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09-30-05
Follow Me in My Way
By Nathan Charles Father Jacob O’Malley remembered him. This man on the television set those years and years ago, when Jacob was not more than a toddler. This evangelist; how grotesque he seemed now, even as he had appeared monolithic and near godlike then. Veins and beads of sweat upon his face seemingly perpetual. He could hear the fanatical screaming even now as he sat staring at the pews from the steps before the alter of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, the religious frenzy of factitious ideals: “We deny ourselves for the sake of goodness and purity! We must beware the temptation of beastly pleasures and carnal delights lest we be damned to life of filth and shame! We must not question that which is so clearly presented before us! We must restrain our primitive urges to seek that which is better left unsought lest we damn ourselves to walk with the savage beasts! And HELL!”
As the memory ceased to flourish Father O’Malley found himself laughing, bitterly so, at what a sham this evangelist had played. At what a sham they were all playing. “Another slave to feed the fire, another victim of the cross, and nothing but a victim for the victims,” he said as he tipped a wink from the bottle. Rot-gut whiskey. Alcohol was great for philosophy. “Weakness searches for a method of convenience.” But what of these thoughts? He pondered the significance of this.
It was near midnight in St. Paul’s Cathedral, downtown Manhattan. A single white candle burned by his side as Father O’Malley drank and thought of all the things he’d done. Stained glass Saints stared dully out at him. Accusing him. He laughed again. twenty-five years he’d been preaching. He’d been at St. Paul’s for about seventeen. He thought about St. Leo’s where he’d started out, just a “kid” of thirty-five. He thought of that girl, his first confession on the other side of the booth. What had her name been? Katie Matheson, daughter of Bill and Audrey Matheson. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Forgive me father, for I have sinned. Lewd thoughts about her father (sin). Father O’Malley had asked for details, and as she elaborated on such incestuous intimacies as “doing it with Daddy in front of Mother,” he couldn’t help but get an erection. No chastity belts for the modern priest. He’d been ashamed of course (Filth and Shame!). He didn’t believe there was a priest in the world who didn’t feel ashamed at one time or another. Or constantly. At least in the beginning that was. Bitter cynicism and lack of faith came later.
He still remembered her voice, like a silver bell, whispering, weeping, telling him she never meant to have such thoughts, but it was as if they were put there by someone else, and the more she fought the more vivid they became. He had told her, hating himself all the while, that she must tell everything, omitting nothing, or else God would not carry out her clemency and that the Devil would be allowed to fester, bringing stronger evils still to come. And she’d lain it all out for him, and as he listened he masturbated through the black cloth of his pants. He’d tried to contain himself as best he could as he ejaculated, but a shuddering sigh had surfaced nonetheless. “Father?” He’d absolved her with three Hail Mary’s and one Our Father’s. There had been others. Many others, some far worse sinners than Katie, but none excited him as did she. For Father O’Malley she became a veritable obsession. While praying he’d find that her face continually intruded, and the more he tried to extricate these sinful thoughts the more insistent they became.
He eventually found himself driving the streets of downtown San Francisco, searching for a prostitute. And he’d eventually found the one he was looking for. One as similar to Katie as he could find. Soft curls of long brown hair, large brown eyes. And she was young. The only difference in their appearance was that, where Katie worn a long plaid skirt to below her knees (the good Catholic school girl she was) the prostitute had replaced it with a pair of leopard print hot pants. Where Katie had worn a white button-up shirt (such a good Catholic girl) the prostitute wore a brown suede coat with fur-lined cuffs to keep out the cold of the San Francisco night. When she’d gotten into his old and beaten Ford station wagon Father O’Malley saw that her only other garment besides her spike heeled sandals was a black bikini top. Another difference had been the heavy eye shadow and scarlet lipstick as opposed to a clear and unblemished complexion. He’d still been wearing his priest’s uniform under his khaki jacket. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” the young prostitute said, (like a silver bell) giggling, and Father O’Malley almost slammed into the car in front of him, his heart hammering madly in his chest. That voice. “Katie?” he’d asked, sure it had to be her. “Whoever you want, Padre. Just don’t get us killed before we have a chance to get off, okay.” He glanced over at her as he drove. The feeling of unreality began to taper. This girl was a little thinner in the cheeks and her breasts were larger. “So how do you want to do this?”
