Rotten (2 page)

12 years later …

Father Joseph Laurie was the sweetest man I knew. At ninety-four years old, you would think that the mind would start to slip, yet despite his body falling into decline, his intellect stayed sharp as a tack. I requested this meeting because I was done. I had reached the end of my rope and saw no way out of the situation I was in that wouldn’t alter my good standing with the Catholic Church. To me that title seemed more important than the reality of what was occurring in my life. Surely this man of God would have a solution to my moral dilemma.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I always felt so weird saying that, especially in this moment, but not because I found confession odd. My mouth suddenly became parched, and the iced tea he had served was begging for a quick drink to moisten the desert where my tongue now rested.

Fuck it.

Picking up the dripping cold glass, I slowly tasted the slightly bitter liquid as my ears took in his words.

“Tell me, child, how you have sinned against God.”

Without any reservation, he quietly sat and waited for my response, his wrinkled hands steady as he picked up his own glass of tea. My eyes began to burn as tears forced their way out of the corners and down my cheeks.

“I think about other men all the time…constantly…and I can’t shut it off. I have tried everything; I need help.”

As I sobbed into the massive ball of tissues that was starting to collect on the corner of the table, he reached for a peanut butter cookie and took a small bite while in deep thought.

“How many men have you thought about? Two or Three? Have you acted upon these thoughts?”

Shaking my head swiftly, my response was instant.

“No, never, Father. I would never do such a thing. I love my husband; that’s why I am here. I want to make it stop!”

Dropping my head, I knew he wanted an answer to the other question as well.

“No, not two or three. Maybe two or three hundred.”

He was still intent on hearing me, so I continued with my confession.

“But you see, I haven’t been intimate with my husband for nearly four years. He has severe diabetes and takes a medication that keeps him from getting aroused. If he doesn’t take it, it’s terrible. I know I am a horrible person, but I just don’t know what to do – it’s driving me crazy!”

A slight look of shock passed through his eyes at my honesty, yet he did not flinch. I imagined what all this man had heard in the sixty-plus years of service he had devoted his life to.

“Nearly four years and nothing? That must be very difficult. Has he talked to his doctor? Have you been to counseling?”

“We know why it keeps happening, he feels awful, and he knows it’s upsetting to me. He is a wonderful husband in every way, but I am only twenty-nine. I think because I don’t physically see the issue, it’s hard for me to come to terms with.”

His kind blue eyes looked at me with pity. As he formulated his response, I knew it wasn’t going to be what I wanted to hear. I wanted some holy inspired advice that would allow me to walk out of his kitchen and be okay with the world.

“Stay the course; this is your cross. Ask God for strength, and he will help you carry it. You are on the road to sainthood.”

He laughed at his last remark. I couldn’t help but laugh, too. Growing up in a small town with a father who owned the local strip club made my skin tough as leather. The endless taunts and teasing from both the kids at school and their parents still haunted my memory no matter how hard I tried to be socially acceptable. As soon as I could leave that forsaken dust bowl, the city of Bloomington welcomed me with open arms. I did what many graduates did – I married a local, bought a corn hole set and tailgated at Hoosier games. It was normal. Somehow this path to sainthood felt just as difficult as the road to hell I was bound for when growing up. At least that is what I was told when I tried to attend Vacation Bible School at the local Baptist church.

As a psychologist, I know why I think and feel that, and it is completely irrational. In my vain attempts to understand the inner workings of the human mind, I failed to navigate through my own issues. I hid them well, though. Beneath the J. Crew sweater sets and comfortable flat shoes, I was a world away from the g-strings and Lucite stilettos of my past. The only pole I associated with was the one that held flags in my driveway. And the closest I came to Sloan was Las Vegas, where I visited once a year for Father’s Day. I knew my daddy was proud of me, despite my disdain for the family business. It afforded me the ability to form a new identity, one I considered respectable. Speaking to the priest and calling him father made me think of the old man who waited so patiently for his little girl to come home.

“Father, I have another sin I need to confess.” This time an unperceivable smile pulled at my lips. I wasn’t really sorry, but I thought he could use the laugh.

“Yes, my child. What would you like to confess to God?”

“When I was in kindergarten, I made a set of pasties as a craft. I got into trouble, and on the way to the principal’s office, I slapped the teacher on the ass and said, ‘That’s right, sweetheart’. I got kicked out of school that day.”

Shaking his head, he seemed a little confused. “You were just a child; you didn’t know better. God does not hold those sins against us.”

The memory that brought me a moment of joy suddenly broke my heart.

“I knew it would hurt my daddy’s feelings to act out. I sinned knowingly, and I still do.”

I took another sip of tea, and could feel that my penance would exceed the disappointment of walking out of here without the peace I craved. I should have known better and kept quiet. What did I know about entertaining priests?

Making the sign of the cross, I was absolved of my sins. My penance was as predicted.

“I will keep you and your husband in my prayers. Trust that God has a reason for this. Your penance is to stop sinning against your father and to go make things right. Even if you disagree with him, you are still required to respect him. Honor thy father. Sound familiar?”

Blowing out a deep breath, I gathered the damp tissues in my fist and walked towards the wastebasket in the corner. As I picked up my purse, Father Joseph lifted his hand to speak again.

“You know why women can’t be priests, right?”

Shaking my head, I waited for the answer.

He purposely coughed before the words came out.

“Because they can’t keep their mouths shut.”

A brilliant sparkle filled his eyes. And that was why I loved this man. I just told him my darkest secrets, and he left me with a joke. Giving him the biggest smile, I promised to stop by for his anniversary party the next week.

