Phaedra Cooper and the Half Boy

By Paul Drisgula

In 1962, Mother Earth sent fourteen-year-old Xander Gadeski to a small village in Upstate New York to uncover the truth behind the suspicious death of a Seneca girl, Pretty Flower. At least, that's what Pretty's girlfriend, Phaedra Cooper, comes to believe when she meets the minor seminarian at Pretty's grave. She notices an odd connection between Xander and Skagedi, an ancient Seneca legend, who used an array of unusual powers, including splitting himself in half, to defeat evildoers. The relationship between this naive boy, sheltered by a close Polish Catholic family, and a girl nurtured by her Seneca culture yet isolated on the fringe of white entitlement and intolerance forms the heart of the story in Paul Drisgula's debut coming-of-age mystery novel. Xander is an unlikely and unwilling recruit to Phaedra's cause. His father, Stary, just died. His immature brain still can't wrap itself around God letting the Dodgers slip out of Brooklyn. Before meeting Phaedra, he is bullied continually and suffers a vicious sexual assault at his new school. The supernatural and natural worlds flow together like hot and cold from a tap as Phaedra and Xander forge an uneasy alliance to disprove the findings of the village police that Pretty's death was a suicide. Phaedra suspects boys from Xander's school murdered the love of her life. Pretty Flower communicates with the two amateur detectives through dreams as they forge a dangerous plan climaxing in an outdoor trial on the bridge where death found Pretty Flower and where Xander must use his new powers if he's to avoid a similar fate. In Drisgula's novel, Xander tells his own story, often with a lighter touch, softening some of its harsher themes by unmasking the dark humor skulking in the shadows behind forbidden sex, bullying, death, rape, murder, and sin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645442387

Book preview

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE: Skagedi

"Skagedi of the Lake, tomorrow you will face him, the one. He will kneel before you, confess his sins, and ask forgiveness. Offer it to him, no matter if your heart speaks against it. For his penance, order him to sing he-gah-ya and jump into the air three times—he-gah-ya and jump. Be warned, he will appear calm and agree to all your demands. He is a liar. He will attack. On the second he-gah-ya, he will throw a large stone at your head. Move to your left to avoid it. He will charge, wrap you in a suffocating embrace, and pull you with him toward death. Skagedi, at that moment, you must call upon your special powers and slide from his grasp. Do as I say, and you may survive the day.

You must triumph over the treacherous ones who placed me on this cold bed, tucked deep under a clay blanket of shame. You are chosen, Skagedi, to right the wrong that brought my time to its untimely end. I beg of you, break my chains, set me free on the path to the spirit world. Do this, and I will greet you when it is your time to walk under the footsteps of men."

The dead girl, Pretty Flower, spoke these words then evaporated from my dream. I sailed deeper into sleep, riding on her fading chant. "He-gah-ya! We will have our dance on Sunday! He-gah-ya! We will have such a dance! He-gah-ya!"

Phaedra Cooper

Why are you here?

The tone was hard, frosty. I tried to guess the girl’s age but gave up. She was older than me, not by much though. She was smaller than her attitude. She wore a faded blue jacket and loose-fitting jeans and a pair of dusty Converse All Stars with tears in the canvass tops. I automatically moved her to my denim file.

Me? I said.

You’re the only other person here. Yes, you. Why you hanging in my friend’s neighborhood? Did you know Ah-Weh-Eyu?

I don’t know who that is.

You’re standing on her.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…

She wouldn’t let me finish. The first of many times. I’ve seen you here before. Staring. Did you have some connection to Ah-Weh-Eyu?

