8

 

“I’m not going,” I say.

“I already paid for it and you don’t have a choice in the matter,” Mom says. “It’s with some kids from an Indianapolis high school. It’ll do you some good to meet new people. Get out of The Ridge social circle for a few days, get your mind off Laura.”

“I don’t want to get my mind off Laura,” I say, staring intently at the television. For the last week MTV has been broadcasting live from Panama City Beach, and I’ve spent every waking hour since Laura left watching the coverage in lieu of eating, showering, or engaging the world on even a rudimentary level.

“If I have to watch you mope around this house for even one more day, I’m going to go nuts. It’s pathetic.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Mom. But going on a three-day religious retreat for my spring break isn’t much of an upgrade on the pathetic scale.”

“You’re going,” Mom says. “End of discussion.”

Future Cardinal Joseph E. Ritter started the Catholic Youth Organization back in the 30s or 40s. The “CYO” supports a variety of youth activities—basically, anything that keeps our hands off our dicks and our dicks in our pants. And nowhere is this brainwashing more acute than the retreats.

Retreat. The word carries with it a certain connotation in Catholic circles: rebirth, renewal…retarded. You disappear for a few days, get all hopped up on Jesus, then spend 

the next few months trying to clear him out of your system. Jesus is like bad lunchmeat I guess.

I went to my first retreat as a sophomore. They corralled a thousand of us into the Roncalli High School gymnasium. The motivational speaker was a “rock ‘n roll priest,” a guy who tried to validate his coolness by using contemporary music during mass. Father Don was his name. He played Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie” as an entrance hymn. I got a blowjob from a girl named Rhonda who had a mohawk, thus setting the precedent for future retreats. Kyrie Eleison, Rhonda’s mohawk I must straddle.

In the heart of the Italian-turned-Mexican neighborhood, the CYO Center comprises two dormitories, one girl’s and one boy’s; Holy Rosary Church, the old Italianate church with twin campaniles where Mom’s parents, Grandma Louise and Grandpa Fred, got married; and the now-vacant Latin School, which Uncle Mitch attended when he was a conflicted teenager considering the priesthood.

Holy shit, can Uncle Mitch be a bigger fucking cliché? He and Aunt Ophelia came over for dinner last night, and I really don’t know what to think of the guy anymore. He talks about how well his teaching job is going. He teaches health and driver’s education and is an assistant men’s basketball coach at Roncalli. He says he has “a great bunch of kids” and feels like he’s “really making a difference.”

A part of me concedes puberty has conveniently drowned my childhood monsters beneath a tide of girl-crazy hormones. But maybe, just maybe Uncle Mitch is not a monster. In eighth grade he was my confirmation sponsor. Why? Because I asked him to be my sponsor. I can still picture the archbishop saying something about God “sending the Holy Spirit to be my helper and guide” and putting the chrism on my head, Uncle 

Mitch with his hand on my shoulder, and Mom and Dad looking pretty happy. Prior to Mom’s miscarriages, she and Dad designated Uncle Mitch and Aunt Ophelia as the legal guardian of the hypothetical fourth Fitzpatrick child in the event something happened to Mom and Dad, and it didn’t even bother me.

Why doesn’t this bother me?

I’m starting to think I imagined everything. Yeah, there was a lot of skin-on-skin heavy petting, but how awful is that, really? It’s not like I ever wake up in the middle night in a cold sweat as the repressed memories of forced fellatio and anal sex come rushing back to me. So he touched me. Big fucking deal. I certainly have a fondness for touching myself. Can the memories of a five-year-old or even a ten-year-old be trusted? I got past the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. Even the Oopma Loompas in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory don’t scare me too much anymore. Maybe I need to stop looking underneath the bed for a reason to be afraid. What’s there to fear under that bed anyway? My Dad’s discarded Playboys? Those old penny loafers, two sizes too small and scuffed beyond the reach of any polish? That paperback edition of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance I’ve tried to read because I want the college girl across the street to think I’m cool and yet I never seem to get past the last sentence of Chapter 6: “But he took on so much and went so far in the end his real victim was himself.”

The guy who did those things to a little boy and the Uncle Mitch I know aren’t the same person. They can’t be. I won’t let them be.

