Chapter Two

Father Mike’s church might have been the ugliest in the entire Southwest. Concrete, brutalist, obviously built in the 1970s—a monstrosity baking in the sun. The billboard outside read “CH__CH. What’s missing?” A corny joke, and an old one: the sign hadn’t been changed in over a year. Regardless, it spoke the truth. It was 11:00 a.m. mass on Sunday, and the building was barely five percent full. 

Defying amplification, Father Mike’s voice droned indistinctly from the pulpit. If you weren’t paying attention, you could have mistaken his sermon for a loud air-conditioning system.

“... as soon as Peter’s wish to walk on the water with Jesus was granted, he began to doubt, and as soon as he began to doubt, he began to sink. Why is it that when we are in need, when we have nothing, we are so ready to believe in God? But when our prayers are answered, when we are walking on the very waters of prosperity and comfort, that is when our own answered prayers become ridiculous to us. That is when we begin to sink. It is important for us as Catholics to remember ...”

Father Mike trailed off. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew all the details of how his life had gotten to this point, but it still shocked him how the decades had melted away without him noticing. Worse, the years had taken with them the passion with which he had entered the priesthood. In return, they had left snow-white hair and a face cut with deep, craggy lines. Sometimes he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror.

He lost his place in the homily, but none of his parishioners seemed to notice he had even paused. He sighed and skipped to the Nicene Creed.

“I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth ...”

*

It was after mass. Father Mike was in his office, sitting behind the desk. The top drawer was open, and he stared at a mostly full pint of whisky inside. 

Father Mike wasn’t a drunk. He was never intoxicated during daylight hours, but sometimes a drink was what he needed to get through a rough day. He didn’t want to get wasted; it was just that a drink was one of the few things he could have. The private, selfish moment a drink afforded him was what he craved so much at times like this. One of the few illicit pleasures available to a middle-aged, middle-class priest.

He slammed the desk drawer. That’s why he wasn’t a drunk; he had self-control. One poorly attended mass may have been enough to send him spiraling into self-reflective melancholy, but it wasn’t enough to get him day drinking! Instead, he picked up the phone.

Before he could dial, his secretary, a dwarfish elderly woman never without a miraculous medal clinging to her blouse, cracked the door to his office.

“Bishop Thomas is here to see you, Mike.”

He placed the receiver back on its cradle. “Thank you, Rose. Send him in.”

The door clicked closed. Father Mike exhaled through his nose and braced himself for interaction with his superior. A moment later, the door banged open again. Fleshy and affable as always, Bishop John Thomas strode into the room. Father Mike shifted his face into a polite mask and rose to shake hands. 

“Your Excellency! It’s been a long time!”

“Well, you know. The bigger problems tend to consume all my attention. You’re always so quiet out here!”

“What can I say? It’s a stable, middle-class parish. It almost runs itself.”

“That they do, that they do.... How was mass today?”

Father Mike shrugged. “It wasn’t Christmas or Easter or anything but ... it went fine.” 

“Hmm. Christmas and Easter are only two days a year, huh? The rest of the year we’re lucky to get enough from collection to keep the lights on.” Another harangue about mass attendance. What did Thomas want him to do? Take out radio ads? Start handling snakes?

“John, I know mass attendance is down but—”

“Oh, no need to apologize, Mike. You’re not the only church with more stained-glass windows than parishioners. Meanwhile we’re left paying the air-conditioning bill for all of these places built before people had the NFL on Sunday! Listen, absolutely nothing is official, I’m here in a friendly capacity.”

Oh, God. This wasn’t just another harangue.

“But?”

“There’s been talk of merging this parish with St. Rita’s and closing the church.”

Father Mike collapsed into his rolling office chair. The momentum spun him away from Thomas and they broke eye contact. The Bishop allowed an interval of silence to pass as Father Mike collected his thoughts to respond. 

“What about me?”

“We can’t exactly fire you, can we?” Thomas chortled. Not getting a laugh in response, he continued. “Kidding. With the shortage of priests in this country, you’ll placed in another parish somewhere. Probably a lot like this one.”

“Starting again in a parish just like this one? Not knowing anyone? I think I’d rather get a secular job.”

“No offense, Mike, but places like this are usually considered pretty cushy. Like you said, they almost run themselves.”

Father Mike shot up and began to pace around his desk. “That’s just the thing! I don’t feel like I’m doing anything anymore! At least anything that matters.”