Okay, now she had me worried and annoyed. I was not supposed to be in the cemetery. I was not supposed to be anywhere except campus. My trips to the village for physical therapy were ending soon. I needed follow-ups with the German doctor, der Dr. Schweiker, but they were too few to fill this gaping hole in my spirit. You might say I’d become addicted to freedom. My regular route down the hillside was too exposed. More than once, I’d run into trouble headed to or from the village. Brother Cosmos, dark circles under both arms, sweat salt forming jagged white underwires on his brown robe just south of his man boobs, bowing for breath—stopped me once and asked what I was doing there, on the steps. The Franciscans called them Via Dolorosa, the Way of Suffering, after Jesus’s steep climb to his crucifixion. Brother held his own cross between his fingers, an ash-tipped cigarette, probably wondering why his lungs were burning a hole in his chest. I could have answered that question for him. He was only one-third of the way up the hill. He barely looked me in the eyes. I took out my Captain Midnight wallet, thankful I’d remembered to put it in my back pocket. I handed him the entire contents, one wrinkled pink permission slip signed by Brother Rose. He examined it way too carefully. I knew he was stalling so his tar-stained air sacks could recover from the ascension.

He said, This has no end date. Brother Rose should know better.

Personally, I’m thrilled Brother Rose doesn’t know better. This is my key to freedom. Cosmos demanded to know when the medical visits would end. I told him I had no idea but if he was still interested when he reached the top of the hill, he could climb the two flights of stairs to the infirmary and try for an answer from Brother Rose. Fat chance. To be perfectly honest with you, I carefully dripped frosting over the sarcasm so this was not our conversation word-for-word. He dismissed me with a wave of his burning cross then turned his sizable belly into the hill.

Back to this girl in front of me. She was an unwelcome complication. Discovery, even by someone not connected to the school, presented a huge threat.

The name on the grave says Dora Keeper, I said.

Her English name. Ah-Weh-Eyu, Pretty Flower, that’s her Seneca name, her spirit name. If you didn’t know her, why are you here?

No reason really. I’m from over there, the school, through the woods. Saint—

Francis.

Yes. Most of the tombstones here look old, worn smooth. The freshness of the grave, I guess, drew me. I read the notes in the box.

She ignored my rambling answer. What grade? The conversation swerved toward interrogation. She wasn’t interested in a social connection. She was investigating me, motives unknown. Hers, I mean. I’m pretty sure she’d say the same thing about mine. I’m worried my trips to the cemetery will be exposed. I worry about too many things. Death, a lot. Dying while masturbating, or soon afterward, a lot. Hell (see previous masturbation reference), a lot. Seniors clubbing me senseless for no reason. Tests. Failing at anything. My body developing into a praying mantis with an Adam’s apple. My changing voice, soon to be uncovered by the finely tuned ears of our choir director, Brother Janus Krzyzylnicki. (Take your time. Hint: it’s four syllables.) Disappointing my parents, top of the list.

My responses became more guarded. She’d made it clear there were right and wrong answers. I studied her face carefully, fearful of tripping an alarm.

What grade are you in? she repeated.

No answer seemed better than another, so I told her the truth, I’m a freshman. I came in August.

Good. Good. I’m glad you’re a freshman. You are not who I seek.

I feel relieved I’m not who she seeks, whatever that means.

Who do you seek?

Why continue this, you wonder? Curiosity, I guess. No idea really. Character flaw. You will detect a pattern soon enough.

No, not so easy for you just yet. My questions first.

A sudden breeze whipped strands of long black hair over her eyes. She used both hands to tuck them behind her ears. I noticed something unusual: her left eye is blue, her right eye, brown. Huh!

She broke the silence. I’m examining you too. It’s called heterochromia, two different eye colors. I don’t mind you staring at my eyes. The rest of this body is off-limits. Understand?

She waves both hands, palms open, down the length of her body, like a ballerina after an elegant move. She is not a ballerina. She is not even in the same galaxy as elegant. She’s more like a Roller Derby blocker—good-looking enough, but odd good-looking. And did I mention she’s dressed in baggy jeans?

I said, Not a problem. Sorry. That goes for this body too. I copied her dramatic movements. She didn’t acknowledge the humor. I cross-assigned her to my denim humor file.

Her expression softened some. She’d set her boundary and was on to more important things. Why are you here on a Saturday afternoon? Off campus. Snuck off? Her tone turned playful. Was she scolding me for being a bad boy?

No, I said.

Careful. I know the rules. Us townies know all your holy laws. You Francis boys can’t be off campus, ever. You’re not supposed to be here. So why are you?

