by D Keith Mano
scrape inside her ear. And turn a page. She was, as always, as
vulnerable as she was strong. And sexy here: defenses down,
engaged. I was moved.
“ Kay. Don’t jum p, it’s m e.”
“ Oh—” She closed the book, but not without marking her
place.
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“ I came over the rooftops, like a cat burglar.”
“ Oh.” Kay stood. “ Michael, I was bitchy today. I was unforgiving and cruel. I was what my father taught me never t’be—
uncivil.”
“ I understand—”
“ It’s seeing you when we’re around Ethel—the anger I feel
toward her, but I ’m too polite t’express it. Then that anger gets
lumped on top of what I already feel toward you—the hurt part.
So you get a double dose.”
“ I deserve—”
“ And even if our relationship is over—”
“ Is it over?”
“ Don’t interrupt me. I said if, isn’t that enough? Even if, I
still cherish you as a friend and you’re in trouble. I wanted t’be
with you on this night—before you—”
“ Resign.”
“ Yes.”
“ That was kind of you. I ’m glad you came. Shall we go out
and get coffee?”
“ Over the roof?”
“ No. Well, you could go down the stairs, and I could meet
you—”
“ Don’t you have coffee in there?”
“ Of course. I wasn’t sure if it was—well—proper.”
“ Oh, bullshit,” she said, using the word self-consciously.
“ Let’s not make Kay out t’be a total prude. I ’ve had coffee in a
man’s room before.”
“ Whose room?”
“ Oh, Professor Higgets.”
“ He’s ninety.”
“ Open the door.”
So I did. And I flicked the lights on. And I said, “ I haven’t
had time to straighten up.” And—
Saw Berry lying nude on my living-room couch.
“ Straighten up isn’t the word,” said Kay.
Berry came awake and said, “ H i.” Then she saw Kay and
sat upright. Berry jerked a pillow over her vitals. “ What is this,
Mike, a free show?”
“ Well,” said Kay. “ If you’d ever wear clothes these things
wouldn’t happen.”
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D. Keith Mano
“ Wait—” I said. And BOTH of them, in simultaneous pique,
said,
“ W hat’s the meaning of this—” Kay said “ M ichael,” and
Berry said “ M ike,” but they were p .o .’d at the same guy.
“ U h,” I said.
“ I thought,” said Kay, “ that you’d broken with her.”
“ I have. Only. I haven’t been able t’tell her, Berry, about it.
The phone—”
“ Don’t believe him ,” said Berry. “ I mean, you’re not sucker
enough t ’believe him, are you?”
“ Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. It’s none of your business. ”
“ Listen,” said Berry. “ I know him—since he was 9 years
old, I know him. You know some priest out in Nebraska who
blesses old ladies. I know him. People like you cock and bulled
Mike into this guilt trip about serving God. H e’s a man, not a
faggot priest. Whyncha just go home and leave us New Yorkers
in peace?”
“ Lay oif, Berry,” I said.
“ N o,” said Kay, “ I think she’s probably right.”
“ She is NOT right. This has been a terrible misunderstanding. We’re all embarrassed and—”
“ You feel something for her,” said Kay. “ She’s at home
here, I can tell that. I shouldn’t have come. I apologize. To both
of you. Goodbye.”
And Kay left.
“ Berry,” I said.
“ Let it go, Mike. Come into my arms and be my king.”
Berry got up then. She was nude and I was clothed—there is
always something unsettling about that contrast. It’s what makes
Dejeuner sur I ’herbe seem obscene. The clothed ones are taking
advantage. And then, on top of that, Berry stumbled. Her nudity, for one instant, wasn’t graceful. The awe I had felt for her body slipped away. And then, for a moment, I saw her eyelids
flicker uncontrollably. A spasm of flickering. And the anger in
me took over. I announced what my secret self had known for
weeks—but had hidden, because I still wanted to fuck Berry,
still wanted her to ornament my self-esteem. Now that I was
through with Berry—now that I had chosen Kay and safety—I
said,
“ W hat’re you on? Crack? Heroin?”
“ ’Scuse?” Berry put one hand over her nipples in mock
befuddlement. But it didn’t work. I was clothed and she was
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nude: for a good reason police interrogations proceed that way
in savage lands. Somehow the naked feel guilty—not innocent
as you might think. And, to underline the authority of my clothing—it is a cruelty I will never forgive myself for—I took her by the bare, sweet shoulders and shook her brutally.
“ What is it? What’re you on?”
“ You hurt m e,” she said.
“ You do drugs, don’t you? You even sell them. You took the
coke I had under the sink and you switched it for some kind of
French laxative, didn’t you? Right?” She didn’t answer. “ No
one else had access to it but you. You’re on something, right?”
“ I have a little problem with heroin. Yes.”
“ Heroin. My God.”
