Confession - Part 2
“You say, ‘he hurt you.’ He. Let me tell you. See. There’s this 15-year-old kid. Shy. Doesn’t fit in. Then this priest, an English teacher, tells this kid that he can write. Likes the kid’s poetry. Takes the kid to New York. Broadway plays. Kid’s head is swirling. Kid’s parents are okay with this. They don’t really want the kid around anyways. Besides, it’s a priest, for God’s sake. What harm? Then, one Saturday, this priest —this high school teacher— tells the kid to bring some of his writing to the rectory. Kid hops on the bus. Heads cross town. They go into his study. The place is somewhat musty. The smell of drying galoshes. Priest offers the kid a bowl of soup. Kid’s always hungry in those days so he eats it."
“You don’t have to tell me any of this. In fact….”
“Shhh. Listen. Then they pull out the kid’s poems. Kid at the desk. Priest pacing, talking about the poems. Priest stops pacing. Kid notices that the priest is leaning over him, leaning into him. Kid’s heart is racing. Then it happens. These big hands take the kid’s face. This big whiskery mouth suddenly… Priest kisses the kid. Smell of liquor. Kid’s shocked. But then, the kid kisses back. This kid whose mother never hugged him. Whose father told him he was ugliest child he’d ever seen. This kid enjoys it. My God, I enjoyed it.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I am not done. You need to hear this. The priest sucks the kid off. No other way to say it. Right there in the rectory office, with his cleaning lady, Mrs. Hannahan, vacuuming upstairs. This becomes their thing. A regular Saturday thing. For variety, the kid jerks the priest off. Oh, he taught me well, that man."
“How long did this continue?”
“Don't rush me. A few months of this and the kid suffers a nervous breakdown. Of course, he doesn’t really know what it is. He just knows he bursts into tears at any time. Hands shake. Hears voices. Thinks the saints are talking to him. He talks back. No one really notices because no one ever really notices this kid. Except that priest. Asks if anything’s wrong. Gee, Father, whatever could be wrong? Want me to come to the rectory again? Kid tells the priest he needs to talk to someone. Priest sends the kid to another priest, a priest pal, in another parish. For counseling. And guess what?”
“I can’t hear this anymore.”
“Oh, but you have to.”
Frank Diamond has 30 years writing and editing experience for newspapers, magazines, and television, and is currently the managing editor of Managed CareMagazine. He has released a novel, The Pilgrim Soul, and a short story collection, Damage Control. He's had hundreds of articles and columns published in outlets including the Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia Daily News and the Philadelphia Bulletin. His short stories have appeared in Innisfree, and Kola: A Black Literary Magazine. He has poetry published in Philadelphia Stories, Fox Chase Review, and Black Bottom Review. He also wrote the Bloom’s Guide (competitor with CliffsNotes) for The Handmaid’s Tale. He lives in Langhorne, Pa., with his wife, Kate, and daughter, Emily.