Although, just for the record, Oompa Loompas still scare me shitless.

The retreat began like any Catholic retreat: a procession of pep talks, a Bible study, a group sing and a daily mass that numbed the brain and cleansed the soul. (Isn’t 

that redundant?) There was a retreat leader, someone in his mid 20s who in the span of an hour fought drug addiction, dropped out of high school, was ostracized by family and friends, found Jesus, went back and got his GED, and was now in his second year of trade school and wanted to be an electrical engineer.  The second speaker, only months removed from his last “Christian Awakening” retreat and still pretty much Lorded up, gave his own stirring account of how the Holy Spirit had changed his life for the better. He interspersed Top 40 songs in with his presentation to keep us interested. He was an ex-jock, just turned 20, who had turned his back on the four S’s—”Stroh’s, Smoking, Sex and Satan.” He played “I Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and “Calling on You” by the Christian rock band Stryper. Seriously, fucking Stryper? All the girls thought he was deep. I wanted to punch him in the face, or else buy him a beer.

Our first night in the dorms we stole the Gatorade cooler out of the rec room and hid it in the men’s showers. After we ran out of dirty jokes, and in lieu of television or porn, I read from the Book of Leviticus. With all due respect to Orthodox Jews, the Book of Leviticus is easily the most fucked-up sacred text, an inane list of do’s and don’ts that reads like a long practical joke from God:

“When a man has an emission of seed, he shall bathe his whole body in water and be unclean until evening.” (By my rough calculations, I’ve been unclean since the invasion of Grenada.)

“You shall not disgrace your father by having intercourse with your mother.” (Don’t fuck your Mom. Good advice.)

“If a man has carnal relations with a female slave who has already been living with another man but has not yet been redeemed or given her freedom, they shall be 

punished but not put to death, because she is not free.” (As always in the Bible, slavery is cool. Got it.)

“Anyone who curses his father or mother shall be put to death.” (Wow. Tough crowd.)

“If a man commits adultery with his neighbor’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.” (Yeah, but have they seen my neighbor’s wife?)

“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed…” (Love your neighbor as yourself, but kill him if he’s a goddamn homo. Understood.)

“If a man lies in sexual intercourse with a woman during her menstrual period, both of them shall be cut off from their people…” (“Best sex there is,” someone once told me. “Just nail her in the shower, and you don’t even have to worry about getting her pregnant.” Where’s the sin in that?)

“A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortune-teller shall be put to death by stoning…” (I’ll have my pile of rocks at the ready next Halloween when some six-year-old dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West comes to my door and tries to get her satanic paws on my Reese’s Pieces. “Trick or treat,” she’ll say, with that cute, sugar-edgy voice. “Happy Halloween,” I’ll reply in kind, only to raise my rock-filled fists of vengeance, shouting “DEATH TO THE INFIDELS!”)

“If, despite all this, you still persist in disobeying and defying me, I also, will meet you with fiery defiance and will chastise you with sevenfold fiercer punishment for your sins, till you begin to eat the flesh of your own sons and daughter. I will demolish your high places, overthrow your incense stands, and cast your corpses on those of your 

idols. In my abhorrence of you, I will lay waste to your cities and devastate your sanctuaries, refusing to accept your sweet-smelling offerings. So devastated will I leave the land that your enemies who come to live here will stand aghast at the sight of it. You yourselves I will scatter among the nations at the point of my drawn sword, leaving your country desolate and your cities deserted.” (Everybody, altogether now: Our God is a God of looooove.)

The Book of Leviticus’ sage advice notwithstanding, I still thought mostly about Laura.

Our group leaders woke us up at dawn on the last day of the retreat, April Fool’s Day. Most of us had less than four hours of sleep under our belts. They were still pushing us nineteen hours later. After midnight they separated us into our small groups, sending each group to a classroom at opposite ends of the Latin School. Our classroom was illuminated only by a small circle of candles, with a crucifix in the middle of the circle. Our group leader asked everyone to take turns holding the crucifix and talking to Jesus. Slap happy and defenseless, we coughed up some serious shit. The girl across the circle had a bad experience when she lost her virginity and had sworn to give up sex forever. Given that she was exceedingly hot, I thought this was a rash decision. The guy to my left buried his infant brother two days before he got there, and this made me cry because I thought about Mom’s miscarriages. I was fucking exhausted. They finally broke me. I probably could have talked about Uncle Mitch. But I deferred to the lovesick pussy pining away inside me and talked about Laura instead. I was fairly certain none of the guys in the room liked me for the rest of the night, while all the girls wanted to fuck me.