She was watching me closely now. I’d rehearsed my story for this moment.

Special permission, medical, to leave campus. I have it. I have a pink slip.

I’m not interested in what you’re wearing. But I’m guessing you have pink panties to match, she said.

Now that was funny. I stopped reaching for my wallet. I was going to show her my permission slip, but there was no point now. Instead, I flapped my empty left sleeve, unzipped my jacket, and showed her the sling.

Point to your doctor’s grave? She smiled at her little joke.

I said, I don’t need the doctor today. My therapist is resting in peace over there. I guided her eyes to a tidy neighborhood of graves isolated against the hillside, behind a white picket fence. Her smile widened. I smiled back. It was something, not enough to move her out of the denim file but something.

She said, Two more questions, Pinky, then your turn. Why Saturday? And why don’t you use the steps to town, the ones guarded by the brown robes in the little shack? Before you answer, I need to tell you, I’ll know if you’re lying. I’m gifted that way.

I’m thinking, This is Mama. It was the same threat whenever she wanted to get at an awkward truth. Did you destroy your sister’s painting after your little fight, Xander? Don’t lie to me, I’m a lie detector. I’m warning you, I’m about to check for fingerprints. I’m ashamed to admit this, but it worked every time. Caught lying, I melted like a Hershey bar in a s’more being roasted over a campfire.

Let’s just say this is my favorite path to therapy. He’s open on Saturdays. The brown robes got tired of taking me. I got tired of taking the steps.

You get a pass on that answer for now, she said. You have to protect yourself. I understand. Your injury has a story behind it, one you will share someday. I won’t tolerate lies, but I can be trusted with your truth. I’m not certain you can be trusted with mine.

Is it my turn? I sensed an opening.

Ask.

Who is Ah-Wah-Hu-You? Why the notes?

She walked to the tombstone and pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from a covered wooden box sitting on its base.

I wrote this, she said. First, her name is Ah-Weh-Eyu. Don’t try the Seneca pronunciation again. It makes you look simple to us. You can call her Pretty Flower.

She smoothened out the paper and read the note.

I miss you, Ah-Weh-Eyu. I always will. Your death will be avenged. Love, Phaedra.

You have to understand something, that note jolted me when I read it days before. I felt like I’d violated her grave just reading it. A note promising revenge for a death. How often in a lifetime does anyone smash into something like that? I can answer for both of us. Never for you, once for me. Hopefully, never again for me.

She looked straight through me, sorrow and rage skulking behind her eyes.

They found her at the bottom of the gorge, under the bridge. You see the date she left me. The end of my life too.

I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. Dora Keeper’s death date, Ah-Weh-Eyu’s death date, Pretty Flower’s death date: the same date as my father’s death, Stanley Gadeski’s death, my Stary’s death. Same month, same day, same year. I kept that fluky fact to myself.

She was dead?

Of course she was dead. Her grave, remember? Murdered. Local cops say suicide. Fuck ’em. Excuse the language, holy boy, but they’re all Barney Fifes without the bullet. She was proud Seneca. She would not kill herself. Never. In case you’re thinking typical honky thoughts, she was not taking a drunken walk in the glen at night. She was murdered, pure and simple. No drunken accident, no suicide. Murder.

And you believe…

You catch on fast. One of you, or two, or more. From your school. You’re not the only altar boy sneaking off campus. Surprised? There are more like you who slip off to the village. Upperclassmen. They’ve learned the glen. They use it the way you do. I’m amazed you haven’t bumped into any of them.

A major lightning bolt, something I should have expected. I’m in dangerous territory, exposed in this narrow, treeless top tier of a hillside cemetery, Magdala Cemetery. Defenseless on the glen’s narrow trails too. Meeting an overweight monk sucking oxygen on the steps is one thing, bumping into seniors in the cemetery or the glen is something else. The pink paper in my wallet would not buy safe passage.

Someone from my school. You think someone from my school had something to do with your friend?