“ It’s not the end of the world.” Berry had picked up a sheet
and draped her nakedness with it. This gave her some courage.
“ I don’t skin pop. It’s not needles and things. And AIDS. I just
snort a little.”
“ Please leave.”
“ Oh. Oh, yes. I ’m beyond the pale now. What a wonderful
excuse t’leave and go back to Miss Nebraska.”
“ Please leave.”
“ Mike. I ’ll detox. I ’ve done it before on methadone. I ’ll do
it again. I ’ll do you proud. But I can’t handle it without you. I
can’t give you up and give up dope at the same time. Be there
for m e.”
“ Be there for you? I don’t even trust your kisses now. I don’t
even know if you’re in love or in a trance. And—” It came to
me then. “ You . . . . you made me go up against Leonard because you wanted his drug franchise at The Car. You’re not afraid of him. You’re so desperate you’re not even afraid of
Leonard. And if you’re not afraid of Leonard you’re too scary
for m e.”
“ Give me another chance. Forgive m e.”
“ I don’t have to,” I said. “ I ’m not a priest any more.”
I went into my bedroom then. I pulled Berry’s drawer out,
brought it back, and dumped her belongings on the living-room
floor. Nothing further was said. I returned to my bedroom and
shut the door behind me. Five or six minutes later I heard the
front door slam.
God forgive me, I didn’t see her again after that.
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SUNDAY, JULY 24
I made my way out to St. Lebbeus in Bayside early—it was a
four p.m. service. Afterward, Plunk was scheduled to bless St.
time to rehearse my sermon. I speak without notes and need to
have all the topic headings memorized. I felt good—though not
happy—about my decision to resign. After Saturday night’s head-
on collision (with strong elements of Restoration farce) between
Berry and Kay, I didn’t feel, uh, hallowed, shall we say. Anyhow, I thought, what choice do I have? Muammar Qaddafi had prospects for advancement in the Episcopal Church compared
to me.
At about three-thirty, I left my air-conditioned car and walked
four blocks to the church. The heat had congealed into a communal mustard plaster. I shone with sweat. There were thunder clouds stacked on the horizon like huge, psychotic Michelin Tire
men. The St. Lebbeus people were edgy: they had a refreshment
tent set up outside that was just itching to become a hot-air
balloon with the right updraft. Keep it short, I told myself. Bad
enough to offload your shame on these good folks, don’t make
them miss their macaroni salad, too.
Plunk was already in the little vesting alcove—quite stuck,
head half in, head half out of his chasuble. (He had left his
glasses on. They got hooked on the collar material.) Plunk was
grateful when I rescued him—and I felt like a heel for involving
his diocese.
At which moment Augustus Manning came in.
“ You’re late as usual, G us,” Plunk said. “ There was no one
t’help me, until Mike came. I would’ve suffocated in my own
chasuble.”
Manning said, “ A h.” Then he stared at me, stared back at
Plunk, took one step sideward, dropped his valise, which hit
Plunk’s crosier, which fell, whacking Plunk across the back of
his neck.
“ You are the clumsiest man, G us,” said Plunk.
“ A h,” said Manning.
“ Are you having a stroke or something?” said Plunk. “ Or
is it just your normal befuddlement?”
“ The heat,” said Manning. I knew, by this time, that he
would offer no threat. Manning was plainly terrorized by my
presence.
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“ Yes, the heat,” said Plunk. “ I, of course, will haveta endure
the heat, mummified in purple. Go, sit with the congregation,
Gus. Michael and I and Mr. Bennett will manage. Just get me
a copy of the bell-tower program. ”
“ Yes,” said Manning. He looked once at me and backed
out.
“ Between you and m e,” Plunk said, “ Manning dropped the
chalice once—just after preparing the sacrament. Suffered some
kind of psychosomatic paralysis in his left arm. For years. ”
“ I may have startled him.”
“ Oh, yes. I ’m sure. Seeing a priest in church. Very unexpected, that. No, ever since the accident there’s been something wrong with him.” Plunk picked up his crosier and took a few
practice three-wood swings with it. “ Well, make your sermon
short and make it interesting.”
“ It’ll be interesting,” I told him.
I saw Kay—left side of the nave, ten rows back—when I
climbed the pulpit stairs to begin my sermon. I was grateful that
she had come. Especially after her heart-to-heart talk with Berry.
Manning had his hands clasped between his thighs—groin-level
prayer, I thought. I opened the Bible in front of me, though I
knew my text by rote. There was a stomach-grumble of thunder
to the west. I inhaled. And noted, with resignation, that some
parish historian was videotaping the entire service.
“ Matthew 5, verses 27 and 28. ‘Ye have heard that it was
said by them of old—Thou shaft not commit adultery. But I say
unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her
hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.’ ” I
paused. I stared down at Manning. He had begun to sit forward:
a kinetic something had engaged his body. “ Jesus was a tough
prosecutor. He made no legalistic distinction between the
thought and the act. If you look at a woman with lust in your
heart, Jesus said, it is as if you had taken carnal advantage of
her.