We had an extended farewell mass the following morning, which pissed me off because Saturday morning was too early to “count” as Sunday service. Two priests, three guitars, and a triangle: they pulled out all the stops. We were each given a medal—a cheap chain that ended in a medallion resembling a German Iron Cross—and an American Bible Society mass market paperback edition of the New Testament entitled Good News New Testament: Today’s English Version. We all signed each other’s New Testaments, like a yearbook, adding a cliché sentiment or two.

There was the requisite exclamation point overkill:

Hank,

You know you’re such a special person! I say that because you opened up to total strangers! That takes guts, and I admire you! Stay as special as I know you are!

Love!

Leanne

The not-even-close-to-subtle flirting:

Hank,

You’re such a charmer and sooooo cute. I only wish this wasn’t the only time we could hang out. Good luck in whatever it is you do. Keep that charming personality.

Peace & lots of Enjoyment,

Samantha

The lone person with perspective:

Hank,

What’s up dude? Whew, glad we’re done with this. I hope we’ll go party together because I think it will be a unique experience. I need your phone number.

Friends,

Pete

And lastly, the big-breasted girl who read way too much into something I said to her during last night’s séance just because it afforded me multiple hugs and therefore multiple exposures to her enormous rack:

Hank,

I’m really glad I got an opportunity to get to know you because you’re one heck of a person. If you ever need someone, I’m here and I hope we can keep a friendship going even after we leave here. It helped to know that you were going through the same thing with your girlfriend that I am with my boyfriend. We both obviously love them very much and I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that by myself. Thanks a lot for being yourself.

Love,

Theresa

P.S. I need to get something cleared up with you as soon as possible, OK? OK.

Yeah, about that. After the séance Theresa may have snuck into Holy Rosary and made out in an empty confessional booth. And I may have got her top off and fondled her breasts for a solid half hour.

 

The smell of ham and eggs teases me as soon as I enter the house. Mom is huddled over the stove in the kitchen, coffee mug in her left hand, sharp knife in her right. She looks up at me.

“There’s our good Catholic boy,” she says. “Glad to have you back.”

I smile. “Glad to be back.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, leans back and points at my face with the knife. “Haven’t seen that smile around this house in more than a week. Nice to have you back.”

I notice Mom using leftover grilled ham steak, from last night’s supper no doubt. The ham harbors a distinct pineapple odor from the marinade. For me this is usually, to borrow some reacquired Vatican parlance, victus non grata.  I don’t mix my salts and sweets, ever. I make it a point to eat all my bacon or sausage before I put syrup on my pancakes, so as not to get syrup on the meat. I consider things like grapes in chicken salad and salt on watermelon affronts to my existence.

But I don’t mind the pineapple-flavored ham in my eggs, at least not today.



I watch as Mom cuts the ham into little squares and drops it in a skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter. She pauses every so often to stretch her back and give a slow, mournful rub to her belly. She probably thinks no one notices.

While the ham is sautéing, I beat three eggs and a quarter-cup of milk together. I hand the egg mixture to Mom. She pours it over the ham. Ham and eggs was the first thing I ever learned how to cook. I was seven years old when I made it for Mom and Dad. I remember the harvest gold appliances, the overly ornate vinyl flooring, the trash compacter, and Mom and Dad not complaining about the large pieces of egg shell.

The phone rings. “Can you get that?” Mom says. “I’m guessing it’s for you anyway.”

I pick up the phone.

“Hi, Hank,” Laura says.

“Hey there, baby.” I try to temper my enthusiasm. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”

“Yeah, well we drove straight through. Got in about three this morning. I couldn’t really sleep.”

“Poor thing,” I say, more sarcastic than sympathetic.