Bishop Thomas, who remained seated, had been waiting for this. He didn’t like delivering bad news, but it was an occasional duty of his office and he had learned how to proceed. Now that Mike was letting his emotions out, he’d soon exhaust himself and they could discuss a reasonable path forward.

Father Mike continued. “Go up, say mass a few times a week. Baptize, confirm, and marry a bunch of brats who’ll never come back except to baptize, confirm, and marry their own brats.”

“I do have some say here,” the Bishop interjected. “If you like, we could get you sent to a community more in need. Mission work’s an option too if you feel like learning Spanish or Chinese.” 

The old priest sighed and leaned heavily on his desk. “I don’t think I’d know what to do anymore if someone really needed my help.” 

Bishop Thomas smiled but didn’t laugh. He had heard similar things before. This little conversation was all but wrapped up, and he could move on to the next problem of the day. He was a busy man.

“I didn’t realize you were in such a rut, Mike. I’m thinking a more demanding post in an underprivileged parish might be just what the doctor ordered.” 

“Couldn’t I just enter a church convalescence home?”

The Bishop stared in disbelief. It obviously wasn’t a joke. He’d never known Mike to make a joke. But if he was serious ... The unexpected response threw him for a loop. “Good Lord, Mike! You’re barely sixty!”

“You’re only as old as you feel, John.”

Derailed from his usual protocol, Bishop Thomas fell back on bluster. “Has this easy assignment dulled you so much that you’d rather spend the rest of your life waiting for death? Have you forgotten your vows? Don’t you have ANY faith left?”

“I’ve got plenty of faith in God! I’d have thrown in the towel and killed myself a long time ago if not for that.”

Now The Bishop was truly shocked. A Catholic priest threatening the mortal sin of suicide? No, not threatening. If Mike had as little attachment to his parish as he said, the merger was a trivial detail. Suicide had to have been on Mike’s mind even before this conversation.

Father Mike continued, “I’ve just lost faith in human beings, a group I’m sadly still a part of.” He sat back down, covered his eyes with his palm, and groaned. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. 

“C-Clearly a joke. One in poor taste, too.” The Bishop rose on unsteady feet. “You know how serious of a sin suicide is. If not, um, we’ve got plenty of church counselors that you could ... talk to, if you need to talk,” he rambled as he backed out of Father Mike’s office. “Listen, we won’t make a decision about the merger for at least a year. So you’ve got plenty of time if you want to try something to-to increase attendance here! Uh, talk you later, Mike.”

Bishop Thomas slammed the door behind him. Father Mike buried his head in his hands. Without opening his eyes, he reached into the drawer and placed the bottle of whiskey on the desk beside him. His grip tightened around the neck.

Face contorted, he ripped the phone off its cradle without opening the bottle. Mid-dial, the door banged open again. Father Mike slammed down the receiver and threw the whiskey underneath his desk in one fluid motion. If Rose noticed as she entered the room, it didn’t register on her face. An attractive, well-dressed, Hispanic woman, suppressing sobs into a wad of Kleenex followed her. 

Father Mike recognized the woman as Maria Cielo. She and her family were some of his most regular parishioners under seventy. Half to cover his discomposure and half out of genuine concern, Father Mike rose to intercept the pair.

“I’m sorry, Father! Once she saw that the Bishop had left, she wouldn’t wait anymore,” Rose said.

“It’s okay, Rose.” He took a breath to center himself. “What’s the problem, Mrs. Cielo?”

Rose left quietly and closed the door behind her. Father Mike smoothed his pant legs and led Mrs. Cielo to the chair Bishop Thomas had recently occupied. He himself sat on the front of his desk. He doubted that she would have noticed the bottle of whiskey behind the desk if he sat in his normal place, but he was still embarrassed.

She snuffled. “Thank you, Father. You remember my son Alejandro?”

“Alejan—He went by Alex when he went to our middle school, right?”

“Yes. He always was a little strange.” Mrs. Cielo’s face contorted in pain. “Well now he wants to be called Alice! He says he’s a trans. There’s a wig he wears everywhere and, and ...”

Oh, God, a gay son. Father Mike liked Mrs. Cielo. More than that, focusing on other people’s problems never failed to distract him from his own. But now that he knew Mrs. Cielo was only fretting over her son’s sexuality, the familiar weight of personal misery returned to his shoulders. Jesus, the way kids are today, Alex might not even be gay.

“Have you considered that it might be a phase?”