They’d ended up in an alley, where this young hooker had given him his first blowjob, her head bobbing madly up and down. He’d given up the idea of sex (or so he’d thought) in his senior year of high school when he knew he was destined for the priesthood. This had been after seeing a freshman beaten to death in the hallway of Kingwood High, Omaha, Nebraska. The kid had died on his way to the hospital. Jacob never found out what happened to the kids who did it. He and his father had moved a few weeks later to San Francisco, California, where his father had gotten a job making phones at Conway Corporation. Perhaps “moved” isn’t exactly the right word. “Escaped” might be a better one. He never saw his mother after that strange night when his father had taken him away from her malevolent influence for good. He never missed her. But she always haunted his dreams. Dreams of that night and the fleeting glimpse of something terribly wrong…
All the while in seminary school he’d had no problems at all conforming to the ascetic demands of the priesthood, not thought about sex at all, save in his dreams. The confession booth had been his downfall and he knew it.
After (Katie) the prostitute wiped what little come she hadn’t swallowed from her lips and redid her lipstick in his rear-view mirror he paid her the twenty dollars and dropped her off a block away from her usual beat, which hadn’t been far. Then he bought a pint of Old Crow and got smashed, passing out on the floor beneath the desk in his office just off the pulpit of Saint Leo’s. When he woke up to find an empty bottle cradled in his arms he’d gotten up, disposed of the empty pint, driven home, and wept at the kitchen table of his small, somewhat dilapidated apartment. He had failed. Not enough faith, not enough self-control. He had failed God. When the tears subsided, he’d gotten up, popped three aspirin with a glass of water at the kitchen sink, and went to his bedroom to pray to the wooden crucifix above his bed, thoughts of Katie (the prostitute) intruding inexorably all the while.
He’d done better for a while. Even managed to get through Katie’s (the prostitute’s) confessions without so much as a twitch or throb from his penis. And then the dreams had started. It was Katie. She was standing at the foot of his bed, illuminated by the light from the stove in his kitchen, wearing black suede hot pants and nothing else. The barrettes she normally wore were gone, her hair free and flowing. Her eyes were shaded a dark blue and her lips were scarlet. She whimpered down at her small breasts as she pinched and kneaded her little pink nipples. Then she looked up at Father O’Malley. “Bless me Father.” Her voice, a silver bell.
“Katie,” he said, and could say no more. She giggled, putting a hand to her mouth, as if to say, I know something you don’t know. Then she stopped, looking down on him solemnly from the foot of his bed. She reached down to the front of her hot pants and he could hear the slow progress of her zipper as she pulled it down. And then it was the soft rustle of suede rubbing skin as she pulled them down around her ankles and stepped out toward the side of his twin bed in all her naked, youthful beauty. He could see a thin sprinkling of pubic fuzz between her milky thighs. He moved to the left as she slid beneath the covers with him, his priest’s uniform still on. She pressed her body against his and rubbed his cock, which had been stiff from the moment she appeared at the foot of the bed. “Won’t you bless me, Father?” she’d whispered. And then the dream would jump ahead and he was on top of her, pants around his ankles, fucking her. “Fuck me Father, fuck me!” And then laughter, faces surrounding his bed, accusing him with laughter, nameless faces laughing, and then one of all the rest, the evangelist of his childhood, his face where Father O’Malley’s wooden crucifix should have been. “Filth and shame! Filth and shame! Filth and shame!” Soon all voices joined the chant, a veritable congregation of them. “Filth and shame! Filth and shame! Filth and shame!” “Rape me Father, rape me!” Katie would cry out beneath him, blood pouring from her eye-sockets. At that point he would roll off of her, beating at his face and weeping as their faces closed in, his pants still tangled around his ankles. “Filth and shame, filth and shame, filth and shame!” “Rape me father, rape me!” “Filth and shame filth and shame!” “Rape me father rape me!” “Filth and shame me father rape me! Filth and SHAME!” And the demon would close in, its jagged fangs sizzling foam, red eyes glowering beneath the breadth of its horns and Father O’Malley would wake up screaming in his bed, sweat matting his thick tufts of bright red chest hair, light glowing a dull yellow from the bulb above his kitchen stove, another dull yellow from the street to his window. No prostitute at the foot of his bed. No Katie. No demon. No one.