We exchange a few oddly forced pleasantries. I give her a hard time for not calling me since Wednesday and only sending me one postcard the entire week. She talks about the days getting away from her and already wishing she could go back.

“Go back?” I say. “But aren’t you glad to—”

“Can you meet me in front of the library this afternoon?”

She interrupts me, her tone impatient. “Not any sooner?” I say.



“Oh no,” Laura says, as if that’s the obvious answer to a boyfriend she hasn’t seen in over a week. “I’m going to try to get some rest, clear the cobwebs. I don’t think my body can figure out whether it’s hung-over or still drunk.”

“Three o’clock then?”

 “How about 5:30?” she counters.

 “I guess I can wait ‘till then. I love y—”

Laura hangs up on me. 

I park the Subie in front of the Empire Ridge Public Library. I’m early, so I wait in the library’s lobby. As soon as I walk in, the receptionist who I don’t know but who of course recognizes me as “John’s boy” says hello. Another loyal Oldsmobile driver. A Delta 88 looks about her speed.

I flip through the sports section of today’s Empire Daily, glance at my watch. Laura is late. She’s never late for anything. I’m already bothered she hung up on me. And my cock still hurts from masturbating in the shower this morning. Twice.

I have this waterproof poster of a bikini-clad Brenda Dickson, the original Jill Foster from Young and the Restless. With its special self-adhesive backing that sticks to wet surfaces, the poster has been my on-again, off-again bathing companion for awhile now. The combination of Brenda’s cleavage and knowing Laura was getting back from spring break gave me the rare dual orgasm—once early on, after having popped an erection the moment the oscillating spray hit me, and a second time a half hour later after I’d drained the house of all hot water.



Multiple single-session ejaculations in the shower, waxing sentimental about waterproof posters of soap opera stars. This begs the question, why haven’t Laura and I had sex yet?

I guess at some point in time over the last couple months, the awkwardness between us became safe. That line I was once all-too-ready to cross became a wall—a comfort zone behind which I retreated when things got too intense. We always got most of our clothes off. I always got my mouth on her breasts or my fingers inside her. And yet the nights always ended with me alone in a bathroom, trying to rub out a debilitating case of blue balls, my chastity preserved.

My chastity preserved? What the hell is my problem? I accrued more “hands-on” sexual experience by the time I was ten years old than most teenagers. I am the ultimate hormonally dysfunctional example of a Catholic upbringing that simply did not take. And I can’t pull off something as simple as fucking a girl? What does my penis see in my left hand that it doesn’t see in my girlfriend’s vagina?

            “Hey there, Hank,” she says, startling me. I smell traces of aloe and suntan lotion on the hand that grabs my shoulder.

“Laura.” I turn, arms open. Laura’s skin is bronzed, her cheeks sunburned, her nose peeling. Her hair is windblown, bleached sandy blonde by a week in the Panama City sun. She looks fresh off the beach. Hair pulled back loosely in a half pony, minimal makeup for her, no jewelry save for a large white hemp bracelet on her left wrist. She’s sexy as hell.

My arms just hang there. Laura finally hugs me, but more like my sister would hug me. Then she backs away.



Ten yards behind her, I see him.

“You bring a friend?” I say. But I already know the answer. There’s a lump in my throat. I feel sick.

“Hank, I’m sorry. It just kind of happened.”

The “it” in our discussion is the asshole standing behind Laura. His name is Lee Barnes. I fucking know him! She didn’t just hook up with some random guy. She hooked up with a Prepster.

“LEE BARNES?” I shout his name as if he isn’t even there. “LEE FUCKING BARNES?”

 “I couldn’t just come back home and pretend nothing happened,” Laura says very matter-of-factly.

“Sure you could,” I say. “Over a half-million people to choose from, and you ended up with Lee Barnes?”