“Ali says it is who he is, and his father! He ...”

She broke into wracking sobs. Guilt stabbed into Father Mike like a dull needle. Of course there was more to the story. He rose from the desk and placed his hand on Mrs. Cielo’s shoulder.

Mrs. Cielo blew her nose and continued. “Luis is a good man, but he grew up in Mexico. Boys are supposed to be men there. H-He’s been fighting his son.”

“Has there been anything ... physical?”

She nodded. “Alejandro grew up here. He doesn’t fight back.”

Father Mike paced away to the window, his brain grinding gears. What to do? What the hell to do? 

“I’d like to talk to your husband and Ale-Alejandro. Both together and individually. Do you think you can convince them to come in?”

Behind Father Mike, Mrs. Cielo let out a wail. “That’s not why I’m here!”

Father Mike turned sharply. Sympathetic or not, he was rapidly getting out of his depth.

“Alejandro found a group of people that he says accept him. They’re crazy, the things they believe! A cult! They call themselves star-somethings. He doesn’t come home anymore!”

“You should call the police.”

“I call the police every day! They don’t do anything! They know about Luis and Alejandro. Besides, Ali still goes to school and, if the officers talk with him, he comes home for a day or two.” 

Unable to summon any useful ideas, Father Mike bowed his head. He hadn’t seen Alex in church since he graduated middle school. Despite himself, under his breath, he sighed out, “What could I possibly tell him that he’ll listen to?”

Mrs. Cielo heard and rose angrily. She rushed at Father Mike. “He doesn’t need telling! He needs someone to take him away from those people. To lock him up somewhere he’ll be safe until he doesn’t want to go anymore! Don’t you have camps or-or institutions for children like that?”

“Mrs. Cielo! I can see you’re hurting, but a place like that, even if I knew of one, is going to do your son more harm than good! Do you even know that he’s a homosexual?” 

“I don’t care if he’s a homosexual! I just want to get him away from those people.”

They paused inches from each other, Mrs. Cielo spent and Father Mike reeling.  

“Just ... try to bring Alejandro in for counseling. I’ll do whatever I can.”

Father Mike’s attempt at consolation only served to re-ignite Mrs. Cielo’s anger. “Counseling!?” She shoved her Kleenex back into her purse.

“Why not be honest and say ‘Get out and stop bothering me!’”

“Mrs. Cielo, I—!”

“I’ve gone to church every Sunday since I was a little girl, and the one time in life I really need help, I get ‘counseling’! Goodbye, Father!”

She slammed the door behind her as she left. As soon as the door was shut, Father Mike stomped to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed. As it rang, he scooped the whiskey bottle from the floor, produced a glass from the desk, and poured a generous shot. He downed it in one gulp. 

The phone was answered on the sixth ring.

“It’s Mike.” A curt reply barked out of the receiver. “I know it’s been a while! But I’m really—” He was cut off by an indignant tirade that continued for almost a full minute. Once he was sure it was over, and that the other side of the line hadn’t been hung up, he softened his voice and tried again. “I know ... I know! Look, I’m sorry to call after so long, but right about now, I could really use a friend.”

*

Martin Grant pushed his way through the glass double doors of Starbucks. He was a middle-aged man, slightly overweight, with a close-trimmed chestnut beard and glasses that had been fashionable a decade ago. His eyes scanned the cafe. Father Mike, his roman collar traded for a polo shirt, was sitting wretchedly alone in the corner behind a paper cup of coffee. 

Martin didn’t bother to buy anything. He took a seat across from Mike with arms folded across his chest.

“Thanks for coming, Martin.”

Martin coughed before responding icily. “Well, what’s the trouble?”

Mike considered Martin’s unfriendly exterior and sighed. “They’re closing my church.”

“Good. You hate it there.”

“They’re going to assign me to another parish in another city. I have to start again somewhere else, and at my age.”

“So quit! I’ve been telling you for years. If you don’t like it anymore, you can just quit!”

“I’m not an insurance salesman. You don’t just quit being a priest!”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

This was awful. Father Mike hadn’t expected unreserved sympathy after what happened the last time they had seen each other, but Martin had never stonewalled him like this before. The priest slumped in his chair, now mainly talking to himself. “It was all so easy once. I always knew exactly what was right and wrong.”

Martin said nothing.

“You know, one of my parishioners came to me today to tell me her crossdressing son had joined a cult? I felt so goddamned useless. What the hell could I tell some queer teenager that he’d listen to? How can you help people when they think you’re full of shit?”