After a week of these dreams he’d try the bottle. But not even that sufficed, for after a while he had the dreams anyway. So he’d ended up back out on the streets of the San Francisco night, searching for (Katie) the prostitute to take her back to his apartment. After she became a regular on Sunday nights (Sunday being the day for confession) he’d eventually gotten enough courage to ask her to wear a plaid skirt and white button-up shirt, which she would wear for him while indulging his every fantasy. Also on demand was that she wear no makeup.
He’d found he had a predilection for fellatio and after indulging him in every other to the full, screaming all the while, “fuck me Father, fuck me!” she’d always finish him there. When she left he’d drink himself stupid and pass out.
That had eventually ended when the Bishop in charge of his parish wondered where all of the money from the Church plate kept going. He’d followed Father O’Malley one Sunday night and found out everything. But he hadn’t been ostracized. He had simply been moved to another parish on the other side of the continent. It had been hell from then on out. The dreams had returned and again he had tried the drink, but as before the dreams eventually came anyway. “Fuck me Father, rape me! Filth and shame!” Only the face of the demon had then become that of his mother, skin crinkled with age, gumming the words, “blesh me Fadder, come give mommy a kish.”
His mother. An ornery old woman who had treated him and his father like trash. Sinful trash. Between the two of them she didn’t much care who she slapped around. One day when Jacob had been about twelve she’d found him in front of the television watching a commercial advertising Budweiser beer. Girls in bikinis shaking their little bottoms and drinking cold bottles of Bud with their stud boyfriends. She’d grabbed young Jacob by the hair, thrown him on the ground and commenced to kick him in the stomach, screaming, “don’t you ever, EVER! don’t you ever, EVER!” over and over. And his father had left the room with that same old rueful, apologetic look Jacob had come to know so well in those early years. After that he had been forced to watch that show with the screaming evangelist every morning at 5 AM. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of the evangelist, in spite of the fact that he’d watched his show religiously (ha-ha) for years. To his dying day he still woke up every morning at 5 no matter how late he’d gone to bed the night before.
Finally, one sunny April day when Jacob was sixteen his father had finally had enough. Jacob had been walking home from school day with one of the only girls he’d actually had the guts to talk to (miracle of miracles, ha-ha) when his mother and father came driving up. His mother got out of the car and crowed, “is that your girlfriend Jakey? Not likely. Why don’t you leave my son alone, you little whore? He doesn’t need trash like you following him around.” The girl had hurried off without a word and Jacob had stood there trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. And his mother had started to laugh. “Look at the little baby. Nothing but a girl just like your worthless father. I’m going to have to take care of you both for the rest of my life, tell you what.” His father sat still in the passenger seat of the Ford automobile (the automobile he’d bought himself as a matter of fact, ha-ha). Jacob still vividly remembered his downcast and sorrowful eyes. “Get in the car you baby-girl,” his mother sneered. And he did as he was told so as not to incur a few hundred slaps and back hands when he got home. But later that night his father had come into his room, turning on the light, telling Jacob that it was time to pack, and be quick about it. Jacob stared with turgid and terrified eyes. “Where’s mom,” he’d asked.
“Don’t you worry about her, son. I’m getting you out of here. You’ll never have to worry about her again.”
“Please Dad, don’t. She’ll be so mad.”
“Son!” he’d snapped, the only time he’d ever seen his dad snap at anyone or anything. Then his face softened. “Trust me, son. Everything’s going to be all right. Do you trust me?”
