Billy and the Priest (Fiction)

In Luke Beling's story, an addict's actions leads to some unintended consequences.

By Luke Beling,

Father Sampson took me in after I passed out on the curb near his church. He let me use his shower and gave me a clean set of clothes and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich. Then, when he drove me back to Ma's house, he told her I'd go to mass if she let me sleep in my old room. He promised her he'd get me on the straight and narrow.

"How many times we been through this now, Billy? Tell the priest, damn it!" Ma screamed as we stood on her porch, my bloodshot eyes burning holes into my dirty feet. Even as a little kid, I never felt like I belonged under Ma's roof, but it was better than the streets.

Father Sampson squeezed my shoulder. "I'll get him right, Mrs. Clover. Just you give him another chance. There's no shortage of second chances in God's kingdom."

***

The first clean day was always the toughest. I woke up early, turned on the TV, sitting on Ma's big brown leather sofa, only able to make out a snowy mess. The tips of my fingers burned, then spread through the rest of my body until I jumped up and started rubbing myself against the wall like a love-starved cat.

Ma was sipping cold coffee at the kitchen table when she saw me. "You itching for it, ain't ya, Billy?"

"First few days are tough, Ma. But I'm trying."

"I smell even a trace of it, and you're out. Ya, hear me?"

I nodded, not looking at her, afraid of her eyes.

Ma had a nose like a bloodhound. A week without meth was the longest I'd ever gone since getting hooked on the stuff. But I'd never really tried to give it up, and I'd already decided this occasion was no different. That Sunday after my first mass, I got the idea.

***

Father Sampson invited me into the vestry after the benediction. He told me to wait in line behind a few folks who looked a bit new to church like me. I studied a giant skull tattoo on the scalp of the bald man in front of me but soon got distracted by a woman pacing in circles, whispering, "Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God, Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God."

The vestry was tiny. The walls were an awful cream color resembling unpasteurized milk. A small offering of light spilled through one little shoulder-height window, hardly helping the dull put-you-to-sleep energy of the room. I stepped forward and stood in a corner next to the giant bronze cross the altar boy carried.

"Not as holy in here as we make it out to be, is it, Billy? Now let me just count the collection, and then we'll get going for lunch." Father Sampson removed his liturgical vestments and undid a bun holding a swath of thick curly brown hair.

"So that's why you're called Father Sampson?"

He laughed, "I guess so."

"So, where's Delilah?"

"A student of the Old Testament. Impressive, my boy!"

The offering plate was silver, resembling a giant ashtray, and filled with cash upwards of a thousand dollars. I watched him count the money and retrieve a key beneath the purple flower planter on the window sill.

"There's a 'P' in my name. I like to think of that 'P' as representing the promise of God's grace, keeping me from all nature of vice."

"What's that?" I said, bypassing his reply, quickly intrigued by a glass box as he unlocked the cabinet.

"God's grace?"

"No. That over there," I said, pointing to the box.

"Oh, well, not many people know about this. But, just between us, it's worth a whole lot of money. Enough to build five more churches like this, I reckon."

"Why?" I asked, walking towards the cabinet, eyebrows raised, studying the cork inside the glass container.

"It's from the bottle of wine that was used for communion when the Pope visited a few years ago. I saved it."

"They let you do that?"

The glass box rested in his palm, a glint in his eyes. "Why not? I mean, I didn't really feel the need to ask anyone, you know? I just thought it might be worth a small fortune one day. And an old priest like me has to think about retirement, too, right?"

Father Sampson handed the artifact to me as though it were a bird that had just been born. "Here, have a look. It still has a little wine stain on it. You see that?"

I didn't study the cork for long, setting the glass container back into the cabinet, pretending to be distracted by the purple flower while stealing quick, serious glances at Father Sampson.

"It's a violet," he said.

"What?"

"The plant you seem so interested in."

Furling the small leaves in his fingertips, Father Sampson smiled, gazing at the flower as though it were animate. "I suppose, a struggling violet more like it."

"Oh yes, yes," I managed, turning my vision from the base of the plant, under which he'd set the key. "My mother has one just like it."

He sprayed water on the browning leaves. "Is that right?" he said, craning his neck to make eye contact. Then he set the bottle down and approached with sinking eyes and lips pressing into each other like one faint pencil-traced line. "How are things going at home, Billy?"

The grandfather clock chimed. The loud gong made me step back, bumping my head against the wall. "I guess that means it's time for lunch, Father."

Father Sampson grinned, halting. "Well, I suppose it is, Son. Where're we eating? And promise me you won't tell anybody about that cork? Our secret, okay?"

I watched him put his keys in his coat pocket, the same set of keys he'd later set underneath the lemon tree outside.

"Your secret's safe with me, Father, but only if you're buying lunch! Somewhere fancy!" I said, forcing a big smile.

***