Martyr's Dream

By Neil Hetzner

Two gay priests struggle to reconcile duty and desire. The choices they make over the course of twenty years ripple out, twisting them and those they touch into an ever more tangled web of secrets, betrayal, and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Hetzner
• Release date: May 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985603113

Neil Hetzner

Neil (aka C.N.) Hetzner is married, has two children, and lives a mile from the edge of the continent in Rhode Island. Since his inauspicious birth in Indiana in 1948 he has worked as a cook, millwright, newspaper columnist, business professor, vacuumist, printer's assistant, landscaper, railroader, caterer, factory worker, consulting editor, and, currently, real estate agent. In addition to working, which he likes a lot, and writing, which he likes even more, he enjoys reading, weaving, cooking, and intrepidly screwing up house repairs. His writing runs the gamut from young adult futurism to stories about the intricacies of families; however, if there is a theme that links his writing, it is the complicated and miraculous mathematics of mercy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Fourteen-year-old Kris Bourke, chin on knuckles, belly on beach, wriggled deeper into the sand as he watched the flesh surrounding him. Although it was not yet ten o'clock, Bromphy Beach was quickly filling up. Kris, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, watched three girls set up camp. A radio appeared and blasted Barry Manilow singing Copacabana. Blankets, totes, sand chairs, cooler and towels were arranged. Cigarettes, suntan lotions, books, brushes, combs, and cover-ups appeared.

Breasts filled as they fell forward when the girls, like pigs on spits, rolled from their backs to their bellies. Kris dropped his head onto his arm and studied patches of skin. The smooth curve of a glistening shoulder broken by an outcropping of shoulder blade. A length of taut-skinned thigh with fine blond hair. Two-toned breast flesh, brown above, moon-white below, swelling from a bikini like the tide surging behind him. Kris ground himself deeper into the sand, studied the girls and considered what he could say to them. He had caught the girl in the middle looking at him several times. She was the prettiest, but also the thinnest. He decided his best approach was to go for a swim, see if any of them followed and, if they didn't, ask for a cigarette when he got out of the water…which he would do in awhile.

Kris closed his eyes and focused on crossover dribbling at the top of the key before cutting to the right, pulling up and shooting a twelve-footer. Then, foul shots. Three dribbles. Exhale. Relax. Little ball. Big basket. Drop it in. By the time he had swished a dozen baskets, his erection had disappeared enough that he could walk safely to the water. He thrashed his way out past the breaking waves and began swimming to and fro on the swells. Within a few minutes, the middle girl got up, stretched and slowly walked toward the water, but after diving under a breaking wave and squeezing the water from her hair, she turned back toward her friends.

Kris practiced body surfing making use of the tips he had gotten from Clay, the man he had met the day before. The waves were big and when he caught one wrong, it ground him into the sand and left thin pink streaks of blood on the undersides of his forearms. He looked back at the beach to see if he were being watched. When the blood stopped flowing, he left the water. As he made his way back to his towel, Kris passed close enough to the girls’ blanket so that his feet sprayed sand onto them.

Hey.

He turned. The girl in the middle was sitting up brushing sand from her arms. She smiled.

Hey, what?

Hey, be careful.

Hey, how ‘bout, ‘Screw you, bitch’?

The other two girls sat up. No one said anything.

Kris took his time drying himself off before collecting his gear.

* * *

Kris was practicing a pivot move when Pete and Lenny, the vacationing boys he had met a couple of days before, their faces lost in the deep shade cast by the bright sun behind them, came onto the asphalt court. He nodded but said nothing as they went to the opposite goal and started playing one on one. As he gathered the ball after his shots, Kris studied the others' play. Lenny, the shorter one, was the better of the two. He had fast hands and good lateral movement and an okay hook shot. Pete was just a hacker. He would shoot from everywhere, but the only baskets he ever made were from right underneath.

Kris was shooting runners when the older man, Clay, showed up and asked him if he minded sharing the court. Kris watched as Clay—six foot four, greyhound thin and fast, with a high forehead, dark hair and watery blue eyes—warmed up. From wherever the man shot, almost everything dropped. After Clay made a thundering dunk, Pete and Lenny stopped their game and asked if the others wanted to play half-court two on two to twenty. Kris and Lenny teamed up.

During a break Kris found out that the boys were cousins whose families owned cottages on Sea Spray. They spent the whole summer at the beach. Clay, who said he coached basketball, pointed out things each of the boys could do to improve his game. At the end of the sixth game, which left the two teams tied with three wins apiece, Clay said he wanted to get to the beach while the waves were still good. If they wanted to continue the match, he would be around the next day about the same time, unless the storm sliding north made the waves too good to miss. Len and Pete said they had to get home for dinner, but they'd be hanging out on the beach later.