Not just a friend! More than that. Something you would never understand. On the night she died, we planned to crash our first race party together. Spring race week, village is filthy with parties. No one cares who you are, how old. Girl townies, all welcome. Great food, drink, music. Pretty played her flute in the parade, Seneca music. Locals get hungry for pigment in the spring. She cupped her face with both hands. "Rare for us. Pretty was proud, happy to play. I told her it was all horseshit, parading our culture down Glen Street so whites could sell more tickets to watch cars chase around a track and sell more trashy trinkets to tourists. Can’t forget that. As if we really mattered. She played anyway. She loved the music. I was sick that day, so she went alone. I warned her not to, then to be careful when I knew she wouldn’t listen to me. She was stupid innocent. The village fills with whiskey-breathers—wolves, rotting red meat stuck between their teeth. She shouldn’t have gone without me. Next morning, Pretty’s mother reports her missing. They’d already found her on the rocks under Seneca Bridge in Glen Park. Yes, Seneca Bridge. Coincidence, eh? Two-hundred-foot drop to a shallow, rocky stream. The papers buried her with a catchy headline, Seneca Girl Falls from Seneca Bridge. One of us finally got page 1. I keep trying to remember what we said, our last words. Can’t remember any of it. She just dropped out of life."

The girl was punching back at her tears now, swallowing hard, yanking emotions into a tighter orbit. She said, I know it was one of you, at least one of you. Pretty came to me in a dream. She told me, ‘Look to Saint Francis to solve my puzzle.’ My people don’t take dream visitations lightly. I’ve seen the cruelty behind the eyes of Francis boys. Evil shows itself to the patient watcher. Your friends are capable of much cruelty: bullying, mocking girls’ looks and clothes. We learned to steer clear of your mess. Pretty wasn’t interested in boys anyway, definitely not the bastards from your school.

Any names? I said. Do you have names? You see how big a mistake that was, right? I knew it as soon as the first words tripped over my lips.

You boys are so careful with your sinning, aren’t you? So fearful. I don’t know who to look for. No, no names.

It was past time to back off, to move far away from her nightmare. I said, I don’t know anyone who would do this.

I haven’t asked you if you did, have I? I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. The police settled on suicide. My spirit knows they’re wrong. Pretty wanders my dreams and tells me I’m right. I haven’t been waiting around for you or anyone to come and be my hero. I’ve found out some things on my own. Francis seniors were on their class trip to Washington when she was murdered. Washington, DC. Got that from a story in the village paper. So we eliminate them. Your class wasn’t here yet. Our search narrows.

Two words, we and our, were important here. I was included in them. She was trying to draw me into her story. My brain immediately clicked through the top reasons why I couldn’t help her. I settled on three: (1) I’m fourteen years old, (2) I don’t know anything about anything, and (3) this girl was talking murder. Best option: do not engage.

Before I could excuse myself, she said, You should go. You don’t look so good. Your therapist is probably getting cold, anyway. The way she said therapist made me want to add physical therapist. I didn’t say anything, of course. She’d just gifted me the exit door.

She concluded our conversation with a warning. You need to be careful. The more you come here, the more you risk meeting a cretin from your school. Besides, this cemetery is not always safe. The spirits of murdered girls roam free after sunset, preying on boys like you.

So one more thing to worry about, the spirits of murdered girls. Who talks like that? Spirits of murdered girls. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Who is this girl?

She added an important detail matter-of-factly. Did she just read my mind? My name is Phaedra. Cooper. Phaedra Cooper. Cooper is a white man not worthy of mention. My mother is Seneca. Powaqa is my chosen name, but you can call me Phaedra.

I’m Alexander. Alexander Gadeski. My father is a Polish American white man—I knew right when I said it, Polish American white man. Really?—worthy of mention. My mother is a mix, Polish and something else. I’m not sure. She’s worthy of mention too. She was born a Jew but now she’s Catholic. (Why go there?) I guess Xander is my chosen name. Call me Xander.

I withheld important information that my father, Stary, had died on the exact same date as her special friend. I grip personal things really tight, tighter than most people do.