Martin had heard enough. For all the big talk from his therapist about how he was going to stop being a doormat, he could only feign disinterest in human suffering for so long,  especially Mike’s suffering. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. 

“Mike, you know I don’t believe what you believe, but I know you help people. I’ve seen it! What does making people sit through your tacky Jesus stories have to do with the homeless you feed at the soup kitchen? The GED classes you teach at the prison?”

“I haven’t done anything like that in months.”

“Oh, look at you! Months! If anyone else had spent one summer in college doing half the things you do for other people every day, you’d never hear the end of them bragging about it! Meanwhile if you aren’t making yourself absolutely sick from self-sacrifice, you think that you’re a bad person. You’re a good man. You just have a crummy job!”

Mike looked down at the table and pulled the corners of his mouth into a straight line. Martin grinned and rolled his eyes. “Well, that was almost a smile.”

“You know it’s the tacky Jesus stuff that makes me do those things.”

“And every so often you need someone to remind you of it.”

“You always know what to say, Martin.”

He shrugged. “I always say the same thing.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Martin patted the top of Mike’s hand. “Anytime.” 

*

The flashing neon sign outside the window threw Martin’s face into garish red and blue contrast. His head rolled on his neck in ecstasy. “Mike! Oh, Mike!”

He sat naked on the sleazy motel room’s double bed. Between his wide-spread legs, Father Mike’s head bobbed up and down. “Don’t stop! Jesus, Mike! Don’t stop!” Mike’s pace increased, and he began to corkscrew as he bobbed. Martin bit his lip and clawed at the pink bedspread. 

“Oh Mike! ... God! ... Jesus!” Martin arched his back and climaxed. Spent, he fell backward. Mike wiped his mouth and flopped down next to Martin. He began to stroke the heavier man’s chest hair. Martin smiled and stared into Mike’s face.

“That was a-ma-zing.”

“Well ... you know ...”

Martin cuddled closer to Father Mike and kissed him all over. Mike sputtered and protested with a big stupid grin on his face. “Stop, Martin! Your beard tickles!” Martin drew Mike closer and began to rub his back in wide circles. Mike relaxed. Martin’s hand moved lower and in tighter circles. Mike stopped smiling. As Martin’s meaty paw slid below the waistband of his briefs, Mike bolted up and pushed Martin away.

“Enough.”

“Come on, Mike, it’s your turn!”

“No.”

  “Why not!?”

“Because it’s not right!”

Martin stormed over to the desk by the window. He ripped his pants from where they had been draped over the back of a chair and began to pull them on.

“But it’s alright for you to blow me?”

“That’s your choice! You don’t believe in God.”

“Jesus Christ! That doesn’t make any sense! I just want to make you feel like you make me feel!”

“You make me feel good! Isn’t that enough.”

“Not when you act like my touch is going to defile you somehow! And you wonder why I don’t want to see you.”

Martin covered his eyes and began to cry. Mike rushed off the bed and wrapped his friend in his arms. 

“Shhh, Martin. I’m sorry ... I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffed. “No, you’re not.”  The neon lights bathed them in blue, then red, then blue again. “Sometimes ... sometimes I just wish you weren’t the only person who loved me.”

Mike and Martin had been through this a million times. They had tried to be friends without a physical component, tried to see each other only for sex without getting tangled up in each other’s lives. Martin had even tried going to church for a while to see if he could understand Mike’s choices and how to work around them, but they always wound up right back here. Mike wouldn’t let himself accept his part in the relationship, and Martin wasn’t satisfied with an infrequent, one-sided love affair. Neither had the guts to break off the current arrangement.

Mike cradled Martin’s head on his shoulder and rocked him back and forth. The neon strobe of the motel’s marquee set the time to the bizarre waltz. Martin snuffled and pointed out the window. 

“Mike ... look.”

Below the marquee, a lone woman held a hand-lettered sign that read Star Touched in thick magic marker. Next to her was a stack of cheap paperbacks with the same title. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes were wild.

“I’ve seen those guys all around town. They scare me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Martin. Those things spring up every once in a while, but they disappear just as quickly.”

“I know, but you should really try to help that kid. Didn’t you wind up entering the seminary because your home life was pretty similar to his?”

Father Mike’s jaw locked tight as Martin continued. “I might hate the church for all the malarkey they put in your head, but I have the feeling that whatever that is, it’s worse.”