Amen's Boy. William Maltese

along the county back roads forty or so miles away from home. In other words, it was an alternate world, as different as night and day from my everyday home life. Soon, I learned it was also a world where the secrecy of the confessional could cover whatever happened.

      The first two months went by, and there was no masturbation. I felt my penis becoming a stranger to me. I was happy to get candy and cake and cokes, and now we even played music. There was this new music I learned about that was called “classical music” which was made up of, as best I could tell at the time, big bands that had violins and kettle drums in them. I loved this music, especially the beautiful “1812 Overture.” That one had cannons in it, live cannons.

      I stopped playing with myself, and the new interest that replaced it was the counseling scene that played out with me and my priest. Me and my counselor-priest! I should say the priest and “his me.” He was helping me define who I was. He was my new favorite man on earth. I never knew a man could be such a pal, so sweet and genial, and almost like a mother. I told him every dirty thought I had, even going back to the earliest memories I could remember. I talked about wanting to see penises in the shower room at the pool, and how I looked into my brothers underwear to see pubic hairs, and at some point, when the hour was nearing ending, just before school let out, the purple silk stole came out of the inner black coat pocket. Father Terry would lean over me and begin to whisper in Latin. Soon he would make the sign of the cross over me, and I was forgiven all my sins.

      It felt great to be free of guilt in that moment of absolution! No guilt! I loved the process, and I sure liked the lifestyle of the priest, and their cook even gave me biscuits if I had to wait. I wanted to confess my sins twice. I considered our conversation about my sex thoughts as informal preparation for the formal act of contrition and absolution which happened when he put the stole on. Once in the protection of the purple stole; I repeated the previous telling of my sins very seriously as though my previous chatter was just “warming up.”

      Father Terry taught me that once he shut the door to the room we were in, that immediately we were under the “seal” of the confessional. When he put on the purple stole, it was the beginning of the sacramental ritual of penance being properly administered.

      There was an important lesson here: I could tell him anything behind closed doors and it stayed with us, and I could be free of guilt about it, because God had given him the power to forgive my sins

      The sessions in Father Terry’s rooms were increasingly comfortable to me, and they seemed to take on the flavor of a private, secret club. I began to expect the treats from the kitchen or the candies, and the soft drinks, and even now and then, when all the priests and the cook were gone, we’d slip down the dark hall to the kitchen and make popcorn, or eat some ice cream in blue willow bowls, with beautiful silver spoons. I became so comfortable, that we’d now sit together on the sofa, next to one another with our legs touching. When the long playing albums of violin and orchestral music began, sometimes Father Terry put his arm around my shoulder like a pal, or like my uncle did when I visited him. I thought nothing of it, and it felt good to be free from the nagging isolation I’d always felt. I finally felt like a person. I began to feel special. My parents always told me I was smart, but my mother rarely spoke of me being special. She did try to discourage me from taking my father’s constant criticisms to heart, and he was always finding fault, but mother said to let it roll off my back like water off a duck’s back, but I couldn’t do that. No. I cried and I feared my father’s scorn, and my older brother continued to beat me with closed fists. He would sneak up on me in the alley and pummel me mercilessly. He devised methods of humiliation and torture that were so cruel, I hesitate to mention them, not wishing to leave some accusation against him that he cannot address or answer now that he is dead. I even have to deal with guilt because I am glad he died. Nonetheless, during this time in my childhood he beat me a lot. Father Terry didn’t ever exert any negativity or violence. He was a kind and gentle person.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CUSTOM 1955 CHEVY

      Father Terry’s Chevrolet was basic black with gray plastic seat covers, but it was always very clean. It still smelled like a new car. It was, specifically, a black, custom 1955 Chevy Bel Air, 2-Door Post Sedan. I asked him if he wanted a big car like the pastor or bishop had. He jokingly said that it wasn’t OK for him to have a nicer car than his superiors, and only the bishop drove an Oldsmobile. No ordinary priest could drive anything as good or better than the bishop. This is how status worked, an unspoken church tradition.

      In the Chevrolet, we would drive off with his chalice in a black box, and bring some altar wine and water in little corked glass bottles. We’d go together to the fishing camp community chapel at Blueberry Hill Bayou. This small, wooden building was a missionary outreach church for the people who like to go every weekend away from home to their bayou and adjoining lake, staying in their camps and fishing and drinking beer. They had to have Mass, so going with Father when he drove to celebrate Mass for the fishermen and their families was one of my favorite things to do, a real treat. It became a ritual, and over a period of about two and a half years, we seldom missed a Saturday Mass at Blueberry. It was a great treat to be out at night, and the only time Father Terry would schedule Blueberry Hill Bayou was on Saturday evening. Between time in counseling with father, and the times we went to Blueberry Bayou and even other trips, I began to spend lots of time with him almost daily.

      Mass was at 6:30 in the evening, and I would stay awake for the drive to the mission chapel, but often was very sleepy on the return trip to Assisi. My drop-off was just a block from the church; sleepiness had the power to make me forget that I was trying to act strong and like an adult. The little boy would come out, lean on Father, and he would pull my head and shoulder into his side, and put his arm over my neck, pulling me to him in a warm hug. In the winter, it was great. I’ll never forget how, when we drove over the rolling hills and even up and down rather steep hills, I saw the dashboard lights on. It was a sort of magical, greenish, dim light that made me think of space ships in the movies. The radio dial was illuminated, and I vividly recall hearing a song that for some reason was my favorite in those days, “Let Me Go Lover” by Joan Weber.

      I watched the speedometer on the dash, with its green and red pointer set about at forty-five miles per hour, and I knew the speed limit was sixty. I figured that Father Terry was like me, enjoying being out in the car more than sitting at home. I imagine I served about a hundred Saturday night Masses. The congregation was always the old fishermen, their wives, sons and daughters, but what I loved the most was that they were all in blue jeans and T-shirts, boots and other clothes not usually seen in church. The altar was special also, because just three years before, when Assisi was renovated, the old wooden altar was sent to this chapel on Blueberry Hill Bayou, St. Anselm’s. It was my favorite altar, wood painted white, carved with a jig saw to make it seem like marble, curled in the form of fancy altars. It was just like you could see in photographs of Rome.

      I would sometimes have a small amount of wine after Mass, as that was the custom with Father Terry, because he said the wine gave him stomach acid. He wished I’d drink the extra, so we wouldn’t have to dispose of it in some liturgically proper way. With a few tablespoons of burgundy wine in me, I was a content little boy, with my best friend. I felt nothing could harm me, and we liked just being quiet together.

      There were times we went to the camp, and not just one of the camps, but to various camps, where some of the parents of the kids in my school had built “summer homes.” In reality, they were rustic, just fishing camps, in the cooler woods near the bayou and lake. Father Terry seemed to have keys to most of the camps of the people in Assisi Parish, and was told he could use the camps anytime. Now and then, he and I would stop at one of the camps, turn on the water pump and have a drink of water and sit, listening to the night sounds.

      CHAPTER SIX

      FREE RANGE KID

      I didn’t spend all day long masturbating before I got called into Father’s office. I admit that it took increasingly more time each day to satisfy my sexual desire, but I was still able to think, play, and daydream. I liked ice cream and pie, and loved to swim, run shirtless through the forest, sometimes in the dappled sunlight that came through the canopy of trees above, sometimes in the rain. The palmettos grew everywhere,