The Blameless Bystander Ch. 08

Why, then, had he given in at Vicki's on Sunday night? One reason was that he was tied up, nude, on Vicki's bed. Vicki had assured him that 'Bubba didn't mind', as if he believed it. Vicki was giving the orders—it wasn't his fault.

He stopped kidding himself. "I did it because I wanted to; because I couldn't help myself. It was wrong and I did it anyway. I should be sorry, but I'm not!" he said to himself as he turned into the driveway of his rooming house. "I just can't be sorry," he repeated. "...or at least sorry enough."

And so James found himself lurking around the Principal's office on Friday afternoon. He waited until he saw Nathan leave for the day. Abby sat at her desk. He knew Bubba wasn't due in until Saturday night.

"James, I haven't seen you since Sunday night," Abby greeted him in her lilting voice and smile as he approached her desk. "Wasn't that a wonderful evening?"

James didn't answer; he just hovered over her.

"Nathan's gone for the day," she informed him in a voice that told James that she knew that he really wasn't there to see the Principal. She said no more, just sat placidly, looking up at him; waiting for him.

"I saw him leave," James stammered. He paused, creating an uncomfortable silence. He knew he had to come out with it, couldn't avoid it. He had come too far; he felt flushed as the gates of hell swung open.

"I just wanted to ask..." he stopped short, looking for the right words. "Are your appliances alright?"

"Why, I think so, James," she answered and gave him that smile as she tortured him. "I think that they're all fine. Thank you for asking. Were you hoping to fix them?"

"Well, I was thinking..." James became lost for words again. He opened his mouth to speak, unsure what words would sally forth; Abby rescued him.

"Maybe you think too much, James. If you're suggesting that you would like to come to my house for sex tonight, come around at eight."

James nearly fainted as the deal was struck. He managed to stay on his feet in front of her desk.

"Is that what you wanted to ask, James?"

He nodded his head in a stuttered yes.

"Shall it be eight, then?" James didn't answer and she didn't insist on one. She went back to her typing and James about faced and marched from the office.

***********

When James was a priest, the Order practiced self-denial during the season of Lent. They led an austere life all during the year. Lent was special. They would deny themselves all but subsistence rations of food. Water was rationed to that which a man needed to live. There would be no drinking, or smoking. Television, radio and music, except at liturgy, were off limits. Recreation of all sorts halted. A blanket was removed from each bed. Rising time was moved from five to four in the morning. All the while they would carry out their duties as teachers, or as assigned to them by Father Brendan. All of them did it, young and old suffering silently, as long as they were fit enough to stand the forty days' rigor. It made them happy because of the shared suffering with one another, and the martyrs.

On Holy Saturday night they would confess—clean their souls. On Easter Sunday morning, there was Mass and Communion. After that, they put all but necessary work aside. In the afternoon they would celebrate the breaking of their Lenten penance with a big dinner that all the priests and brothers enjoyed together. Spirits would always be high with the communal satiation of body and soul.

Following one such occasion Jamie was in his cell, sitting at his desk, reading his vespers, allowing his dinner to settle before going retiring for the night. His door was open, signaling his availability for conversation with anyone so inclined. Father Brendan walked in and sat in the chair beside Jamie's desk.

"Have ye had eno' o' self-denial fer the time bein', Jamie?"

"I must admit, Father, that ham dinner tasted pretty good," Jamie acknowledged with a smile.

"Aye, it did!" the old priest agreed. "A right and true banquet it was, all provided t'us by Himself," he said as he pointed and cast his eyes upward.

He leaned forward, his elbows propped on Jamie's desk. Jamie felt the old eyes bore into him from behind the thick lenses. "Why do we do it?" he demanded through his clenched jaw, as if angry. "Why do we put 'erselves through dis heartless mis'ry each and ev'ry year—and we'll do it 'til we die, I assure ye." He ceased speaking and kept staring at Jamie, letting him know that he insisted on an answer.

"To remind ourselves of the suffering of Christ on the..."

"Tish—Tosh!" The old man dismissed Jamie's memorized answer with the mild oath and a violent wave of the hands. "Come, Lad! I'll have more than catechism from ye, if ye please."

"Honestly, Father, that is truly why I thought we did it, and to share the suffering with the brethren of our Order." Jamie answered truthfully.

"Aye, Jamie! Well enough ye know it, I can see," his mentor conceded. "But ye've not got the truth of it, boy." He paused, waiting for Jamie to probe further.

"Tell me, Father, then why?"

Father Brendan answered as he rose and gave Jamie a brotherly slap on the back of his shoulder, "We do it fer the enjoyment of dat ham dinner at the end of it all." He turned and left Jamie to his vespers.

***********

TO BE CONTINUED...

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