5.

It has been noted that what the feeble-minded and socially-inept lack in the finer graces; they more than make up for in work ethic. Any factory recruiter knows that a healthy crop of hair (blossoming from the ears and nostrils) is one of the best signs to look for when selecting a candidate for back-breaking, low-paying drudgery.

Daddy fit the bill. He took orders; orders that he never questioned. He worked hard. During the worst of storms he would still trudge diligently to every house on his meter-reading route long after the other city workers had retreated to the shelter of the municipal building for cigarettes and sips of 90 proof from their auxiliary thermoses. He never took a sick day. It was something that you just didn't do.

While most people aspire for time off and the opportunity to socialize or relax with ones thoughts, for others the absence of toil is terrifying. Daddy was among the others. He needed to toil. It's a characteristic that is easily identified and more easily exploited. And yes, daddy was exploited. He was charged with extra duties: mopping out the shitter, toting muni building waste to the incinerator, and was the constant target of gopher duties from fellow employees.

His social ineptness was targeted too. One notable occasion the fellow meter readers hid his lunch bucket and watched in amusement while he searched high and low for a good 20 minutes. Finally, when asked what he was doing he stammered out the words: "Lunch bucket." "Well maybe you left it at home." One of the nitwits opined: "Why don't you grab a bite at the counter across the street while you still have time."

It was a frightening concept; but it was also an order, not a suggestion but an order. And daddy obeyed orders.

The rare cultural experience of ordering a meal at the 5 and dime lunch counter left him puzzling over the menu. The waitress, suspecting the type, allowed him extra time without having to ask. But all the time ticked off by Big Ben in the last century couldn't have helped. When she finally posed the question: "What would you like to have?" The single word response: "Meat" caught her totally by surprise. She lowered her pen and cocked her head at her latest customer. "I'm sorry, what was that?" Daddy searched for the words. He had the word 'meat' but he needed the others. "Meat. I want meat."

The nervous laugh from the waitress expressed many things. Is this guy messing with me? Is he feeble? Does he even know that he's going to have to pay for this and god knows I can't afford to get stiffed again this week. But she pushed the thoughts aside and dove back in with just as much professionalism as one can expect from a 5 and dime hash slinger. "Meat. Okay, what kind of meat?" A look of earnest filled the patrons face. He seemed to shrink a bit; as if pondering bolting from the store but afraid that he might get lost trying to find his way out. The waitress pressed on. "We have chicken, pork chops, hamburger and mea (aha!) meatloaf! Meatloaf-is that what you want?" Daddy nodded, not because it was what he wanted, it was just easier than trying to conjure up the proper vocal cord array for any of the other forms of meat. The waitress stroked the letters 'ML' on the ticket and braced herself as she realized she was far from done.

"And what would you like to drink?" With trepidation.

If it weren't so sad it would almost be comical. But this one daddy handled easy. Having a wife with an obsessive compulsive disorder coffee fixation, this was a word he heard often and had used with enough frequency that it came out with confidence.

"Coffee."

"The cream and sugar are right there hun." The waitress nodded to the wire rack of condiments grateful that she would not have to pry any more words from the modern day missing link. And as she turned to clip the ticket to the carousel in the fry cooks window, Barb Svenson thought how glad she was that she didn't have anything in common with people like that. She had plenty of her own troubles; a good-for-nothing drunk of a husband and an unplanned kid that was one blemish shy of a sideshow attraction. The fact that both of their children were being preyed upon by the local priest was an unacknowledged coincidence.

Daddy had come back to find his lunch bucket in its usual place inside his locker. The lunch room, now vacant, told him that everyone else was back at work and he needed to do the same. Something far, far back in his brain suggested that he had been tricked; but that concept was not allowed to surface. What had happened was one of the men had found his lunch bucket and had returned it to its customary spot.

That resolved, the far greater question was what to do with the food in his still full bucket. Taking it home would not do, oh no, that would unleash a frenzy. An unrelenting frenzy from his wife and her army of the apostles, the saints and the angels of the apocalypse. Dumping it would be a sin. Giving it away would involve human interaction. Again, not an option. The only choice would be to eat. Some now, the rest after work. He took half a sandwich and began introducing it to the meatloaf. Then he picked up his metallic clipboard with addresses and numbered columns and returned to the streets of Elmwood.