Honor thy father
. The bottle of wine couldn’t empty itself in my glass quickly enough. Scouring travel sites for plane tickets leaving last minute was going to cost me a fortune. Yet the guilt of having a postponed reconciliation weighed far heavier than the deduction to my bank account. My husband, Andrew, never questioned such things. He knew I was the most obsessive compulsive individual on the face of the earth. My closet may be color coded, but in matters of reckoning the soul, all bets were off.

I would not be able to make Father Joseph’s anniversary as promised. Stopping by with his favorite chicken salad and beloved sweet tea, the dark shadows under my eyes told him everything he needed to know before I opened my mouth.

“My daddy had a stroke. He’s at the hospital in a coma; I got the call last night.”

Looking out the window into the cold, dreary afternoon, it was almost as if God was preparing me before this next step of the journey. Some people never have the chance to make things right. I only hoped I had enough time to do so. Father Joseph did not remind me of what he had just spoken just a few days ago. After he gave me his blessing, I went on my way. Leaving Indiana with a suitcase full of shorts and sandals at the end of February made me wish I was going anywhere else but home.

Sloan was a shithole. With a population of less than three hundred people, perhaps you couldn’t expect a whole lot, but this was special. My father’s club was called
The Spur of the Moment
. The long-standing joke was that it was where strippers came to die. Resting just on the outskirts of Las Vegas, there was no other reason to venture that way. Growing up, I couldn’t deny there was something different about the club. I never witnessed a brawl that didn’t end quickly; it was always packed, and everyone seemed happy. Those small nuances contributed to my warped sense of what life should be and made the harsh remarks that much more severe.

Still, I hadn’t stepped one foot in Sloan since the day I left at eighteen for college. My father never complained. Stephen Knox had a stoic nature about him, even with the sun beaten skin of years spent riding under the harsh desert light on his Harley Davidson. He held a rigid schedule which he adhered to faithfully. Haircuts every third Sunday, polished his cowboy boots every Tuesday night. Saw his lady friends on Wednesday for lunch, never dinner, and took me into the city every Saturday morning to find a new art project or board game that we would play the rest of the afternoon until he had to leave for work.

His soft grey eyes were never cross with me, not like they were to those whom he was acquainted. Simply referred to as
Knox,
he was handsome, no doubt about it. Nevertheless, even being in front of his daughter did not stop him from throwing a punch at some sorry sonofabitch who deserved it. He told me that my mama was a sweet young thing he had no business falling in love with. He met her at the Golden Nugget where she was a cocktail waitress. It took three weeks to convince her to get on his bike. One thing led to another, and she got knocked up. He begged her to marry him, but she kept refusing, even as her belly swelled. The day I was born, she called him to the hospital to come and get me, or she was giving me up.

He said when he took one look into my blue eyes, nothing else mattered. My small palm grasped his index finger and held on for dear life. Mama disappeared after that. There was no love lost for the woman who chose to abandon us. Despite being surrounded by women, I was the only one who held my daddy’s heart. Unfortunately, I must have had a little too much of my mama in me, because I too skipped town the first chance I could. Now I stood outside of his door in the same damn hospital where she left us. I could hear the machines that were keeping him alive giving the monotonous chimes.

In a medicated slumber, he seemed so at peace. He had lost a good ten pounds since last year, yet overall looked the same. Sitting in the small chair off to the side, I laced my fingers through his, careful not to disturb the tubing that ran all around.

“Daddy, I’m here.”

He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. I sat and rested my head against the plastic-coated mattress and allowed myself to finally rest. As I floated in and out of consciousness, my childhood played through my dreams like a movie reel. I saw sunshine and sprinklers…my father in his cut-off shorts, laughing hysterically with a beer can in his hands and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The band, Pink Floyd, played loudly from the large stereo in the house where he had dragged the speakers to the porch.

I could smell the chicken on the barbeque and the coconut-scented oil the women from the club used to darken their skin. My father lived to entertain, no matter where he was. The impact of a water balloon hitting my back startled me from my sleep.
David Stark
. That stupid little fucker was always so mean to me. Still leaning against my arm, I slipped back into the dream.

“Toni, wake up.”

No one called me Toni. My name was Antoinette. If anyone tried to shorten it, they always called me Annie. My eyes fluttered, fighting the urge to move.

“No, go away, whoever you are.”

“Toni, it’s me; you need to get up. The nurses said you need to leave. They are taking him down for some testing, and then he will be moved back to the ICU.”

The voice claiming “me” was not who I was expecting. When I finally opened my eyes, a massive body hovered before me.

“I will get up in a minute, I promise.”

I lied. I tried to go to sleep again. Strong arms lifted me from my resting spot and cradled me gently. With my face pressed against a rock hard chest, I inhaled deeply and found residues of tobacco and musk. I wasn’t frightened; I was too tired to care.

Slipping back into the dream, I was now seventeen. His lips were full and soft. I had never really kissed a boy, but I had hoped this was how it was supposed to be. He moved slowly and carefully. I could feel the erection in his jeans pressing into my stomach as his knees nudged my legs apart.

“Toni, you’re okay.”

His words sunk deep into my heart as I gave myself to him. This boy who played with me in the desert and let me beat him at the game of fort. The one who camped with me in the back yard and chased away the scorpions with a stick when I was afraid. His lips slightly trembled while unbuttoning my pants. Helping him to pull them down, I needed him to know I was ready. I trusted him.