Page 191 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 179

said. “Nineteen. Gone so fast they couldn’t even take their luggage.
Some of these parents arriving today to drive little Johnny home will
find little Johnny disappeared last night on a Greyhound bus.”
“This is disgusting.” Lock walked up to the car. “A real witch
hunt.”
Off to the side a mother of a shipped boy cried out. “Where’s my
son?” A father grasped his chest. “Shipped?” An old priest talking to
them pointed to their son’s suitcase. “Perhaps another seminary will
take him.” Three or four other sets of parents were leaning against
their cars in shock and despair. “You sent him away last night know-
ing we’d be here today?” One father kept slamming his car door.
“What kind of people are you?” A mother fainted. “You’re supposed
to care for my son.” A shipped boy’s little sister, no more than eight,
started a wailing cry. “Where’s Bobbieeeeee?”
A bird, crammed full of mulberries, dropped a load that splat
across the shiny white car and dirtied Hank’s fat fingers spread on
the hood. So much for the wonderful hands of a priest.
“Stop laughing,” Hank said. He wiped his hand in the green
grass. “I’m not stupid. I don’t know about you guys, but I suspected
something. Those old priests were not paying attention. Gunn was
checking our legs for Bermuda shorts while half the high-school
depart ment was being raped.”
“You can’t rape boys,” I said.
Hank the Tank grinned. “Maybe for one or two it was rape.
Chris is a very attractive role model.”
“Oh, jeez,” Mike said. “I’m beginning to get it.”
“Every ring,” Hank said, “has a ringleader. You’re never sure
who it is.”
Mike walked around to the driver’s side of the white car. “I’d say,
‘Be seeing you,’ Hank,” Mike said, “except I won’t ‘be seeing you.’”
“Better you should know who’s on first.” Hank picked up his
valise. I thought it was like his mind, a tight little box full of dirty
linen and bound with straps. “I must find the new Reverend Peter
Rimski. His Ordination means a lot to our father.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. PeterPeterPeter was a priest! I picked a hand-
ful of mulberries from the tree and bit into them, their little grits
pricking my mouth. Mike’s exit from Misericordia was final. He was

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