Page 131 - What They Did to the Kid
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What They Did to the Kid                                  119

                  “I’ve tried it for seven years, Ryan. For seven years, we’ve been
               best friends, and you know nothing about me.”
                  “You don’t know your own mind. Go back with me to Misery
               and look at your vocation in the context of the seminary, where voca-
              tion is real and has objective value, and is not a joke to guys like Rip
              and Kenny. That’s all I ask. Come back in September.”
                  “What time are you scheduling the miracle?” he asked.
                  “Mike, don’t,” I said. “You can always be an undecided plumber
              or an undecided salesman.”
                  “But not an undecided priest.”
                  “Not an undecided priest.”
                  Huge blooms of raining color burst in the night air.
                  “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it, Ry. Thanks.”
                  “The evening ends?” I asked.
                  “You go to bed. I’ll sit awhile longer on the porch.”
                  All around me in his bedroom were his things, all the junk a
              kid collects over the years and never throws out till all on one day. I
              figured Mike, like every other kid, had a shoe box full of stuff, but
              this kind of stuff! I had never thought of Mike being in the back
              seat with anybody, but I began to wonder what I would do if I ever
              climbed into a back seat, which I’d never do. The thought made me
              giddy. I mean, I stopped even picturing such a scene, because I didn’t
              want to sin with that girl, that blonde girl from the lake. With the
              wired breasts, no, my God! I had to drive home on the highway and
              couldn’t afford to go to hell for an impure thought.
                  Suddenly, I hated summers in summer places that threw us
              protected boys out into a wild world that asked ques tions, worse
              than Rip’s, we couldn’t answer. Misery, I had expected, to tell me
              everything, but I heard nothing. At least, I knew I knew nothing. I
              was glad I was not like Mike, not like other men. I had that special
              priestly grace setting me apart. Summertime was hell and maybe
              the priests would be right to do what was rumored: send us off to
              a secluded villa for the summer, to be alone and safe together, away
              from the clutches of the devil and the questions of the world, and all
              the wiles of Barbara.
                  In five years, the bishop would send me forth, baptizing and
              preaching. I was a child compared to Mike. How could I ever handle


                        ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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