6.

The snow that had accumulated on the grounds of Saint Mark's was far from significant. Any able bodied Minnesotan with a good pair of boots would find no trouble at all in making their way to their destination. But the modest amount of snow and the need to shovel were not questioned. Daddy had been asked to work. And that was what he was doing.

His progress was steady. The subzero temperatures had made this most recent snowfall airy and light. A little too deep for a broom, but easily pushed, five feet at a swath, into a pile that was first lifted and then deposited over the curb.

He had finished the walk in front of the church and turned north to tackle the eastern side. With the wind now directly in his face, daddy realized that each shovelful lofted to the curb got caught in the breeze. A backfill was being created into the cleared space behind him. He leaned on the shovel, peering ahead at the depression of white that indicated the span of sidewalk. Shoveling from north to south would put the wind behind him helping him. From just under his breath: "Other way." He clenched the neck of the shovel, stepped off the curb and into the street, and made his way to the northern end of the property. Had he merely walked up the sidewalk he knew that his boot-falls would have crushed the snow into the cement, creating icy impressions much harder to remove. There were already a few pairs of tracks from earlier pedestrians, but he did not add to them. Now with the wind at his back, he grounded the blade and plowed the shovel forward. His progress would be faster.

7.

"We're going to practice first. Bend over slowly to the eyepiece." From behind Corky Father Gus motioned with his hand (the one without KY; the other hand was occupied) toward the scope. This was Corky's moment; he was going to see the heavens. Just as he neared the eyepiece Gus halted him. "Oh my, that just won't do. It's a good thing we practiced first." Corky was devastated. He wanted more than anything to see in the scope. He would do anything to see. Anything! And that's just how Gus wanted it. "You're not bending right. Here, let me help you." KY or not, Gus used both hands this time as he gripped the boys narrow hips. "Your pants are bunching up. Let's move them out of the way." Corky was more than happy to comply and with both of them working together he was bare-assed in seconds; pants and underwear below his knees which actually made kneeling on the stool more comfortable.

"There, yes there!" Gus chugged out in guttural excitement. He had to get inside the boy soon or his seed would be wasted on the ground. "Now lean forward again and look directly into the eyepiece, don't look anywhere else." Corky complied and got his first look at heaven, and what a disappointment it was all black. No God, no Jesus, not even one crummy angel. Gus sensed the reaction and offered words of encouragement. "Give it time, you will see it." He was looking at the boys buttocks. He could see the star-shaped anus and breathed: "Oh yes! You will see it and it will be sooo good!"

Corky looked harder but still saw only black. "I c-c-can't" He nearly whimpered. This was Gus' cue. It was now or never. "Then let me help you. Keep looking now." And Gustavus Milliken, son of vermouth-chugging Barbara Milliken, victim of her ogre boyfriends, graduate of Duluth seminary, pedophile to Timmy Swenson and half a dozen other altar boys, confidante to the sins of an entire community and responsible for guiding them to salvation; Gus Milliken separated a pair of preschool butt cheeks and began his insertion.

Nudged forward; Corky understood only that the priest was trying to guide his vision. There were two hands on his exposed behind: One dry and firm, the other greasy and grasping for purchase. Then there was another sensation; a pressure in his behind. Like having to take a hard poop; only-different. Initially the feelings were oddly comforting, the large man's body enveloping him in an intimate fashion. But then it changed-oh how it changed. The priest gave a thrust and the head of his penis entered the puckered anus. A harsh squeak came out of Corky and he tried to pinch off the invader that was violating his bum. "Don't do that!" The gentle tone of the priest had been replaced. He had had his doubts about even being able enter the boy but now that the door was open he wasn't about to risk his toehold.

Corky tried to pull away from the priest and the telescope. If this was what heaven was all about he didn't want any part of it. "No!" came the roar from behind him. "You must keep looking until you see heaven. When you see heaven it will stop!" The whimpering boy feigned looking into the scope and cried meekly 'I see it.' Meanwhile Gus had gained another two inches. He was assuredly far enough in now to begin a rhythmic stroking pattern without risk of losing his lodging. He dared another half inch, succeeded, and turned again on his victim. "No! You don't see it! You're n-n-not even looking in th-th-the eyepiece!