Phaedra’s dark eyebrows raised. She paused, face contorted, oddball eyes shut as if she’s busy working out a puzzle behind her lids. This was a not going away yet face. She held her right hand in the air, palm toward me, halting conversation. Rude but clear enough. After a long silence, she spoke, Spell your name for me.

A-l-e-x—

No, your last name.

G-a-d-e-s-k-i.

Her hand rose, signaling another time-out. She knelt on one knee and wrote my last name in the dust on the base of the tombstone. She studied it silently, bouncing her long slender fingers back and forth over the letters. She stood, a mad expression on her face. Not angry-mad, more lunatic-mad.

You are Skagedi. I’ve found Skagedi!

I said, No, Gadeski. I spelled it out for her again. G-a-d-e-s-k-i.

You are Skagedi. S-k-a-g-e-d-i. Look at the letters, Xander. Do you know what an anagram is? Your last name’s an anagram. Gadeski—Skagedi. Try it. I can’t believe this. Mother Earth sends stick boy to me as a messenger!

Hey! I was sensitive about my 135 pounds packed into a 6-foot frame. I’d always hated that nickname. She couldn’t have known that.

Sorry. I’ll explain everything next time we meet. Skagedi. How is that even possible?

She turned and walked briskly toward the Indian trail bordering the far side of the cemetery. She disappeared gradually, descending onto the dirt path leading to the glen until all I could make of her were strands of long black hair being blown about by a stiff breeze out of the northwest.

I rushed to the other side of the cemetery then back down through thick woods to campus. Phaedra Cooper. I decided never to slip off campus again. Could you blame me? No escape, no Phaedra. No Phaedra, no wild stories of murders or suicides. Everything had to return to BP, before Phaedra, and BS, before Skagedi, whatever that was. As I moved among a dense stand of maples, I glimpsed a hooded figure traveling a parallel course down the hill. An icy fist squeezed my throat. I took it as a warning from one of the murdered girls. Danger. Don’t come back!

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO: Before Phaedra

I was on my knees in the hallway, falling forward. Okay, you want me to be more accurate. Shoved hard forward. Time of night? No idea. It didn’t matter. My face smashed against cold Italian tiles. The sting of disinfectant gnawed on the soft tissue of my nostrils like a starving rat. The tan tile squares appeared greenish up close. One eye was shut, closed by the pressure exerted by my rapist.

The disinfectant charged my brain like a blast of smelling salts. My mind flashed to Brother Thaddeus. Gentle soul. He wore a pigskin holster over his robe, specially fashioned to hold two Lysol spray cans. On one of his cleaning tours through the dorms, he had knocked on my open door. I could see his tall thin frame in the doorway, so why knock? I guess it was his way. Polite. His blue eyes pop from their sockets, two soft balloons floating above the sharp nose separating them. They seem to be pointed downward most times, rarely engaging anyone directly, as if searching for a missing piece of his life under his sandals.

He said, Behold my new pistols, Mr. Xander. Nothing escapes their wrath. Welcome to Saturday confession, germs. Brother’s job was to neutralize all the nasties infesting the cracks and crevices of Saint Francis Minor Seminary and Preparatory School. The former Seneca Hotel held its own once against a sixty-year shit storm from daily colonic irrigations (look it up, disgusting) and mineral baths for the rich and famous. When the owners went bankrupt after World War II, the Franciscans bought the property, converted it into a boarding school, and downgraded it to monkish standards.

Piles of yellow- and brown-spotted underwear; stained sheets; pillowcases reeking of teenagers, all pimple juice and hair cream—here’s a new generation of disgusting things for you to imagine. Brother needed to weapon up for this fight. He prayed for added firepower. Then along came science to give him his miracle, the aerosol can. I’m pretty sure he missed the irony. He prattled on about the new invention to anyone who’d listen. He fired them up, down, side to side, like a panicky soldier with a flamethrower. He fights bravely, this losing battle against stain and stink steaming off boy bodies.

At a special freshman class meeting early in the school year, Father Raven, disciplinarian, stood before us, Brother Thaddeus cowering safely behind him. The Raven was angry. He always seemed angry, as if some dark potion had been fed into his family tree generations ago, soaking the roots and poisoning its branches. After the predictable Take a shower once in a while for heaven’s sake and Change your underwear and socks every day, he wandered into the self-abuse zone. Onanism he called it. At first, I had no idea where he was dragging us, but it became clear soon enough.

