Alter Boys (45 page)

You can be sure of one thing; the girls would more likely grow up to have dicks in their mouths rather than wearing cornettes and habits.  And the other thing you could be sure of was that the altar boys would also end up with dicks in their mouths (and other places).   

And so, ever so subtly, Gus began conditioning a future crop of boys to serve at the altar. 

Chapter 3

1

“I’m really doing much better now.”  Psycho sat in his traditional spot in Mr.
Thelen’s
office. 

Four months had passed since his psychotic episode on D-Day.  A difficult four months, but also a therapeutic four months. 

He had been taken to the quiet room in full restraint.  Once the drugs kicked in, the restraints were removed.  For the rest of June 6
th
he rolled on the padded floor moaning indistinguishable gibberish.  That night the staff left him to sleep in the room; coming in only to administer meds and offer water.  The room had no toilet, but even if it had, his drug induced mind would not have been able to navigate it.

His bowels and bladder evacuated directly into his clothes.  From his mouth he drooled, from his nose he drained, his eyes mattered and clotted.  Offensive fluids drained from every opening of his body.

In religious and therapeutic circles, it’s known as a cleansing.  The mind telling the body to rid itself of all that is vile.

For P
sycho, it was only the first day of a long cleansing. 

He was reintroduced to the unit and his meds were elevated dramatically.   It was all he could do mentally to make his way to the dining room.  Walking the tiles was out of the question, even the appeal of the smoke room was muted by his stupor.  He spent
his days laying in bed, ocean waves of anti-psychotics submerging and subduing his brain.     

After two weeks, his body becoming somewhat acclimated to the drugs, his sessions with Scott Thelen resumed.

Psycho could now remember it all.  The priest, Father Milliken, the telescope, the pain of being violated from behind, the apathy of his parents, the shaming, and on and on.

And while he remembered, he was still far from coping.  The first sessions were exclusively crying, anger, self-pity and blame.  Healing takes time.

Over the next weeks, the firestorm of emotions gave way to glimmers of intellect.  Their discussions turned to the inability to change the past, but the power to respond to it.  A concept with merit, but one that needs repetition and practice.

And now, four months later, his commitment having been extended by the mental health board, Psycho sat placidly, waiting for his therapists reply.

“Yes, I would agree, you are doing much better now.”  The smile was sincere.  His patient truly had made progress.  “And I think we’re getting close to an important point.  What are your thoughts about going home?”

Psycho sat quiet for a moment, forming his thoughts as he had been taught, and then surprised Scott Thelen by his honesty.  “I’m not ready yet.” 

It wasn’t a first, but certainly a rarity.  It caught the therapist off guard.  “Which part aren’t you sure of?” he asked awkwardly. 

Psycho had the answer readily this time, it was in his mind during the first question.  “Father Milliken, what do I do when I see him?”

It had been Scott
Thelen’s
contention all along that there was no Father Milliken, that no priest could ever commit such an act.  Perhaps it had been a visiting relative, a drunken neighbor, even the boys own father that had buggered him.  Hadn’t he said ‘daddy had a snow shovel’ during his psychotic episode?   And wouldn’t it be easy for the mind to confuse father as in daddy with father as in priest?  A mind mechanism of self preservation.  Some other sicko, yes.  But a priest?  No. 

Now, he wasn’t so sure.  His patient did NOT want to go home because he might see a priest.  Things just weren’t adding up here.  “Well if you see him, you walk the other way.  What happened is in the past.  We can only respond to the present.”

Psycho persisted.  “But what about church?  I have to go to church.”

“You could go to a different church.”

“But there’s only one Catholic church in Elmwood; St. Marks.  And I have to go every Sunday or it’s a sin.”

The therapist leaned forward and put his chin on his folded hands.  He stared into space for a few seconds and then said honestly:  “Let me think about that.”

Ever since D-Day, the details of this case had been tugging at Scott Thelen’s brain like a fishhook.  And then today, after his patient’s most sincere statement, ‘I’m not ready, what if I see Father Milliken’ the therapist felt compelled to do something unconventional by professional standards, but noble by Scott Thelen standards.

They finished their session and Psycho headed back to the unit.  Scott Thelen, consulted his Tuesday patient load, then calculated the time and distance in his mind.  He could be in Elmwood by 6:30.  Seven o’clock tops.

Back in his room, Psycho lam
ented the loss of his roommate B
ill.  A three month commitment
(originally just like himself) B
ill had been discharged in September, walking out the door in the same clothes, heels exposed on the same shoes, on which he had come in.