He’d looked at his father for a long moment, trying in his adolescent mind to grasp the ramifications of such an unexpected turn of events. His father had never been adamant about anything as long as Jacob had known him. Finally, tears streaming down his cheeks, he’d said, “yes.” Not much more than a whisper. But somehow that confirmed everything. He knew that she would not interfere, as much as that went against all that he had been taught from the very first of his intrinsic memories. She would not stop them this night. Not ever again.
He’d quickly packed his bags and all his possessions which held any sentimental value whatsoever. Then him and his father had gone out, and (this memory would continually elude him ever after, always coming to the fore in his continually insistent dreams) as they passed his mother and father’s room he’d seen his mother laying in the sleepy yellow glow of her reading lamp. Her head was turned away from him, but he could see that there was something wrong with her face. Something about her face. But it was nought more than a glimpse and they were out of the house and packing their suitcases and bags in the trunk of the car. His father told him to get in and sit tight for a minute. “I have to take care of something,” he’d said.
“Dad!”
“Son.” His father put a hand to his shoulder and opened the passenger side door, nudging him gently into the seat. “Trust me, son.” Jacob watched as his father ran up the steps to the front door and went inside. He’d been not more than fifteen minutes and then they were gone down the road, Jacob soon falling back to sleep, waking later to their new life as father and son…
Yes, it had been hell from the very first day Father O’Malley set foot in New York. He’d wept every night in a drunken stupor over Katie (the prostitute) and he knew that he’d fallen in love with her. He hated himself for being so weak. So wrong. Such a failure. An utter failure. A failure to God. He was destined to damnation. He knew that now.
And it suddenly occurred to him as he sat drinking and thinking that his father had killed his mother. It didn’t come as a shock, no revelatory flash of realization. Just something he’d really known all along, but never bothered to consider with a conscious eye. Had never even cared. He’d hated his mother, it was as simple as that. And she was gone. Just as his father was gone. Died years ago from a heart attack. Nothing spectacular. Just dead. Dead like the world. Dead like everything. No meaning to the endless tide of life.
Father O’Malley walked down the aisle, bottle in hand, feeling the eyes of the stained-glass saints burning into his flesh. He went into his office and sat in the chair behind his desk. He’d never gotten another prostitute after that first. He’d been too scared of being caught again. And so she had haunted his dreams every night thereafter. He honestly didn’t know how he’d survived as long as he had, save by brute force of will. He had his moments of weakness, oh of course. Masturbation in the confession booth was a frequent pastime on Sundays (although he was far too old and decrepit for such sinful pleasures now). Afterward he’d drink himself into his usual stupor and dream the dreams anyway (Filth and shame me father rape me!) After twenty-five years of this Father O’Malley looked to be more like ninety than 59. His face was a map of wrinkles and his liver-spotted hands looked more like claws than human appendages. When giving his sermons on Sunday his congregation had to strain to hear, as his voice was nothing but a husk of its former self. Gravelly, like sand paper rubbing against wood.
He sat down behind his desk and looked out into the New York night. The twin towers of the New York Trade Center were just visible to the left of his window. He opened a drawer to his right and pulled out a sheaf of paper. He scribbled a few words and put down his pen. He then took a key from his pocket and opened the top drawer to his left. In it lay a .45 caliber automatic. A box of shells lay to the left of this. He took them both out and lay them side by side on his relatively clean and tidy desk. He then took a long slow drink from the bottle and set it aside. Loading the gun slowly and methodically he stared out at the night sky which should have been filled with stars, but instead held that opaque and reddish glow common to all big cities. It looked like Hell. The Big Apple indeed. He wondered if anyone really grasped the biblical connotations of a nickname like that.
Father O’Malley then put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger, firing off a single sharp report and splattering his brains all over the back wall. Blood poured from his mouth and ears as he lay askew, staring out at nothing.
The screams of the maid the next day could be heard all throughout St. Paul’s cathedral. When the police arrived they found a single note, spattered with blood, on Father O’Malley’s desk. It read simply, “Oh, ye brothers of the cloth, follow me in my way.”
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