And that’s just it. I could have tolerated any one of 499,999 other choices. I watched MTV’s coverage of the debauchery. And what I didn’t watch I taped on the VCR. I knew what could or would happen. For my sanity, I had almost conceded what could or would happen. But what happens on spring break, stays on spring break. That’s the drill, right? No consequences, no names. I can live with that. Hell, I was a close encounter with a pair of needy Catholic breasts away from living with that. Go skinny-dipping with some Alabama boy whose name you can’t recall three hours after the fact. Get shit-faced, lie about your age, and make out with some University of Georgia student during a game of spin the bottle. But don’t come home arm-in-arm with the guy who did 

Jell-O shots out of your navel, least of all some Prepster who I have to see you with every goddamn day.

Truth is I barely know Lee Barnes. He’s stocky, but still leaner than me. He has a square jaw and coal-black hair that looks to be permed rather than naturally curly. He used to date Tammy Dwyer, one half of the Dwyer sisters, gorgeous fraternal twins who rule the junior class at The Ridge. I had a crush on Tammy for the first two years of high school, although not so much now that she’s become a chain-smoking, hard-drinking bitch who dates guys partial to ripping out your spleen for even looking at her. Sammy is the sweeter of the two, the shrinking violet you’d throw yourself in front of a bus for. I am oddly protective of Sammy, even though we weren’t all that close, at least not as close as I pretend to be. She was in my sophomore English class. We flirted. We still flirt, now that I think about it.

 “Please, Laura.” I say, holding back tears. Man, I am one enormous pussy. Please? Is that really the only thing I can come up with? How about, Please get out of my face, you goddamn slut.

Laura is steadfast. She keeps her distance, committed to not giving any pretense of hope. “You had to see this coming.”

My voice cracks. “Wh-what did I do?”

“Nothing, Hank.” Laura reaches out to me. She squeezes my arm, more calculated than compassionate. “If anything, you’re the sweetest guy I know.”

 “Sweet,” I say. I give her a sarcastic thumbs up. “Good to know I got that going for me.”



Laura continues to hold on to my arm. “Don’t say that.” She gives my arm a patronizing shake. “Come on, guy. I’m a senior, you’re a junior. You and I knew this was inevitable.”

“Bullshit!” I say, wrenching my arm out of her grasp. “You could have fucking clued me in on the inevitable part before I wasted the last four months of my life.”

“They were special to me too, Han—”

“Don’t you fucking say that!” My finger is in her face, nearly touching her nose. “You’ve lost the right to say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Laura says in a voice barely pretending to care.

“You sure are fucking sorry.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

All I can do is throw it back in her face. Laura wants to feel okay about what she’s done. She wants absolution. Fuck her. I’m not her fucking priest. She isn’t even Catholic. I’m not just getting dumped by a slut. I’m getting dumped by a Protestant slut.

I turn my back on Laura after another profanity-riddled diatribe. By the time I settle down enough to face her again she’s halfway to Lee Barnes. Lee puts his arm around Laura. She sticks her hand into the back pocket of his blue jeans before they turn the corner around the library.  It strikes me that this is something Mom always does with Dad. I pull my car keys out of my pocket, hurl them across the parking lot.

I walk past the front passenger-side of the Subie. I see the rose I brought for Laura in the front seat. I brought Laura a red rose, and she brought me a fucking pink slip.



I approach the rear of my car. A scene is looping in my head. Laura naked, playing with her tits, pumping her bare ass up and down Lee’s shaft, screaming his name: “Oh God, Lee. Oh God. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time with that Harold fellow!” I even hear Lee correct her, “I think his name is Hank, you sweet cunt.” And then she says back to him, “Whatever, just keep fucking me. Yes, fuck me harder. Oh God…”

I cock my fist back, then bring it forward, straightening my arm just as I hit the tailgate. I get my hips into it for good measure. I remove my hand to reveal a six-inch dent in the back hatch of my car. My knuckles are bleeding. I know Dad is going to be mad, but I don’t think about that. I think about how much this hurts. And I’m not talking about my hand.

My stomach clenches. The ham and eggs come up in three rushes of bilious fluid. I drop to one knee, steady myself with my good hand. The vomit covers my shoes. It smells like pineapple.

All I can think about is Laura’s bare skin, her touch. The tears. The blood. The vomit. Her touch. Why can’t I get a handle on this? She could turn around, walk up to me, reach down my pants and say, “One handjob for the road?” and I’d greedily accept.

What the fuck is wrong with me?