The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 22

Sunday evening was an awful evening, pouring rain and chilly, and the warmth inside felt good. I was settled into a comfortable chair in front of a nice fire in my suite with a glass of lovely port enjoying Vivaldi and a copy of Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny, when my doorbell rang. Agnes was over at Derrick and Jenny's house and Kieran was over with the Youth Group in the Parish Hall, so I went down to answer it.

Arthur Farnsworth, the Vicar of St. Edmund's parish, was standing hatless, drenched and unshaven before me. He was quivering from the cold, his eyes were red and his skin pale. "Can I come in, Alfie? Please."

"Sure, Arthur. You're soaked to the skin."

"Yeah. Been walking around a lot. Thanks." He entered and shook the water off his overcoat, but his jumper and trousers were soaked as well. I lead him to the laundry room, where the twins had done a load of my things the day before. "Arthur, why don't you dry off, change into my blue sweats and come up to my rooms to the fire. I'll be waiting for you there."

He landed close to the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand, still shivering slightly from time to time as the fire warmed him. I sat away from him across the room on a small couch. The past few months had not been good to him: I heard stories about him being absent frequently from his parish since last summer, and when he was there he acted very strangely. Just before the retreat at St. George's convent in October, he had gone into seclusion as much as he could, not answering his phone and only coming out for services. He had pissed me off as well, but his current awful state evoked some compassion from my cynical heart.

"Thanks, Alfie, you're a great mate. God bless you and all who sail in you. Knew you'd help me, you're almost the only one, except Pammy." Pamela Andrews was the Vicar of St. Helen's, the next parish beyond St. Edmund's, someone who adored Arthur and helped him frequently when he was unavailable. She had a massive crush on Arthur, but realized he didn't have the right programming to return her affections.

"What's going on with you, Arthur?" I asked, ready to wait a long time for a response.

It was only a moment or two, after a sip of brandy, that he began talking.

"Well, you told me to get back to you when the melodrama was over," he began with a smirk. "I fell in love last summer, Alfie. Gunther is his name; you met him briefly on the street last July. The wine maker from Germany. "I met him and his frau as they went through the National Museum; I was there double checking my favorite exhibits and looking for adventure. You can handle six weeks of celibacy, Alfie, but I can't. There were part of a big group of German tourists, and he shone out like the sun from behind the crowds. You saw him: tall, lean, muscular, lovely noble face and blond hair with a hint of grew. He could have been a general in the Wehrmacht, such a dynamic, noble, powerful man: he could have won the Eastern Front for them.. You'd never know it, but he's 60 years old and a grandfather six times over. His frau is a dumpy little lady, with a face that could curdle milk and a waddle like a duck: Greta is her name. At first, I got Gunther aside for a quiet drink at the Museum canteen, and we hit it off right away. My dad was in the civil service, and I spent a lot of my childhood in Germany, so we'd go back and forth between languages, making outrageous puns. Loves football, theater, ballet, and fucking the hell out of sweet boys like me." He took a sip from his glass as the rain pattered against the window.

"Greta is a major league ditz, so it was no problem for him to sneak away with me. I didn't want to tell him my real name, just a little protection in case things got dicey or we were caught in the wrong place. Horace and Tommy do it all the time." Horace and Tommy are the Bishop and his Archdeacon. "If I knew you were with your family, I never would have called you by the wrong last name. I didn't want him to know I was an Anglican Priest, either. After talking with him a little, I found out he's an Atheist and thinks every religion is an exercise in charlatanism."

"But you had to keep seeing him?"

"I had to keep seeing him. We went to a little place I have near Nelson's Column that day we saw you and made love for the first time. Oh, his lips were so soft and his moustache tickled. We explored each other's body every way possible, I tasted every yummy inch of him, and he went places I never knew I had. His cockhead was so big, I never thought I'd get my lips around it; his donkey dick is bigger than yours, buddy." I didn't ask him how he knew; I knew he'd never seen me naked or erect. "As I sucked him, he worked some Astroglide into my arse, then he pushed me on my back very forcefully and dramatically to line me up. It look a lifetime to push all the way in through my ring, heaven every inch, and I popped a boner with my legs in the air. For the first time in my life, I loved a blitzkreig and was ready to surrender. I creamed his stomach as he creamed my derrieré, then he made me clean him up all over, licking up all my spunk and his spunk and his shit from his genitalia and his stomach. Ambrosia, Alfie, ambrosia.