“ We live in an age of technicalities. A child may be aborted
before a certain month, not after. Men plead insanity to escape
murder charges. Pornography is free speech and not a rape of
our sensibilities.
“ Have you read the headlines this past week—or have you
modestly averted your eyes? I refer to the sensational murders
that took place in a topless bar twenty minutes from here called
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D. Keith Mono
The Smoking Car. Tvo young women were brutally killed. The
murderer is unknown and still at large.
“ Me, I ’m surprised that more such crimes don’t take place.
In fact, those murders are just an image, an emblem, an acting-
out, of many inner murders. Murders of the spirit that occur
every day in places like The Smoking Car.
“ A case can be made for nudity as art. A case can be made
for dancing as art. But, let’s face it, they’re shoddy cases, pretty
much. Between the topless dancer and her admirer there exists
a sexual charge that both insults and cheapens the human soul.
IT IS NOT HARMLESS, no matter what apologists may tell
you. It grinds the affections and stupefies those who seek beauty.
It is not something Christians should countenance. It is certainly
not something priests should countenance.
“ I know,” I said, “ because, for the last month, I have managed The Smoking C ar.”
A low, droning “ Ehhhhh?” noise came from the congregation. Kay put a handkerchief to her mouth. I looked down at Manning, but his seat was empty. I thought of Hamlet’s guilty
uncle racing from the play. And, for the first time then, I suspected him. But I went on.
“ You don’t understand what I ’m saying—you weren’t prepared for this, and I ’m sorry t’trouble you on such a festive day. ’ ’
Thunder rolled, but I had their attention. “ Let me repeat, make
it clear. Day by day and night by night, I ran a topless bar. I, a
priest of God so ordained.
‘ ‘I took over The Smoking Car for reasons that I thought were
extenuating. Good reasons. Charitable reasons. But you cannot
employ sin in the service of good. And no one, believe me,
should tempt the devil. I have sinned. I have alienated people I
love. I have brought suspicion of murder on myself. And, most
of all, I have embarrassed my priesthood.
“ Which I now resign.”
Carefully—but gracefully, thank God—I lifted my vestments
off. I laid them across the lectern. I was down to my clerical
blacks. I popped the collar.
“ You see a man devastated. But he is still a Christian man. I
have resigned my priesthood, I have not renounced my faith.
The greatest sin of all is despair. Because it is always in God’s
power to forgive. And those who despair deny His power, deny
His very essence. I—in such a precarious state of soul as I am—
cannot afford t’commit that last sin.
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“ And so I will now
descend and sit among you. And, when
the sacraments are prepared by this kind and holy bishop, I will
approach the table, hoping—as we all do—that I will not be
turned away. ’ ’
Plunk didn’t turn me away. He did, however, say, as he administered the chalice, “ I hope you choke on it. ”
I understood his feelings. What baffled me was the reception
I got while exiting St. Lebbeus afterward. A significant ad hoc
committee had formed—at least twelve parishioners and most
of them women —supporting my right to manage a topless bar
and celebrate the mass.
“ We’re with you 150 percent,” said one middle-aged lady.
“ These aren’t the dark ages. You have a right t’take your ministry wherever God calls.”
No way I could explain that God hadn’t called. Ethel had
called. I began doubting my ability to communicate in English.
Somehow they were mad at that “ conservative old chauvinist”
Bishop Plunk. The whole issue was neatly inverted. I was challenging the Plunk status quo. A young priest with unorthodox ideas (but plenty of passion) was being persecuted by die Episcopal auto-da-fe.
At which point the new bell began ringing. People cheered.
Then it was noted by all that the ringing had become rather
inane—rather like the first bars of “ La Cucaracha.” Over and
over and OVER again. The mechanism had gone haywire and
could not be unplugged. The insistent repetition of “ La Cucaracha” is, believe me, exquisitely maddening. I felt sorry for those people—I had ruined their celebration. In fact, one old
man pointed at the bell tower, then said to me, “ You did this.
You brought this down on us.”
I went over to Plunk. I said, “ I ’ll call you.”
And Plunk said, “ Oh, please do that. Please.” And turned
his back on me.
Then thunder crashed, and I got out of there.
Kay caught up to me as I ran for the Lincoln. Her face was
flushed. When Kay’s really emotional a hectic blush rises up
along her throat. It’s attractive.
“ That—that took guts,” she said.
“ Thank you for coming.”
“ What did that group of people say? Were they very cruel?”
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D. Keith Mono
“ Actually,” I said, “ I think they wanted me t’run for the
state assembly—but listen. This storm is passing. I ’m no longer