Gentlemen, after lights out, your sheets rustle like autumn leaves blowing in a windstorm. Don’t kid yourselves, boys. I hear you. If I hear you, God hears you. I know what you’re doing. He does too. I know what’s happening under your covers. God sees through them, so don’t think you’re fooling anyone. Thoughts and hands pull your souls to perdition. Stop it. You bring shame on yourselves and your parents. Your behavior condemns your souls to burn for eternity in hell. Should you die before you wake, your souls will be taken. I promise you they will. Not to the place you want but make no mistake, it will be the place of your choosing. Father glanced over at Brother Thaddeus, then added, Besides, it stains your sheets.

Reality intruded. The nighttime daydream had to end. I’ve delayed opening the wound for too long at the risk of your patience. There is this matter of what you will eventually agree should be classified as a rape.

My tongue slid along the inside of my mouth, rolling over loose bits of teeth suspended in a pool of saliva and blood. My concern was breathing. The evil force pressing on me from behind brought the skills of a champion wrestler to our mismatch. Not the fake TV wrestlers in silky robes and ruffled regalia. No, this was the sweaty Greco-Roman type, hugging and tugging, grappling skin to skin. Weight and leverage forced submission. Powerful hands pressed my head into the tiles. One nostril and the gaps I forced with my lips were the only passageways for swigs of air.

The dorm was quiet except for banging radiators defending against an early fall chill, sleep sounds, and the seductive songs of sheets amplified by impure thoughts. This was the time of the Great Silence, enforced every night after compline. Absolutely no talking until morning bell.

On this night, hours before the assault, I’d brought a tiny flashlight, a Latin dictionary, and The Works of Julius Caesar into my dimly lit cave under my wool blanket, the perfect setting for an adventure. This was clearly not the Latin of the Catholic Church. The hand of a warrior, a Caesar, had scratched out these bloody stories. Not just any Caesar but Julius Caesar, the Caesar. They named a month and a salad after the guy.

Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae, nostra Galli appellantur.

Mysterious magical stuff, no? Even I could see the seeds of English scattered on the pages by Caesar’s hand. I imagined myself a soldier in the Roman army warming around a campfire with my fellow warriors, listening to noble Caesar’s tales, his simple leather lorica permanently stained by the deep crimson of violent deaths. His scarlet cloak flapped on currents of warm air rising off our small fire. He praised the courage and doggedness of our enemy, the Belgae. He admired their ferocity. To Caesar, they were dangerous because they hadn’t been subjected to the traveling merchants and women who softened his troops. Merchandise effeminates the mind, he complained. I wondered if he thought of women as merchandise. He was Caesar, so none of us, his most trusted, dared question him. I basked in the moment, drinking from a dented, filthy goblet half filled with cheap battlefield wine, flecks of greasy meat torn from a charred carcass floating on an oily rainbow slick.

Caesar protested that too many whores, wives, families, and shopkeepers were following his army, robbing his war of the grit that made common men uncommon, reliable killers.

A lone drunken soldier cheered. Hail, Caesar! It’s true what you say, my general. Boo whores and traveling merchants! What? Wait. Boo traveling merchants. Let the whores pass.

Lucky for him, Caesar got the humor and broke into a hearty laugh.

As I whooped it up in my cave, Father Raven stalked the freshman floor, listening for Great Silence violations. I was found out. He threw back my gray blanket and sheet, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked me away from the campfire. He dragged me out of the room then pushed me to my knees in the chill corridor. I don’t recall him saying anything. The rules were clear. I had violated the lights out subclause of the Great Silence. Punishment was automatic in such cases: kneel in the dormitory hallway for as long as the Raven sees fit. This was my first violation. I hoped for mercy. None was given. I was to kneel in place and contemplate what I’d done, why I was being punished. I had to kneel upright, unsupported by any wall. I had to remain in that position until I was cleared to rise and reclaim my bed. Campus gossip was unreliable as to the length of punishment or the consequences of repeat offenses. Father Raven communicated with hand gestures. I knew what I had to do and what I could not. He retreated down the hallway to his room, sandals clapping loudly against the tiles. Why hadn’t I heard him coming? I imagined him crouching, sandals in hand, white socks to tan tiles, advancing slowly like an African cat stalking a sickly antelope.