"We played hide and seek with Greta the whole time they were here. After they went home, we'd rendezvous in different places: Frankfurt, Delft, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Paris. Since he travels a lot on business, it was easy. We did everything, absolutely everything: he was the best cocksucker I've ever known and his arse was a dream, too." Arthur took another sip of his glass and feel silent. "Oh, it was more than sex, Alfie, we went all over the place, did all kinds of innocent things. We were two halves of a single soul: interchangeable, entwined, Siamese connected by the balls. Couldn't get enough of his company.

"Then one day, I slipped. Used the L word. It all came crashing down just after that. I woke up one October morning in Brighton and found him going through my wallet. Found my ID and my Library card as Reverend Arthur Farnsworth. Went ballistic: ridiculed me, boasted he was just leading me on and he'd never leave his cow frau Greta, called me a Nancy boy and a wimp and a bad lay. I begged him not to leave and he laughed at me, walking through the door and slamming it behind him, shutting me out of his life from that day forward.

"Well, I could hardly face any of my old mates after that, Alfie. They were kind during the retreat at St. George's and let me sleep with the nuns; I couldn't look at Tommy. I've hung out at Pammy's as much as I've dared since then, even let her have my body a time or two to pay the rent and keep the equipment in good working order. What's wrong, Alfie, what's wrong with me?"

Here was my chance. The little twerp had finally hit bottom and would listen to anything I had to say. At last, I ventured: "O what a tangled web we weave/when first we practice to deceive."

He chuckled. "Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, Canto vi, Stanza 17. However, the next line is: 'But my how we improve the score,/ as we practice more and more.'"

"Right, Artie, right, run away from the truth," I snapped impatiently. "You create your own problems, have ever since I've known you. You usually cover your ass well, you've got friends in high places, but for the first time in a while, you've been busted and you have nowhere to hide from yourself."

"Touché, my friend," he muttered softly. "You are right, you are right. What now?"

I went to the sideboard and poured myself some brandy. "I don't know, Artie. Maybe it's time to turn over a new leaf. Maybe grow up a little. You've played around for years, maybe now you'll realize where it gets you sooner or later."

"All right, sure. I know that, guess always known that, but I've never followed through on it. Boys just want to have fun. Maybe you should give me a good birching right on my bare arse."

I shook my head. "You'd probably like it too much. Otherwise, I might just give you the thrashing you deserve."

"Spot on," he said, laughing softly and mirthlessly. "How can I go on?"

"By going on. By getting on with your work, getting on with new projects that have nothing to do with sex. By getting some therapy. By letting time flow like a never ending stream."

A suddenly wiser face regarded me. "Yeah, Alfie. That's what you did when Janet left, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Pretty dumb wasn't it?"

I laughed. "Yeah. I never did the therapy, and the demons came back years later."

He finished his brandy with a gulp and stood up. "Well, can I crash in your guest room across the hall while my clothes dry?"

"Sure, Artie."

"Grand. I'll put your suit in the laundry when I go home in the morning. Lots to do."

"Right."

"Good night, Alfie."

"Good night, Artie."

The rain let up in the wee hours, Artie disappeared before I was up, and around seven I was on the pavement running with George Staton. He'd kept his New Year's resolution to run regularly admirably so far, working up to three times per week and his waistline was showing it. Usually we were silent as we passed through the neighborhoods like a couple of ghosts, but today he was talkative.

"Alfred, I'm worried about Rachel."

"Oh, George?"

"Yes. I think she may have had an affair lately."

We ran another block in silence. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, she used to play tennis a lot, and now she's got her racket at the back of her closet."

"And you were in there?"

"Looking for an old dress to use as a dropcloth."

"Brave man."

"She's been sad and moody for the longest time, then brightened up suddenly yesterday. Said she'd passed a test and everything was all right. I said, that's nice."

"Uh, huh. You know, you haven't been exactly honest, either."

"What?"

"A little bird told me you spent a lot of your time at St. George's outside your room after curfew."

