Page 145 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 133

Promise him if he’s tractable he might someday get his doctorate in
something not too worldly. Finally mince around so long both he
and you forget the promise. Result: perfect blandness.”
“The intellectual bloodline gets tired,” Mike said.
“It’s Appalachian when it’s not Machiavellian,” I said, leading
the way toward the clearing. “That’s no bench,” I said. “It’s a couch.
Hank hauled it down here...”
“...on his back...,” Lock said.
“...from Monsi gnor Linotti’s suite. I think old Linotti died on it.”
“Father Dryden,” Lock said.
“Father Dryden,” Mike said.
“Father Dryden,” I said, “threw that cruddy couch out last week
when he started remodel ing Old Linotti’s place.” When Monsignor
Linotti had died suddenly, alone, in his ascetic rooms, full of Greek
classics, all Gunn had said was, “When you grow up and can’t pee
like a horse, see a doc tor.”
Six weeks earlier, the Reverend Christopher Dryden had returned
to Miseri cor dia, his alma mater, to teach. He quickly picked up a fol-
lowing. Boys favoring the progres sive side of the Church an nounced
a major breakthrough in seminary education: a faculty member
observed speaking to seminari ans outside of class.
Like a Kennedy, Dryden played tennis and touch football, and
on Saturday afternoons after a game jumped into the traveling wres-
tling matches that continued like relay matches, boy tagging boy, on
the lawns, in the gym, the halls, the dorms, the playing fields, the
woods, the river bank, day in and day out, month after month, year
after year. The wrestling never stopped.
Word was Dryden was a great guy, well rounded by his post-
Misery years of study at Innsbruck and Rome. Brilliant. He could
speak with authority on almost anything. One of the highest IQ’s in
Misery’s history. The perfect model of the modern new-breed priest.
After the first week, I hated the Reverend Christopher Dryden
for better reasons than his always jumping over the tennis net
between sets. He usurped me. He quoted Catholic writers I felt were
my Irish preserve. He knew Coventry Patmore’s line that the poet
Gerard Manley Hopkins was “the only orthodox and saintly man in

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