by Alan E. Rose
“Tell me about the cabin,” said Lucia.
It was night, and dark inside but for the beam from a small flashlight. Peter was lying on the floor, dozing off, when he heard Billy’s bum foot clomping on the floorboards around his head. He wondered what his friend was up to, but he was too sleepy to care. Then someone was tugging and pulling off his sneakers, and he raised himself up onto his elbows. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Billy grinned at him in the faint light. “Wanna get together one more time?”
His head felt heavy and thick, like he’d been drugged. He was lying in his white briefs as Billy’s face came floating up out of the darkness, hovering before him, then leaned in closer and kissed him on the lips (“Boys do not kiss. Unless they’re gay.”) His head was too heavy and he slumped back onto the floor, gazing up into the rafters of the cabin (“Did you see the boy hanging from the ceiling?”) Something was shifting in the dream and he was becoming scared. (“Suddenly, we heard breathing behind us.”)
He tried to get up off the floor, but he was too dizzy and couldn’t stand. Rough hands forced him back down. “No, let me go.” The hands flipped him over onto his stomach and a strong arm on his back pressed him against the mattress as his briefs were being yanked off. “No, I don’t want to do this!” His legs were being forced apart and he shouted, “Stop it! I don’t want to do this!” He felt the weight and warmth of a body lying on top of him. His legs were being spread further. “No! Don’t!” He felt the pressure. The snake was trying to enter. “No!” he cried. He struggled while keeping his buttocks clamped together, but his legs were being forced wider, his cries muffled as his face was shoved into the mattress. He grimaced as the serpent was forcing its way in. Then it broke through, and a scream filled the cabin.
Peter jumped awake.
He was sitting in his bed, breathing heavily, and shaking. He looked around the dark bedroom and quickly turned on the lamplight, then lay back down, drawing the blankets around him, trembling from the terror of the dream. Was it only a dream? Or was it a memory? Or the dream of a memory? He continued to lie curled up in a ball, calming himself. His breathing gradually returned to normal as he turned over the pieces of the nightmare in his mind. But if it was a memory, he reasoned, could Billy really have forced him? It didn’t seem likely. Peter was bigger and stronger. No, he could easily have fought him off. Billy couldn’t have done it alone—
Peter’s breath caught.
Billy couldn’t have done it alone.
The realization was the cerebral equivalent of a punch to the stomach, and his mind reeled from the blow (“Suddenly, we heard breathing behind us.”) Of course. Someone else had been there with them in the cabin. And with that, all the pieces fell into place, and forty-three-year-old Peter Braddock, successful financial adviser, drew the blankets more tightly around himself and softly began to weep.
*
“Maybe Billy wasn’t such a good friend after all.”
He sat in Lucia’s office, his suit coat draped over a chair, tie undone, feeling physically and emotionally exhausted. He had called her first thing in the morning, requesting to see her, that day if possible. She had heard the urgency in his voice. Yes, she could see him in a half hour, before starting her scheduled appointments.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The dream. I think I understand it now.” He looked up at her. “I think I was sexually assaulted by Billy and Father Scott in the cabin.”
She watched him calmly. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve thought so, too.”
“Oh? And just when were you planning to tell me?”
“I wasn’t. You had to come to that conclusion yourself. I couldn’t risk ‘planting’ a suggestion. It’s a common pitfall in the so-called recovered memory school. No, you had to come to it on your own, Peter.”
He nodded. Yes, he understood. He was looking once again at the camp photo. “Father Scott’s hand is on one of my shoulders, and Billy’s hand is on the other. The answer was there all the time.” He folded it up and put it back in his shirt pocket.
“It would fit with what we know about the traumatic effects of sexual abuse: closing oneself off emotionally, not letting people get close, reducing sex to a physical need to be relieved.”
“What’s strange is that I’ve been able to remember minor details about the camp—things like they served chili mac on Wednesdays—but not the important stuff, not what happened to me in the cabin. How could I forget something like that?”
“Current research on memory suggests that people don’t forget past traumas. But at some level of your mind, you don’t want to remember.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s probably a self-protective mechanism.”
“Protecting me from…?”
“Memories too painful to remember.”
“You’re saying I intentionally forgot the experience?”
“Not exactly forgot. More likely, you blocked it. Like a parent who wants to protect her children by censoring what they see. It’s a kind of willed amnesia. You wanted to forget, so you did.”
“A willed amnesia,” he repeated.
“I suspect that on one level of your mind, you truly can’t remember what happened, but at a deeper level, you can’t forget.”
“So how do I remember then?”
“Perhaps it’s better that you don’t.”
“What?”
She paused. “Some things may be better left unremembered. They were blocked for a reason, Peter.”
“No, I need to remember.”
“Why? Why is it important?”