Silence came. I thought he might head off another direction when we reached the next corner, but he stayed with me and puffed and blew. "I shouldn't be surprised, it's not like I was careful. I've had some other encounters as well you don't know about. Maiden aunts at weddings, prodigal daughters at funerals, young widowed grandmothers at christenings. I'm a hit with the over 40 single women, Alfred my lad: they love my hint of grey wisdom, my winning smile and my quick wit. Edwina tides me over when there's a long interregnum." Edwina Hall was the Vicar of St. Augustine's Parish; close by and on the same bus route as George's St. Alban's. I knew they were seeing each other, but not how much.

"So what do you think?" I asked him. "Who would you really like to have, among all the women of the world? Rachel? Edwina? One of the others?"

There was a pause before he gave me the answer I expected. "Rachel. My dear little Rachel, my sweetest bird. We've lost each other, and I'm not sure we can find each other again."

"If I can help you George, say the word." We completed the run in silence, and parted at my house, where he hopped his bus for home.

He came back later that morning with Rachel in tow, surprising me. They both had taken some liquid courage from what I could tell. She was nervous entering the house, and asked tentatively: "Is Agnes around?"

"No, she's at University this morning. The Burkitt twins are doing most of the housekeeping these days; Agnes is pretty busy with the Choir School when she's not on campus. Do you want me to tell her anything?"

"No, no, no, that's all right. We were playing tennis until her schedule got too busy. Wondered if things had settled down yet." Her face was very nervous, as if she were navigating a mine field.

"Do you want me to ask her for you?"

"No, Alfred, please don't. Just an idle wonder--thought. An idle thought. No problem."

"All right, Rachel. Will you both come this way?" I led them upstairs to my sitting room; the twins were downstairs and I didn't want them to overhear our conversation. They had promised me to keep mum about what they heard around the Vicarage, but I didn't want to tempt them this early in their employ. I caught Bea and asked her to bring a pot of tea with service up before returning to dusting the foyer.

We chatted about trivial matters while waiting for tea; Molly had organized a reunion for all of them in southern France in the first full week of February and they were trying to rationalize going. I assured them that Artie was back at his post, and Artie and Pam could cover for him as he covered for us them so often. They promised to consider it. They asked how my parents were doing, and I filled them in about my upcoming trip to the States without mentioning the reason for the timing. They wondered if there would be enough help for both of us to be gone, and I said that Miriam had already offered to help me, with Edwina in reserve. The tray arrived, Bea left, and we were able to get down to work.

"I see you don't have any chocolate sauce on the tray, Alfred."

I gave him an exasperated look. "George, let's be serious for a while. You want me to help you, you have to start talking. Tell us how you feel about Rachel."

He turned to face her and pulled his collar nervously, taking a while to get started. "Rache, I remember the night we danced on the beach in Greece. I wished it would never end, and I wish we could be like that again. I've always loved you, Rache, always. I'd--I'd--I'd rather die than live without you, and I'm willing to do what's needed." He bowed his head and waited for her response.

Rachel's eyes started leaking, she was slow to begin and unsteady. "I know you love me, George, I've always known it. We've just drifted apart over the years, especially the empty ones after the children left. You've lost your fire for the Church and I think your fire for me dwindled then as well. I know I'm not perfect, I haven't been perfect, and I've thought about other lifestyles. But I just realized I can't live without you either, George. I'm willing to do what's needed, too." She reached out and took his hand; he started to tear up.

"Well, how can I help you?" I said.

George looked at Rachel. "We need some counseling, Alfred. Can you help us there?"

"Well, despite my reputation, I'm not much of a serious marriage counselor. There's a retreat house up North where they do a special retreat for married couples wanting to reconnect. I know the director, and I can put in a word to get you on one of their weeks."

"Do it," Rachel said. Tears ran down George's face.

"And I think you need to see your girls again, and work out how you can keep in better touch. You may be separated, but there are ways these days we didn't have before. I can see my family and talk for hours with my webcam; all you have to do is agree on a time to be online together."

"That'll be a challenge, since we live at the four corners of the world," Rachel said.

"But we'll find a way to do it," George finished. "I'll go by the shops today."

"Great," I said, "In the meantime, be kind to one another. People who live together sometimes forget to be kind and treat their partner in ways they would never treat a friend."