They may not have been friends, but Psycho had the greatest respect for the man he had initially feared.  During his time in the quiet room and the two
weeks he lay catatonic in bed, B
ill had not touched a single item in Psycho
’
s closet
.  B
ill knew where the cigarettes were and yet had not helped himself to a single one.

Only after Psycho was vaguely lucid an
d able to dole out a smoke did B
ill speak.  “I been ‘moking buttsies.  I’m ‘lad you’re better.

The man could have robbed him blin
d.  But where B
ill did not have brains nor social skills, what he did have was integrity.

But now there was a new roommate, a backwoods hermit named Ed.  If you’ve ever seen the hillbilly character on the old bottles of Mountain Dew, then you’ve seen Ed.  The only difference was that instead of a cork flying out of a moonshine jug as an accessory, Ed had a sinuous scar from the middle of his forehead to the bridge of his nose.  It looked like a centipede had fossilized on his face.   No doctor had stitched this gap, this had been a home job with baling wire and a grappling hook.

And as quiet as B
ill had been, Ed was equally talkative.  He had been in the security wing for the last six months and had earned the right to be on the low risk unit as part of his transition program.

Psycho took the arrival of his new roommate as blandly as yesterday’s mashed potatoes.  He had not the slightest bit of reservation or fear.  Once you have re-lived a
decade’s
worth of nightmarish experiences, everything else is wallpaper. 

One thing that helped, was that he had exhausted his carton of cigarettes long ago, and was now buying them by the pack.  He knew he couldn’t t
rust this new guy, like he had B
ill, so the pack, and the few dollars he had left, he kept concealed with care.

After the first
week Ed
talked himself out and mercifully went in search of fresh ears to hear his repeated tales.

It gave Psycho time for reflection. 

The people he had seen come and go during the last 16 weeks were all really kids inside.  Kids cowering in fear, kids begging for attention, look at me, listen to me.  Kids who had been brutalized emotionally and physically far, far worse than he.  Kids, who were now adults.  Adults who were trying to come to terms with things that happened when they were kids.

He knew of one patient, intelligent, fit, confident, who was frequently mistaken for a staff member.  But he had been locked in a rotted cellar, on a daily basis, by his babysitter for almost two years. 

Another patient had gruesome scars on his legs, his step-father having dropped him in scalding bathwater for knocking over a beer bottle. 

Fondling, beating, choking, molesting, abusing, starving, drugging, drinking.

This was where they came. 

This was where they learned.

‘I’m not the only one.’

For many, the hardest part was just being locked up.  By definition it wasn’t a jail, it was a hospital.  But in reality, the only times your feet felt the grass and the sun hit your face were the day of your commitment and that of your discharge. 

And discharge was what they had been talking about with Psycho.  He thought of what awaited him
in the Elm.  Top of the list, F
ather Milliken.  The rest of the list, blank.

He thought of a few things that could go on that list but they had no appeal.  Home, if they would have him back, school, if they would have him back, the prospect hole, he was sure they would
not
have him back.

He knew that his car was gone – repossessed.  He suspected that his music was also gone – dumped in the garbage by his mother like so much Halloween candy.  So what did that leave him? 

Pot.

The word delighted his emotions and ravaged his intellect. 

‘Just for the chance to feel again, to float, to have the world scroll by in animated slow motion.’  His emotions whispered.

‘It’s what got you in trouble in the first place.’  His intellect screamed.

Psycho did not have the answers today, and that was alright.  He knew he wasn’t ready and that he and Mr. Thelen would talk more about his future.

For now, he was fine where he was at.  He was safe, he was fed, he had cigarettes, and he had his routine.

He was institutionalized.

2

Scott Thelen had never been to Elmwood.  He had three stops to make; two of them planned, the third, more out of curiosity.

Highway 91 took him to the edge of town where he made a preliminary stop in advance of his primary objectives.  “Thank heaven for 7-11” he muttered to his own ears.

He parked and then walked to the open-ended phone booth near the front door.  The phone he didn’t need, what he did need was directions.

“Sakes.”  He could have predicted it.  The street map in the tattered phone book had long ago been torn out by some inconsiderate moron.   He replaced the book on the shelf and headed inside.  The store was empty, the clerk unoccupied. 

“I’m looking for directions and the phone book…”  “Street maps are right there.”  The clerk clipped Scott
’
s inquiry off midstream and pointed to the rack of maps right in front of him.