It was just after nine and the sun had just sunk when Kris ran into the cousins. As the sky darkened, the boys checked out the people jogging along the water's edge. Later, they sat between two dunes and drank a bottle of apple wine Pete had stolen from Queed's market.

Stealing's easy. Be friendly going in. Know what you want. Don't screw around. Be friendly going out. Figure they can't really do anything to you. I've been stealing stuff from Queed's every summer since I was probably eight.

When the bottle was empty, Pete suggested they walk down the beach to the Sandcastle to see if the ladies’ room window was open.

They cut through the parking lot, laughed at three fat Travolta wannabes struggling out of a beat-up top-down ‘65 Mustang convertible, and made their way through the windswept trash at the back of the building. The window was closed. After a couple of minutes of watching blurred heads through frosted glass, they headed back across the parking lot. Pete stopped next to the Mustang.

Watch out for me.

When Pete keyed the passenger side of the car, Kris knew he would have to do more than make hook shots to keep his status. He took a stop back, unzipped his pants and aimed a spray onto the driver’s seat.

They walked back to the beach, shared a joint Len had brought, watched the waves and talked about basketball and getting laid.

The next evening when Kris got to the beach, the waves were thundering from the energy of the storm pushing up the coast. He walked down toward Blue Point. It took him a minute to pick Clay out of the crowd of surfers. Although Clay was older, Kris guessed thirty, he was obviously one of the best. His movements were economical. His hands usually dug in just two times as he accelerated the board to match the wave's speed. After a split second in a crouch, he was standing. Unlike most of the other surfers who were waving wildly to keep their balance, Clay’s extended arms barely moved as the board raced across a wave. Kris admired the way Clay controlled the board with his hips. Although he himself had never been on a board, Kris thought it was something at which he could be good. He was sure that juking was the same whether it was on the basketball court or on the crest of a wave.

* * *

Father Grant, should I pay these or let ‘em slide?

The priest took the stack of bills from Yolanda and flipped through them.

Can we cover them?

Barely. It would leave us nothing.

The priest went through the bills a second time. He pulled out several. Pay these. He handed her the rest. And pray for these. If they dun you before I get back, suggest to them that ‘Patience is a virtue.’ At least, sometimes.

The priest’s bright blond hair fell forward on his forehead when he canted his tall thin frame over the desk to hand St. Boniface’s part-time secretary a piece of paper.

Here's the number where I'll be staying. Obviously, if you hear anything from Monsignor Setonni about funding, call me right away.

The matronly woman shook her chive blossom hair-do as if a call from the financial vicar was an impossibility.

I hope you have a wonderful vacation, Father. It's been quite a year.

’Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.’ Actually, maybe they won’t all have to be packed. The grapevine says Father Hazlitt, who ran the seminary when I was there, is moving to the bishopric. That might change things for the better. He’s very capable. But, for now, I’ll leave the money worries here with you and that will leave me some room to worry about whether my car will make it to the shore.

Oh, ye, of little faith.

Oh, me, of high mileage and bad seals.

On his way out of the city, Father Grant swung by the West Side to buy a lid of dope and some poppers. Back in his car, the priest twisted the radio dial until he heard Alicia Bridges singing You Got the Night. He turned up the volume and felt himself relax as he left sped past the high-rise slums of the Kennedy projects, an oil farm whose bright white tanks looked like the buttons on a giant accordion, a yellow smear of fast food florescence and the whimsical farms of the well-to-do.

Father Grant closed his eyes for a second better to see a small fire dancing in an on-shore breeze and he, the backs of his legs cold in the night air, his belly warm against another, mellow from the dope, holding tight to Clay's muscles and whispering love and secrets.

Grant Pierson had been infatuated with Clay Whalen from their first days together in minor seminary at St. Clements. Clay Whalen had been tall, delicately handsome, bright, athletic, and serious. In those first months, Grant had studied his idol as much as his subjects. Of all the boys trying to shape themselves to a life of Christ, Grant thought Clay was the most dedicated.

They had been seated at dinner one night with Father Hazlitt, when Ronnie, an overweight boy with a reputation as a sycophantic day dog, had asked a question about celibacy. Father Hazlitt had said that celibacy was concerned with both marriage and sexual abstinence. Ronnie had wondered if the Church considered both aspects to be of equal importance. Father Hazlitt had shaken his head.

Grant recalled the shock on Clay's face.

Let me ask you, Ronnie, which do you think is more important?

Abstinence, Father.

Again, the teacher had shaken his head.

Think, son.

Marriage.

Yes, but why?

When Ronnie concentrated, he squinted and his eyes disappeared into the fat of his face like a sleeping pig.

Woman.

Father Hazlitt had pursed his lips.

In a roundabout way. What is the fundament of a marriage?

Ronnie had tittered, Sex?