"We'll do it," they said together.

Our tea was lovely, and we sipped it while returning to causal topics. I asked Rachel something about playing tennis with Agnes, but she managed to side step the subject. After a while, it was time for them to go and I wished them well. They nodded, and slipped out of the room silently.

I followed the Statons out, then gave Mary Sterns a call on her cell. "Hey, baby, can you talk right now?"

"Sure, luv, I'm in a cab coming back from Heathrow."

"Agnes was playing a lot of tennis with Rachel Staton since last summer, and suddenly it stopped. I tried to ask Rachel about it, and she was evasive. Could you broach the subject while I'm in America? She's been scarce lately, although things are fine when she's here. She may know something about Rachel that I can use to help her."

"Sure, Father Alfred. I'll ask in my usual subtle way."

"Yeah, I know how subtle you can be."

"You busy this afternoon?"

"Ah, no, not really. Thought I'd take a nap, then pack for departure tomorrow."

"Stuff that. Meet me in the Quilting Room at 2:00."

"Done."

On the last day of January, I boarded a plane for America. After sleeping off my jet lag, I decided to stop in Topeka and visit Niall Jones and Francis Watson on my way to the family ranch near Hays, Kansas. They met me at a fine local golf club, and the weather being exceptionally mild, we sat outdoors on the veranda. The couple were obviously happy, and Niall had an announcement for me. "I've found what I came for, Father, and I want you to be the first to know," he began. "What you said about Topeka was awful, I love it here and I want to stay with my dear Franny." He turned to look at his partner and they regarded one another with deep love.

"I feel the same way, Vicar Alfred," Francis began, "I got so busy with business I forgot how much I missed my sweet Niall. He's going to fill a hole in my heart that's been ever since I got here."

It took a moment for this to sink in. Losing Niall wasn't good news from my perspective, but I wanted him to be happy, and he wasn't going to be staying in England away from his love. "I'm glad for you both. How do you want to handle this, Niall? I'll need a letter."

Niall reached into his pocket and produced a letter. "Here's my resignation letter to the Vestry. I'll come back in a couple of weeks, to take you through Lent and say goodbye to everybody Easter Sunday. Agnes is ready to run the show now: I'm sure you've been happy with her in my absence."

"Un-huh." Something bugged me: I flashed back to Twelfth Night and the looks Rachel Staton was giving Agnes. They were playing tennis almost daily then, at an indoor court. Or where they? The boys were looking at me strangely; some bizarre expression must have settled on my face. "Sure, Niall. She's been fabulous and Freddy Burkitt has helped out splendidly."

"Knew he would: a talented lad. And I've got a new job already. I start right after Easter."

"Oh. What job?"

"Organist and Choirmaster at Grace Cathedral, right here in Topeka. I start the first of May."

"Splendid, Niall. Well, you've really landed on your feet here."

"You bet, Father," Francis cut in, "the Spirit has truly been at work."

"By the way, Alfred, you should know something about Freddy Burkitt," Niall said out of the blue.

"No, Niall, you shouldn't," Francis cut in, "it's up to Freddy to tell people and not you."

"But the Vicar needs to know; he's an honorable man and Freddy's going to be working for him now. You know how tough it is, Francis, Freddy needs all the help he can get."

"What kind of help is Freddy going to need?" I queried timidly.

Niall took a deep breath and gathered himself before he began. "You know I've been giving Freddy lessons for a couple of years now. He's talented, so talented, bright and very sensitive. It's been hard on him, growing up in a working class neighborhood, and he can't tell his family, they'll kick him out on the street. . ."

"He's gay?" I interjected.

Both men nodded their heads. "We haven't done anything to Freddy, other than give him support and encouragement," Francis continued. "Growing up gay isn't easy anywhere. His parents are very traditional: they'd send him up as a nutcase and old Harry would Throw a Wobbly if he knew."

"We've taught him how to play the game," Niall concluded, "tips on how to act, what's acceptable and what's not. He's got a boyfriend on the football team, but they're being discreet. I thought you should know in case anything comes up." I nodded, digesting this news. In some ways, I was glad I found out here, a long way from England, rather than at St. Dunstan's. "Thanks, Niall, Francis. I'll keep it under my hat"