“Why? Well…” He thought. “How about resolution of past trauma?”
“There may be nothing to resolve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not for our purposes here anyway. Discovering what happened won’t solve your problems. If you want to change your behavior—the way you relate to people, your style of communication with Megan—we can work on the behavior now, without having to know all the horrific details.”
But Peter was adamant. “No, I need to know all the horrific details before I can let it go.”
“What I’m saying is that we can work on your behavior without your needing to know why you are like this. It’s as if you had a sliver in your foot. It doesn’t really matter where you got it, or how it happened. Our task is simply to remove the sliver. Learning what caused your relationships to follow a certain pattern won’t in itself help you change the pattern. That’s the psychoanalytic myth: If we can just analyze the origin of the patient’s neurosis, then the patient will be free of it. But, unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Contrary to popular opinion, the truth does not always set one free. That’s going to take some work. That’s what therapy is about.”
“I understand what you’re saying. But I still need to know what happened to me in that cabin.”
She said softly, “Peter, I think you know what happened to you.”
His eyes dropped. “Then I need to know how it happened. And why.” He stood and began putting on his suit coat. “I need to have it confirmed.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Lucia.
“I think I need to find Father Scott and my ‘best friend.’ Some unfinished camp business we need to discuss.”
She remained seated, watching him. “It happened over thirty years ago. How will you do that?”
“I’ll see if I can track down Father Scott. If I can’t find him, I’ll find Billy. I know where he lives.”
She looked away, as if musing to herself. “You may not like what you find, and once unearthed, you can’t rebury the past. So please consider carefully.”
He buttoned his collar and cinched up his necktie. “You’re saying let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I fear they may be sleeping demons.” She turned back to him. “Much worse than dogs.”
*
Peter was pretty sure he knew what he would find, but he still neede
d it confirmed. He needed to hear it from Father Scott, or Billy, or both. He decided to search for Father Scott first. At the time of the camp, he had been around Peter’s age now, which would put him in his seventies, possibly still serving a parish somewhere. Father Benedict had lasted way into his eighties before the bishop had insisted on his retirement. By that time, the old geezer could barely remain continent through mass. And then there was Billy. Peter had his telephone number, knew he still lived on the coast. It wouldn’t be that hard to get his address.
He was going to need a few days off. Back at his house, he called into work. “Hi, Jack. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take some vacation hours. I need some time to myself. It’s this situation with Megan and me.”
“Sure, Pete. Take whatever time you need. Just let us know what to do with any client accounts while you’re away and we’ll handle it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ve already e-mailed instructions for Suzanne.”
“Good. Oh, and thanks for your help last night. Yamata-san called first thing this morning. DHK is our newest client.”
“Great. My advice? Invest in tattoo parlors.”
Jack laughed. “You take care of yourself, kiddo. And if you need a good home-cooked meal while you and Megan are sorting things out, we’ve always got a plate set for you at our table.”
“Thanks,” Peter whispered and quickly hung up, surprised at the emotion that had suddenly welled up in him.
After he called Jack, he went online and tried to Google the priest. Nothing. He checked the Seattle phone book. Nothing. Called information and assistance and the Washington Ministerial Association. Nothing. Nothing.
Next, he called the Seattle archdiocese office. “Hello. My name is Peter Braddock. I’m trying to locate Father Scott Buchanan who served the Enumclaw parish about thirty years ago.”
He was transferred. The woman he spoke with sounded suspicious.
“And may I ask why you are seeking this priest?”
Of course, they’re suspicious, thought Peter. They could be inviting another multi-million dollar lawsuit.
“My parents are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary in a few months, and they were hoping that Father Scott might be able to attend if he was still in the area,” he lied. “He meant a lot to our family.”
“One moment, please.” He was put on hold. He wondered if it was a mortal sin to lie to the Church, but then quickly dismissed the thought. The Church had told enough of its own lies over the centuries. Even Steven. He heard the line click back on.
“Father Buchanan has retired and is no longer in active service.”
So at least he was still living.
“I see. Is there an address where we could send an invitation to him?”
“You could send it here to the archdiocese office and we’ll see that he gets it.”
“That would be very kind of you,” he said, but didn’t bother writing down the mailing address as the woman gave it to him. He would need to try another route. So he called Megan, whose firm represented the archdiocese on corporate issues. He reached her at her office.
“What’s up?”
“Do you think you could find the name and whereabouts of a priest for me?”
“I can try. What’s this about?”
“Just taking your advice. Trying to find out why I’m this way.”
“You are thinking of going back to the Church?” she asked incredulously.
“More like I’m trying to find out why I left.”
“Well, I guess whatever helps the cause. I’ll see what I can find.”
He gave her Father Scott’s name and the years he served his family’s parish. She called him later that afternoon.
