Amen's Boy. William Maltese
that they were going to harm me, make me sleep on the floor between their beds, and thump ashes on me and who knows what all when they got really drunk.
I saw Father’s Chevrolet keys on the table by the door, and I was the only one wearing shoes, so I didn’t hesitate to grab the keys to the car, run out the front door in a flash, jump three steps at a time, make it through the sand thistles and stickers much faster than Rebel or Brucie could pursue me barefooted.
I was in the car. They reached for the door handles I slapped down the locks, and cut them off, stopping their charge against me. It was like I had a tank.
I moved over to the steering wheel. I only came up to the center of it, but I could push the horn with no trouble, and began trumpeting a sound into the early night audible all through the Blueberry Hill woods and bayou camping area. Father Terry came with his shoes just partially on, and began banging on the window like a child, himself, and pleading in loud whispers for me to hush up, and to stop honking the horn before I caused the police to come.
I kept on honking. I challenged him to send everybody into the camp building, and while they all went back inside I stayed safely locked in the car. I stopped screaming and stopped honking the horn, but kept my hands on the horn and steering wheel just in case. I was serious and holding out for some drastic protection. In many ways, I was an adult when it came to abuse, and I was determined not to lose out in this challenge. I knew not to give in too fast to bullies.
“Come out, Tadpole,” Father was saying, but he looked drunk, and not his usual self. “You’re okay, what’s wrong?”
I told him through a tiny crack in the vent window about the threats to make me a slave to their drinking all night, and Father Terry told me they were just joking. I knew they were not joking. I held out, and I didn’t unlock the door. Finally, Father promised to make the boys all go get in their bunks and have lights out, then he’d come escort me into the house, and I would get to sleep inside in one of the bedrooms, not out on the screened in porch, away from the drunken teens.
I thought of it as a victory and a win over the duller boys. I was even more secure when Father told me I could share the double bed he was sleeping in with him. I put on my pajamas, knelt to say my prayers, and crawled into the big bed, piled with cotton sheets and an abundance of pillows. Father was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, and I heard him peeing with the door open, and then he turned out the bathroom light, walked out on the porch and told the guys to stay put until morning, and to pee off the porch if they had to go during the night, not to make a ruckus using the indoor toilet.
I was surprised to find Father smelled of tobacco, tobacco mixed with the smell of toothpaste, and the day’s remnant of cheap aftershave still on. The night surrounded us and a tumultuous roar of tree frogs began, and crickets by the thousands, night birds calling strange calls, and then thunder in the distance, slowly coming. I woke up with the sound of the heavy rain on the tin roof above us making a roar. I lay still. Thunder followed bright flashes of lightening that were so frequent that it was like a strobe light, and the sound of the rain was like pebbles being dropped onto the tin roof. I lay still, peeked over to see Father Terry’s face looking at me, but his eyes were closed. I did not move.
The storm lightened and got heavy again, and I must have drifted off to sleep, but when I halfway woke up, I felt Father next to me. In his sleep he was lying against me. I was facing him, on my right side, and his tummy was against mine. It was too warm for bed covers, and we were under a single white sheet. I felt safer next to him, but for some reason I knew not to move. I didn’t know what to do. I felt his body warmth and then he pressed closer to me. It was a mixture of sensations. The bristly beard on his chin was against my forehead, and felt rough. His arm was lying on top of me, heavy and hairy. I felt pressure below my navel from him. Somehow, I knew not to move away. I would have disturbed him if I pulled out from under his arm. I felt paralyzed, unable to move, and he lay like this next to me all night.
I slept some, but he woke me now and then with pressure on me, and it was getting sweaty between us. I didn’t know for sure how, but he was poking me firmly in my underwear. He pressed against me and then let up, and then after a while of wiggling around some, repositioning and talking in his sleep saying, “Sally, oh Sally.” I would feel him pulling me into his arms firmly. He called out this girl’s name every now and then. I froze in place. It seemed I should not move. I did not move. Hours passed. Small rearrangements continued by him, but we did not speak to each other. I thought he was faking being asleep. However, I didn’t know what to do except I knew not to disturb anyone during the night at the camp. Secrecy seemed key. It seemed like a secret closeness. At one point I woke from sleep and felt a warm wetness released on me. It was the first time I ever felt a man fully intimate against me like that. He slept afterwards, snoring.
This was not how it began. There was this time when we were alone together, in the Chevy and on the road at night on Saturday nights going to the mission, and coming home to Assisi Parish from the Blueberry Hill Bayou Chapel where Father celebrated Saturday night Mass. The fishermen could hear Mass on Saturday nights and thereby be free to go out in the wee early hours of Sunday to fish. I was selected his altar boy. I lived across the street from Assisi Church front door. I always got called to special services, like funerals, and weddings. Being called upon frequently when things popped up at the church exposed me to all manner of church activities: funerals, weddings, Masses, the Way of the Cross, Adoration of the Holy Eucharist all of which required advanced server skills, and since practice makes perfect for Latin and the ins and outs of liturgy they called on me a lot because I knew all the routines. Being one of the knowledgeable altar boys made all the rituals into easy routines and I was proud of my skills as an altar server.
I liked the safety of father Terry’s Chevrolet. I lived in hell at home, and Father Terry knew, and he tried to help me.
My brother, Bubba, was violent towards me. I didn’t know why he hated me so much, but he told me he would rather have a snake for a brother than me. He beat me. He hung me from trees upside down with a rope tied around just one ankle. He whipped my back and legs with his bullwhip. He took me to the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus and put me on rides that made me puke. He kicked me in my ribs and tackled me hard throwing me onto the ground hurting me. He pushed me out of the boat when we were fishing, and drove so fast I lay on the back floor of the car while my parents yelled at him to slow down. He wouldn’t.
I heard him call me a lot of names and some of them I didn’t know what they meant, but I got it figured out he hated me because I was a “sissy” and a “mama’s boy.” He was very jealous of my mother’s love for me. I was an embarrassment to him.
I didn’t mind the time in bed with Father at camp, and I didn’t mind not getting a whole night’s sleep because he was protecting me, and I felt in need of protection all the time. My dream in life was to live where I could be safe and free from harm, free from the constant criticism, free of fear from my family day and night. I dreamed of being a child in the forest living alone in a tree house. I had a playmate come to me in my dreams, always naked, a boy about a foot tall, but each night in dreams he comforted me and we played camping and army games in the forest, but only in my dreams. My wish to be safe and to have a brother-like friend was unfulfilled at this point in my life. I was beaten more than once a week. Always it had been this way. Always.
When this camping trip ended, on the next day, I sat next to Father Terry in the car. He pulled me next to him and put his arm over my shoulder and let me lean against him for the ride home. The other guys cut up and joked around, making farting sounds, and being “bad” in a subdued way. No one mentioned that Father held me next to him. On the car radio somewhat quietly Fats Domino was singing about finding his “thrill on Blueberry Hill.” All the guys were laughing and making like Tarzan’s monkey (Cheetah faces), faking kisses at each other. It was kind of funny.
Coming home at other times from the Saturday night Masses at Blueberry Hill alone together, Father Terry and I were always both in a good mood. Father always left a few tablespoons of wine in the cruet for me to sip after Mass, and then we put on the radio to dreamy music and I would lean under his arm and watch the green lights of the 1956 Chevy dashboard. The bright light indicator came on and off as cars passed in the night, and