Openly crying now, from the pain in his bottom and from the rapid change in demeanor of the priest, Corky again took up his search for the heavens. He now held the telescope with both hands; not only to aid his futile viewing but to brace himself from the pounding he was receiving from behind. "Tell me w-w-what you see!" The voice behind him demanded. Five inches and counting. This exquisitely tight ass was going to get a shot of hot lava. Just a little more and then it's 'mister cock ring meet mister anal ring!' Ha!

"I see... I see... a light." It was a statement of honesty and relief. The shaking of the scope had caused it to cross paths with a street light. The glare smeared into and out of view and then back again. Fixing it into view was impossible, but it had been something. To corky it meant heaven. A great disappointment from his expectation of heaven, but that mattered little now. He had seen it and that meant the pain would stop.

He was wrong.

8.

Daddy had made short work of the paths running north and south and was on the final section at the back of the quad. Here he discovered that dumping the snow over the curb meant 'into the wind' which created yet another dusting back to the sidewalk. An inept yet practical man, he modified, and dumped the snow on the other side of the walk; on the grounds. Fearing that he may have to justify his actions he began to form the words: 'snow,' 'wind,' 'blow,' 'back.' This intellectual dilemma preoccupied him as he reached the end of walk without realizing his progress. He was finished.

Walking back to the rectory a new dilemma surfaced: He was finished. Or was he? The priest had told him to 'shovel the snow.' And that's what daddy had done. He had cleared all the sidewalks, but did that also include the rectory driveway? And what about the steps leading up to the church? He could ask the priest. A daunting proposition. First there was the matter of explaining that he had to throw the snow on the grass. Then it was the matter of asking if he should clear the drive and the steps. And there were other things. What about spreading sand or 'Ice Melt.' He looked in the direction of the rectory and thought about the intellectual and social labor it represented. Physical labor was better. He climbed the 13 steps to the entrance of the church and resumed pushing snow.

9.

Gus was now fully planted. The sensation of manic sperm, all searching for an escape route, was maddening in his scrotum. He concurrently thrusted with his body to increase the sensation and withdrew with his mind to prolong the experience. He tried to think of benign things: Baseball scores, balancing his checkbook, last night's "I Love Lucy" episode. He had learned to flick these images through his mind to help savor the sensation. But the boy. The boy and his perky bottom would win over his mental stopgap. "A light?! Just a l-l-light?" The tone was no longer harsh; it was desperate. "Heaven." Thrust. "The angels." Thrust. "You h-have to see th-the angels." Thrust.

And now the boy squealed. Really squealed. Both from pain, and, had he been older and known the word, from mortification.

10.

The 13 steps had been quick work. It was just a matter of pushing the snow under the railings and over the side. Daddy paused and relived the conversation with the priest. The priest had clearly said 'sidewalks.' He had not mentioned anything about the steps or the driveway. So that meant that daddy had done his job and had even done a bit more. He could go back to the rectory and tell the priest that he was finished but he would not mention that the snow on the back of the quad had been deposited on the grass and not curbside. It wasn't that he intended to be deceitful, it was more a reflection of his inability to form the words to describe his totally justifiable actions.

Turning away from the church, he throttled the shovel by the neck, stamped his feet twice and began walking toward the rectory.

11.

Corky was openly sobbing. Gus had made a few breathless attempts to get the boy to stop his sniveling (It was clearly distracting from the padre's pleasure) and then he relented after determining it was a lost cause. Besides, he was almost there.

12.

The human mind is an amazing thing. The lobes of the brain that control pleasure and pain are separated by a thin membrane. The same applies for the sensations of happiness and sadness, courage and fear, desire and repulsion. When any of these senses get over stimulated, impulses can jump the membrane and trigger a reaction from the opposite side. You can laugh until you cry. Cowards under great duress have been known to perform amazing acts of bravery. There's even pain induced pleasure.

