising situation, I was just astonished at how many other gays had had the same thing happen to them. If it wasn’t their parish priests, then it was a brother at the high school they went to. The
drama
coach, nine times out of ten. Especially if it was an all-male school where the younger boys did women’s roles in drag. I guess that hasn’t changed since Shakespeare’s day. There was even a standard pattern for the way we had sex—very gentle, very quick, with the lights off, then sweep it under the carpet and pretend it never happened. But always the open invitation to come back soon. Until we got too tall, or too hairy, or too clingy, or someone cuter came along, and then God would revise his opinion of the gravity of the sin we’d been committing and issue a call for repentance.

In other words, we got our pink slips. Does the pattern sound familiar?”

Another silence. Bing didn’t think the man was about to fess up at this juncture, so he went on:

“I’ll tell you what I do want. I want the Church to treat me like a human being. Not like a pariah. You know, a while ago I used to run the Las Vegas night at Our Lady of Mercy. On the nights I ran the bingo operation and called the numbers, the church brought in nearly half again as much money. But
somebody
—I will never know who— complained to Father Youngerman that I was queer. And I got canned. No discussion. They’d never tell me who complained.

And it wasn’t as though I’d been trying to conceal who I am. You’re queer, that’s it, good-bye. How do you suppose that made me feel? I’ll tell you: bitter.”

Father Bryce had gathered enough composure to be able to say, “I’m sorry. It’s not a perfect world. It’s not a perfect Church.”

“So we must ask ourselves, mustn’t we, how could
I
help to make it a better world and a better Church? And I’ll offer a suggestion. St.

Bernardine’s could institute its own Las Vegas night. And I could be your bingo caller. There’d be a certain poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”

No reply. This time Bing did wait him out.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be feasible,” Father Bryce said, audibly walking on eggs. “St. Bernardine’s has never had bingo nights. A lot of the parishioners would be strongly opposed.”

“They’re too upscale for bingo? Well, chemin de fer is okay with me, if they’d prefer that.”

“I’m sorry, I have to hang up. This has become an impossible conversation. I can’t say anything without your twisting it into something ludicrous. I shouldn’t have phoned at all.”

“Oh no, Father, it’s a good thing that you did. It shows you have some sort of conscience. A
guilty
conscience, needless to say, but that’s better than none at all. If you hadn’t called me, I would surely have gotten in touch again. I’m not letting you off the hook. Which is a very Christian idea, isn’t it—being on the hook? The apostles were supposed to be fishers of men. Have you noticed how often Christ spoke of the soul as basically a source of protein? We’re all just lost sheep or fish to be caught or wheat to be harvested and threshed. Christ must have been hungry a lot of the time, don’t you suppose?” Bing paused, not for a reply, but to give Father Mabbley a moment to appreciate his little homage, for what he’d said about the soul as food was a direct plagiarism from one of Father Mabbley’s sermons on the Sunday he had to pass the basket for famine relief.

“Seriously, Father,” Bing went on. “You asked if I wanted money. No, that’s not what I had in mind at all. I just want to be able to help you do what has to be done. And I’m glad you felt the need to call me. The first step is the hardest. Your getting in touch with me shows that you understand you can’t do this all by yourself. You have to surrender, to ask for help, and for a priest that must be
so
hard. There’s another Latin saying, which I can’t quote in Latin, but the gist of it is, ‘Who’ll put the custodians into custody?’ That’s your problem, isn’t it? And I’m the answer. I can show you the things you have to do to atone for what you’ve done.

“First off, you’ve got to make a
list
(if you don’t have one already) of all your conquests. I’m sure there were lots before me, and I
know
many came after, because for a while I was a monster of jealousy, and I would come to your early weekday masses at OLM to see how you were relating with whoever was serving Mass for you that day. And I could always tell if you had your eye on him, and if you’d got to first base, and whether he was confused about it or gaga, like I’d been. It must be quite a list by now.
Then
, when the list is done, you can track down each person on it and arrange a tête-à-tête-à-tête for the three of us, so you can make amends. You may feel awkward at first, but I’ll be there and able to help you through it. You’ll be amazed, once you begin really to deal with all the ghosts in your past, how much better you will feel. Truly, this will be an emotional and spiritual
adventure
for you.

And for me, too.”

“You’re crazy,” said Father Bryce, trying to maintain a neutral tone.

“It is a challenging idea, isn’t it? And not without some risks. Who knows how each of the people you’ll contact will react? Some may have very strong feelings toward you still, as I do. Yet there’s no other way to reestablish a sense of honesty and fair dealing in your life than by squaring away those old accounts.
Then
, with the strength you’ve gained from that process, you can begin to use your position in the Church in a positive way.

Instead of seducing teenage boys and preaching hatred toward gays, you can direct the homosexual component of your character toward affirmative, life-enhancing goals. Such as? you must be asking yourself. Such as opening a chapter of Dignity at St. Bernardine’s, somewhere gay Catholics can get together and feel they have a place in the Church. And if Bishop Massey tries to put a stop to it, I’ll bet we could find one or two young men who could help persuade the Bishop toward a more charitable attitude, in the same way I’m persuading you.”

“This is blackmail,” said Father Bryce, “pure and simple.”

“Well, it may be
emotional
blackmail, but I don’t think there’s a law against that. The Church does it all the time, doesn’t it? Standing outside abortion clinics and screaming at women that they’re killing their babies.

Sometimes it takes drastic measures to awaken the sleeping conscience.”

“Clay got you to do this, didn’t he?”

“Clay?” Bing asked.

“I knew he’d try something else. I knew he wouldn’t be content to torture me just one day a week.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know the Clay you’re talking about. He sounds like my kind of guy, though. Maybe you can arrange for us to meet.”

“This is unbearable. I can’t go on like this. Tell him that. Goodbye.”

Father Bryce hung up.

“Well,” said Bing. Then he explained to Father Mabbley: “He hung up.”

“I gathered that, but I didn’t want to come out from behind the arras until you’d sounded an all-clear. What was that last thing about ‘Clay’?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like I may not be the only person he’s having a problem with.”

“Candidly, Bing, the guy sounds a bit flaky. I was happy to see you were able to resist his virtual invitation to blackmail him. And the way you did eventually put the screws on him would have delighted any Grand Inquisitor.

But I don’t think you should push him any further.”

“What can he do—murder me?”

“Well, he could, couldn’t he?”