Certainly a marriage may be annulled if sexual congress isn't accomplished, but the essence of marriage is something more.

Ronnie had squinted again, but made no noise.

In a strained voice, Clay had said, An emotional relationship.

Father Hazlitt had smiled.

Yes. And why might that be bothersome?

An emotional involvement with a wife might crowd out a priest's relationship with God.

"And....?

And his parishioners.

Good.

Grant remembered how serious Clay’s face had become when he had asked, But what about abstinence?

Father Hazlitt had touched the fingertips of one hand to those of the other. His voice had been low and melodic.

A matter of degree, really. A sexual relationship that complements an emotional one presents an obvious danger. God can be crowded out. A sexual relationship with someone who is involved in a marriage or some other type of monogamous emotional relationship is a serious sin because it threatens the monogamy. Fleeting sexual congress, obviously, is the least serious of sexual sins.

Clay's face had gotten a strange look—part fear and part revulsion. He had said, But still a very serious sin.

Father Hazlitt had taken his time to choose his words.

An effective priest must have a close relationship with God. Abstinence is intended to be a simplifying that allows that relationship to develop. And, in most cases, that happens. But, consider this: if persistent and prayed-for abstinence only begets confusion or depression or obsession, and if any, or all, of those things separate the priest from his God, what then is the greater sin? A sexual encounter or a separation from God? We are men of the spirit, but we are made from flesh. The church understands the flesh. That is why we have the confessional.

Clay's face had tightened, then, twitched as if he might cry. Father Hazlitt had stared at Clay, smiled and changed the subject to Thomas Aquinas.

Leaving the dining hall, Grant had come up to Clay to ask, Are you okay?

I don't know. I don't know what to think. To be chaste always has seemed to me to be what made priests special. Father Hazlitt made it sound so unimportant.

They had walked across the wide green lawn to sit atop the cobble stone wall that separated the seminary from the road and the world beyond. They had watched cars and talked until the bells tolled and they had to hurry to chapel.

In the years since, Father Grant had come to believe that not all vows were equal in their imperatives. His primary vow was to be a useful priest. To do the things Francis of Assisi had prayed to do…to comfort rather than be comforted—to understand rather than to be understood.… He, also, had vowed to be celibate. However, as Father Hazlitt had indicated, Grant had found that for him to fulfill his primary vow he had had to add a coda to another. He was celibate fifty weeks of the year. Ninety-eight percent of the time. An A plus in any course imaginable. Except….

Grant twisted the volume knob, pushed down on the accelerator and felt the wind lift his hair. When he arrived at the cottage in Sandy Shores, a light was on and the door unlocked, but Clay was not around. Father Gran waited until after midnight, the official start of his vacation, before he rolled a joint. He woke from his reverie when the spring of the screen door made its jew’s-harp song. He opened his eyes and smiled, Father Thang, lovely man, where’s been you?

Clay, white beach towel draping his neck like a Benediction stole and carrying a gym bag, raised his hands in an indefinite gesture. Grant’s smile became more tentative. He had tried to keep the possibility of this kind of scene from his mind as he had driven toward the coast. He wanted things to be as they had been. Grant gathered his courage and pushed himself up from the couch.

Kiss?

Grant’s arms opened, Clay came to him and they embraced, but when Grant turned his head, his lips only met Clay’s cheek.

Not auspicious. What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Grant’s hands dropped to Clay’s hips. With the lights out, it was better for both. Grant closed his eyes and made love to memory while Clay himself, reluctantly, rode transubstantiated flesh.

Clay watched as Grant hopped, stopped, pecked, turned, stopped and pecked again like a barnyard hen as he made them breakfast.

Grant raised his coffee mug in a toast. Nice time. Thank you, thank you vurry vurry much. Raised up on thy staff. Anointed with thy chrism.

The priest tittered before returning to splitting English muffins with a fork, and beating eggs for an omelet.

Sacrament and sacrifice. I love it. And how are you, Father Thang? He walked toward Clay while holding the bowl and fork. Let me look in those big doe eyes. Oh, no. Not doe eyes, just those woebegone eyes left from last night. I’ve failed.

Clay drank coffee and stared at the slight lines at the corners of Grant’s eyes as his friend chopped prosciutto, gorgonzola and tomato for the omelet’s filling.

Grant asked, Did you hear about Hazlitt?

Clay shook his head. He chose to stay out of the loop of diocesan gossip.

They’re finally letting him leave the seminary. He’s going to work for the bishop. Now, maybe, someone will hear my voice calling from the desert.

Clay dropped his eyes to the hands holding onto his mug of coffee…

"Come here, son."

Father Hazlitt motioned to him from across the sacristy.

As he approached, the priest touched the tip of his index finger to his temple.

"Clear thought."

He touched the corner of an eye.

Clear sight.