Until this night, Corky's mind had been trained to lie dormant. He had the intellectual and psychological makeup of a small soap dish. Now there was a conflagrating electrical storm exploding in his skull. Synaptic impulses of pain, fear, repulsion and sadness shot across his brain. Bolts of serotonin flooded his pleasure and desire sensors. And in his mind's eye the images whirled, separated and swam together again. The beautiful angels in heaven, his screaming pooper, Father Gus, omnipotent, beastly, the awful hard thing inside him, baby Jesus, hands and nails gripping his buttocks, blessed Virgin Mary, the telescope, the spider from the incredible shrinking man, Casey, cartoons, crying. The pulses whipped back and forth in his mind, the thin membrane no match for the onslaught, melting in resistance.

He was racing down an endless dark hallway where portals, doors and iron grates exploded out, waggled violently on their hinges before slamming back into place. Windows, shutters, drapes, curtains and sashes opened and shut, danced and waved. Behind these he caught brief glimpses of garish figures: Satan's torso with the head of baby Jesus, a gigantic spider with telescopic tentacles violating the Virgin Mary from behind, Casey the engineer haling him but not with the traditional trainman's lantern but with a red hot pitchfork upon which was mounted the head of Harry the Happy Hobo. Harry looked none too happy in this scene. His eyeballs had been removed and squirming white grub worms and maggots filled his sockets and spilled across his cheeks.

And then a final door opened. But this was not a phantom door in what had become the psychotic haunted house of Corky's mind, oh no, this one was for real. A door that would end one nightmare and start another...

The door opened.

And everything stopped.

Three people, two of them men and one a young boy, held frozen. All caught in the act. All three taking in the image from their own perspective and (for once daddy was not alone) speechless in voice and thought.

The trio could not have been more statuesque than if having been instructed to pose for a photograph at the Sears portrait studio: Daddy in the doorway, shovel in one hand, doorknob in the other. Gus bent at the hips yet fully erect down below. Corky limp and utterly lost, lost in a catatonic blackness between the cyclonic storm in his mind and the blessed rescue/cataclysmic admonishment (he could not have told you which one) he was about to receive.

How long they held that pose is unknown. It could have been an instant, a few moments, even untold eons in duration. But one of them had to move and it was Gus. Gus moved first and he moved fast. He released the boy, almost tipping him off the stool in the process, and withdrew his erection while frantically hoisting his pants.

Corky was next. His hands left the scope while his body wilted back and slithered to the floor in one elongated movement. The pain inside him released, but his anal rim throbbed like fire. His naked torso puddled on the linoleum and he wailed out long and hard.

And while Daddy didn't move, what he did do was an absolute milestone. He spoke. He spoke first and unprompted. Fighting through the waves of confusion and anger he engaged his voice like never before: "WHAT?!" The word roared out of him. "WHAT'S GOING ON IN ---HERE!"

The words drove into the priest like crucifixion nails. And while they may have been intended solely for the priest oh, ohhh how those words also drove into Corky. Corky's wailing became a crescendo. He wailed in fear and shame of daddy's presence. He wailed for God and Jesus and the angels that he had somehow displeased. He wailed in fear of the kindly priest who had turned savage. He even wailed in relief of the end of the torture. He wailed and wailed but had nothing left within him to wail for the most important part of all; his damaged mind.

The priest, now hastily clothed, moved right into damage control.

This scene was not what he expected, but that's not to say that he was unprepared. Many nights he had lain awake pondering how best to respond should he be faced with an accusation. No, he never expected to get caught in the act, but he still had the same fundamental response in mind.

He had always imagined it to be pre-planned meeting. First would come a phone call from an alarmed parent, followed by a face-to-face meeting (at the church of course!) where he could will himself (with the help of every holy emblem at his disposal) upon the accusatory parishioner. His stock responses to any accusations had always been planned to deflect attention or minimize the impact of his accuser. "Oh yes, we spent time in my room. Of course I comforted the boy with fatherly hugs. But what you're suggesting, oh my, oh no, I am a priest who is committed to sacred vows. Besides, you know how boys like to tell stories. To bear false witness against your neighbor, against your priest, against your church, is to bear false witness against God himself! I am a loving and forgiving man, but to have such stories repeated would be an act of opposition to the holy institution of the faith. I pray that you talk to your boy, remand him as you see fit. Do that, and then you may let him know that I have already absolved him, saving him from any embarrassment of the confessional."

He had rehearsed the scene countless times but like many an aspiring understudy had never needed to enact the performance.

This was different.