“The priest you’re looking for is retired and apparently in ill health. He’s being cared for in a retreat center run by sisters up outside of Bellingham.” She gave him the name, address, and phone number of the center, and he wrote them down.
“Thanks. I appreciate this.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Do you think the priest can help?”
There was a long pause. “No. I don’t think he can. I think I’m always going to be stuck with me. But at least you don’t have to be.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, Megan. I’m sorry. You were right to leave. You deserve to be happy and with someone who can love you. Now that I understand better, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give you that—you or anyone.” He suddenly choked. “I didn’t realize how fucked up I am.”
“Oh, Peter—”
“I want you to know you’re free. I’ll agree to a divorce. No contest. Whatever you want.”
He could hear her breathing on the other end, shaky, and knew she was fighting back her tears as he was fighting back his own, and he loved her for it, for caring enough about him, about them. Yes, in his own twisted, dysfunctional way, he did love her.
She cleared her throat. “Good luck in your search.”
*
He arrived at the retreat center the next morning, carrying a wrapped gift, and was shown into the mother superior’s office.
“How may I help you?”
“Yes, hello. My name is Peter Braddock. I just recently learned that Father Buchanan was here and in poor health. He was very important to our family as I was growing up, and my mother asked me to give him this present and convey our family’s gratitude and best wishes.”
“I’ll see that Father gets it.”
“Would it be possible for me to deliver this myself? It would mean a lot to me to see him again.”
“Yes, I think that would be all right. If he’s up to it. Father is sitting in the courtyard, enjoying the sun. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you very much.”
As they were walking, she asked, “How long has it been since you last saw Father Buchanan?”
“Over thirty years.”
“Ah. I’m afraid that you’ll find him greatly changed. Father has not much time left in this world. Congestive heart failure, and he’s suffered a series of mini-strokes, beginning about two years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Peter’s guts were tied in a knot in anticipation as they walked through the wisteria-draped arches and entered the courtyard where he saw an old, wizened man asleep in a wheelchair. His chin rested on his chest and he wheezed as he napped. Peter tried to see the handsome priest in this frail, elderly man, but he was only a shell of his former self. To think we come to this, thought Peter.
“He tires quickly,” the mother superior said softly.
“I’ll be brief. I promise.”
She leaned over the old man, gently calling him.
“Father?” He slowly roused. “Father, there is a former parishioner of yours here to pay his family’s respects.”
He stirred and raised his head, and slowly focused on Peter standing before him. Half of his face drooped; his hair had gone gray and wispy.
“Hello, Father. I’m Peter Braddock. You served our parish at Enumclaw many years ago.”
“Hello,” he wheezed.
The mother superior brought Peter a chair.
“Thank you,” he said, and sat facing the priest.
“I’ll leave you now.”
Father Scott’s watery blue eyes were still alert; everything else was breaking down.
“These are from my family. In gratitude for your time with us.” Peter unwrapped the assortment of preserves and placed them on the table next to him. The priest glanced at them and then turned back to Peter. Preserves were probably not a major concern at this stage in his life, or what was left of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a raspy voice. “I don’t remember you. My mind is not as sharp as it once was.”
“You served our parish from the time I was ten to when I was sixteen. But I left the Church at thirteen.”
His brow creased. “You left the Church?
Why did you do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I was hoping that you could help me find the reason.”
“Yes, yes, whatever I can do to help you return to the Church. What happened?”
“I lost my crucifix and my faith somewhere around that time.”
The old man nodded. “Crucifixes can easily be replaced. Faith is much more difficult to regain.” And he began coughing, deep, rumbling coughs, and reached a shaky hand toward the glass of water, drank, and then replaced the glass on the table.
Peter withdrew the camp photo from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the priest. “I think it happened about the time I went to summer camp at Big Bear Lake. You were the director that summer.”
“Big Bear, yes, I remember the camp. Quite beautiful.” He took the photo and reached for the magnifying glass, lying next to the day’s newspaper on the table. His hand was shaking as he held it.
“Here, Father, let me help.” Peter took the photo and held it in front of the priest as the old man put the magnifying glass to it. “There,” he said, pointing, “that’s me at the time.”
There was a slight catch in Father Scott’s throat. He recognized him all right.
“Now do you remember me?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Was it Peter’s imagination or did the priest’s eyes turn suddenly guarded? Then he slowly moved the magnifying glass over the other faces, up and down the rows. He stopped at Billy staring out from the photograph.
“Do you remember that camp?”
“Yes,” he wheezed.
Peter sat back down. “Father, I don’t want to tire you, so I’ll be brief. I think something happened to me that summer at camp. But I can’t remember. I have images, pieces of memories, sometimes nightmares, but they don’t fit together. I was hoping you could help me.”