He touched his breast.

Clear soul.

The priest reached out to cup him. A warm ache, shot through with a hotter streak of guilt, twisted within him. Father Hazlitt took his time. A langorous rubbing, a timeless squeezing, a slow freeing of the ache. He looked down to watch the line of a thumbnail circle the focus of a rapturous pain. His chest heaved as he expelled air. His legs quivered. The thumbnail slowed its circles. He held his breath, willed himself a thousand places, and then just one as he watched himself empty into a startlingly white handkerchief which, like a magician, his spiritual guide had pulled from his sleeve.

His knees buckled. He knelt on the floor suffused with shame. Father Hazlitt touched him on the head before holding out a hand to help him from his knees.

"We empty ourselves of longing so that we may refill ourselves with love of God. When we are burdened by the flesh, it keeps our souls from singing. A small sin begets a great blessing."

The priest had touched his breast.

Clay avoided Grant’s eyes as they sat across from one another eating their omelets.

That afternoon they had been at the beach for less than three hours when Clay surprised Grant by saying that he felt like going back to the cottage. Clay left and Grant watched, read and roasted. It was just before five o’clock when Grant found Clay playing basketball on the church court just across the alley from the cottage. Although he disliked sports, Grant agreed to play to even up the sides, but within twenty minutes he was sitting on the curb gasping.

Grant had finished the dinner dishes and was sitting on the living room couch cleaning his dope when he said, You know, Father Thang, someday you pedophiles are going to ruin this church for us queers.

Clay tried to ignore Grant’s anger.

But, Grant continued sarcastically, I suppose the lady bangers think we queers have ruined it for them and, of course, all of us have wrecked the world for the celibates.

Grant put his hand to his cheek, If there’s a celibate priest left in America—at least one who’s not drunk and over sixty.

As Grant leaned forward on the couch to see better in the dusky light, he used the edge of a matchbook to cut the seeds from the buds and crushed leaves. I got ripped off on this dope. I’ve never seen so many seeds. My luck continues.

When Clay refused his offer to join him, Grant stretched out on the couch and smoked the whole joint by himself.

Aren't vacations lovely? Le petit paradis. It's hard work being holy, though mostly I don't mind. The discipline is good for me. If I worked any less, I'd probably balloon up like Friar Tuck and his singing sister Sophie. He cackled. But, it's awfully nice just to get a few days to be a fag, let my hair down and get my teenie-weenie peenie up. Speaking of which, the day after tomorrow, I thought I’d make a run to the island for a couple of days. Give you and your inamorato some space. Grant took his time before saying, Don’t be a bitch, Miss Grant. Father Thang, I love you, have for, lo, these many years, so I’m going to let my love outweigh my jealousy and step aside to give Batman time with Robin. Feel free, go chase the young devil—who, from my subjective perch, strikingly recalls yours truly in his prime.

When Clay refused to argue, Grant left for a walk on the beach.

* * *

Kris and the cousins were sprawled on towels watching the late morning crowd stream onto the beach. The hot sand and blazing sun were making Kris feel even worse. His headache and racing mind made it hard to keep up his end of the conversation.

Hey, man, I'm not a fairy. I did it to him.

You let him. Kris heard his voice pitch up an octave.

If I can get my nuts off, I don't care what it is. Not even my species. Moose, wombat, Martian, pony, I don’t give a shit, Pete looked over to his cousin, Right, Len?

Lenny grinned and nodded his head.

We did it to him, man. It makes all the difference. There are pitchers and catchers. Catchers are queers. Pitchers aren't. Man, I knew that Grant guy was a fruit as soon as he came on the court looking for Clay. When he asked us if we wanted a beer, I knew what was going to happen. Hey, we drank their beer, smoked their dope and left our loads. Check the score. We won.

The beach was crowded. As Kris twisted around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation, a pain shot up his spine.

Despite all the activity around him and the throbbing in his head from drinking too much, Kris could not push away the thought that he was a catcher. Grant had undressed him, held him, stroked him and then, some way, was on top of him. He had thought about resisting, he thought he even had tried to roll over, but he had been distracted with the wet fingers sliding up and down.

He was a catcher.

It was cool. Pete shook his head. I'd do it again. That Grant said anytime. He’ said he’d be back in a couple of days. He told me we should come back, get high, you know. Hey Kris, what about it?

Kris forced a smile, Sure.

The sun beat down on the boys’ bodies and boiled away the alcohol and excitement from the night before. After lunch and an hour in the water working on his body surfing, Kris began to feel better. Later in the afternoon, on his way back from the pavilion with a frozen lemonade, Lenny ran into a friend from his high school and brought her back to their blankets. After a while, Aggie left and returned with two of her friends.

The group of teens ate clam cakes and fries after a jousting tournament in the waves which Aggie,