It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 38: Chapter XIII (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

Father Charles never lied.

Father Charles knew what he was talking about.

You could trust Father Charles.

So what did it matter if he used terms like 'building bridges'? He told them that black people were as good as whites, and sure it seemed far-fetched to all the Tiny Teamsters, but he also was insistent in his belief that the children were good. No one else in St. Gregory's had ever bothered to instill that level of confidence in any of them before. Father Charles looked at them, talked with them, listened to them, like an equal would do, and for that, it didn't matter to any one of them what crackpot ideas he spouted, they would follow that priest where ever he told them to go. He was the priest of care, of patience and kindness.

He told them: 'You can be better than what is given to you!'

And they believed him!

And with Father Charles leading them, they could be! He was their Virgil, their guide, their father that should have been. He loved them unconditionally, his hands always reaching for them in their times of need. That's the thing with priests, who devote themselves to the future. They're such anomalies that youth will cross hell and high water for them.

No matter what.

No matter where.

He was better than what waited for them at home, and in any case, enamored or not with Father Charles' metaphors, the fault of his attendance on that wet field with...those...people could not be laid at the priest's feet. It had been his mother that had forced the issue.

'Alfonso Ignatius Carr!' she yelled weeks before the trip to the after school trip to the baseball field.

Bud resisted a sigh as he raised his head off the kitchen table. 'What?'

'Don't 'what' me like that. What did I just say?'

'Huh?'

She raised her hand so sharply that Bud flinched. This gave Vera, hunched over her bowl of  oatmeal, a good giggle-fit. She loved watching Bud get in trouble. If he wasn't drawing the ire of their mother, then she would be. 'What did I just say?!'

'Uhhh—'

'Exactly! Ya don't even know. I've been talkin' to ya for the last five minutes, and yer out in la la land somewhere. What is yer problem?!'

Bud was just sleepy. It was 6:30 in the morning after all, not a time for conversation. 'Nothin'. I don't gotta problem.'

"HAVE!' Ya don't 'HAVE' a problem. Speak right, yer not a fuckin' hooligan.'

'I don't 'HAVE' a problem, Ma!'

'Don't take that tone with me, boy!'

'I ain't—I'm not takin' a tone, but Niamh heard a tone, and if Niamh heard a tone, she felt well within her rights as a mother to punish, and therefore forced Bud to duck the tea cozy. If I say ya have a problem, ya have a problem!'

Fuck off!

It took all his energy to push the Creature away from his mouth. Niamh came closer and peered quizzically in his face. 'As I was sayin'...you're...' she lowered her voice, afraid that the neighbors might be listening through the wall. They probably were. '...you're actin' depressed. Is that what this is?'

I'm gonna piss on your grave too someday, bitch.

Bud bit hard on his tongue. Ever since the Specter's brain had popped, his mother had taken to reading books on child psychology—magazines, but she called them books—afraid that his death would emotionally scar and stunt her remaining charges. To her surprise, neither had seemed that, if at all, affected. 'I'm fine, Ma!' he said for the millionth time that winter and now spring.