There could be no deflection, no minimizing, no hiding. He was busted. Flat out fucking busted. Oddly, his now hastily hid erection was still at full throttle. The shoe string and the cock ring were still doing their job; maintaining the phallus status, despite the fact that at this moment he wanted to be a million miles removed from anything sexually based. The padre's pants tented accusingly and made his words unconvincing.

"This. It's not what you think." It was the best he could do.

13.

After daddy had finished the church steps, stamped his feet and headed toward the rectory he did so with trepidation. He needed words. Or maybe just one word: 'Done.' If the priest felt the need to engage in further conversation then daddy would become absorbed with putting the coat on the boy and leading him out to the car. Maybe the priest had become tired of watching the boy and would be happy to see them go. One could only hope.

Familiar creepers of social anxiety threaded through his chest as he entered the ante chamber of the rectory. Reflecting on his password, 'done,' made him oblivious to the fact that he was still holding onto the shovel as he headed up the hallway.

The hallway doors were all shut now but daddy possessed perfect recall of doors and the meters that lay behind them. Besides, he could hear the boy and the priest engaged in some kind of game of celestial tug-of-war. "See the hea-heavens. Look for the l-light!" And the squealing of his son? Growing up with 10 younger siblings who could ever distinguish between the nonstop squeals of pain and delight. Besides, nobody ever paid any attention to it, nobody cared. At least the boy and the priest were talking so that meant he might be excused from participating. He tried the word one more time on his lips 'done' and then had opened the door.

The scene before him did not unveil. There was no horizontal image that unrolled from right to left as the door swung inward. It was more of a mental blackboard with the word 'done' that melted into an image of... The priest was completely bare assed.

It was obvious what had happened. The priest had been helping the boy look through the telescope and his pants had fallen off.

But then the image changed. The priest was thrusting into the boy in a manner that every farm kid has witnessed with the livestock each spring. But, that can't be right. It's not done that way. Male? Female? Man? Child? Front? Back? Enter confusion prepare for obscenity. If there were any doubt, it vanished as daddy caught an eyeful of the priest's erection being frantically withdrawn from the boys behind.

Daddy's mind did not go through nearly as many gymnastic maneuvers as Corky had already experienced, but he did go through his share. The word 'done' now fully erased from the blackboard, he called upon one of his best stock words when he need to buy time. And fueled by some guttural force that he had been holding in reserve during a lifetime of constraint he had roared: "WHAT!?" "WHAT'S GOING ON IN ---HERE!"

They were the last words he would ever utter to the priest.

That's not to say that Father Milliken didn't have a few words of his own to offer. After his first fumbling 'it's not what you think.' He floundered badly through his pre-planned repertoire. 'I was giving a hug to the-' No, that wouldn't do. 'He was sliding off the stool and I tried to catch-' Strike two. 'You know how boys like to tell stories-' Bad move, there was no story. He had been caught in the act. He had been caught and now all he wanted was to get this screaming kid and gawking sasquatch out of his room so he could begin to restore his dignity...and maybe, just maybe find a way to salvage his career.

Daddy had not moved. He neither went toward the priest in anger nor in compassion toward his son. His hands remained gripped - left on the shovel, right on the doorknob. After his initial outburst of speech he had visibly recoiled, alarmed by the alacrity of his voice. And he had frightened himself. He had shouted. Shouted at a priest! In a rectory! It may not quite be a church but it was close. He swam with guilt for what he had said and what he was seeing. A word tried to form its way from his lips. 'sorry.' But what words there were had already been spoken. And so he stood; oblivious to the needs of his son, blind to any action to inflict upon the priest. He was a man who needed direction; who responded to orders. Fortunately Father Milliken gave both.

"Take your boy and go." The words came out as half command half plea. "Just go." He added for emphasis.

Only now, having been instructed, did daddy go to his boy. He had released the doorknob willingly enough but the shovel had trailed along as he crossed the room. Squatting to the boy below him, and with a two handed operation to perform, only then did he notice the shovel. He rose again and turned back to the hallway, intending to return the shovel to the large supply closet near the front of the building. He had neglected to return it when he re-entered the building (subconsciously perhaps) as it symbolized the work he had done and possibly the work the priest would still like him to perform.

"Leave it! Just go!" Gus flamed. Daddy leaned the neck of the shovel against the bed and turned back to the boy.