I was left with nothing to do but kneel and fret in the low-lit hallway. Time slipped to its knees and crawled through the night alongside me. Random thoughts fired across my brain. How could I be certain Raven hadn’t fallen asleep and left me out here all night? What would happen if I was left to face a floor full of sneering classmates headed for the bathroom at first bell? Who were the Dodgers playing tonight? Why had they abandoned Brooklyn, where they were beloved, for the sunny seductions of California? How could Jesus and his all-powerful Trinity allow such a thing to happen? They could have poked their spirit noses into this business to protect Brooklyn fans. My boys were doing well this season, but the goddamn Giants were nipping at their heels again. It was so much harder to track games on the West Coast.

I lasted a reasonable amount of time before I leaned into the wall and fell asleep. Maybe I fell asleep first then slumped against the wall. Not that Father Raven cared about the sequence. Had he fallen asleep and forgotten about me, or had this been a part of his plan? I had no way of knowing. I can report, objectively, that he discovered me sleeping, my body wedged into a hallway corner.

Without a word, he shook me awake. He forced me to a straight kneeling position away from the wall. Next, he gripped the side of my face with his large, powerful left meathook and struck three open-handed slaps with his free right hand, whispering Father, Son, and Holy Spirit as he broke the Silence with a trinity of thunderbolts. Trapping one side of my face prevented recoil, magnifying the impact. His technique was flawless. My ears rang, my eyes watered, and my cheeks burned from the shame delivered by his expert violence.

In my fourteen years at home, Stary tapped my heinie (his words) once. I deserved it. My sister Kasie certainly agreed. Afterward, he came to my room, gently brushed his hand across my forehead, and lay down beside me. I could tell he was crying. No lecture, nothing. Side by side, we made our peace with each other, in silence, sobbing softly in the dark. Both of us. I sensed his reaction had something to do with his war wounds, bayonets stabbing at his soul. I promised myself I would never bring him to such a place again.

As quickly as Father Raven’s assault began, it ended. Message delivered. He stood over me, glaring as I knelt before him. Then he was gone. I was left on my knees, head swimming against a current of pain.

Soon after Father left, as I was fighting my next battle with sleep, the sinister force, the one I’ve successfully put off talking about for some time now, set upon me from behind. I was shoved far forward into the previously mentioned hallway corner. My head banged against both walls. It hissed while it yanked my pajama bottoms down to my knees.

Not a sssound. Make a noissse, I break you in half, right here. The pressure on my head increased. The warm blood trickling from my mouth terrified me. My ears still rang from Father’s visit.

Relax, it said. You’re going to like thisss.

Alert. You might want to skip over the next few paragraphs. I certainly would if I could. They’re a bit, hmmm, jarring. I know I’ve pretty well guaranteed you’ll read them now. Blame yourself. You’ve been warned.

Relaxation was not going to happen. Medical fact, terror puckers the sphincter muscle. Something telling you not to be terrorized just makes it worse. I don’t have the science. I have the experience. Whatever it was shoving at me was not getting past my garden gate. Not because I willed it so. As it pushed forward, my muscles reacted and tightened the portal. I wanted to cooperate just to get matters over with and send it on its way. The invader pushed harder, my muscles clenched tighter. Hands tightened around my throat. I had no vocabulary for what happened to me. I didn’t know what it meant when it said it was going to fuck my asss. I had no knowledge that sex was ever done that way. This is officially on record as my first sexual experience, except for the self-inflicted handcrafted variety. If masturbation condemns a soul straight to hell, what sentence does this act carry? A special place in the deepest, hottest pits, no doubt.

I felt serious pain, a trickle of fluid down my thighs, and a dribble of something