He looked down at the bathwater (which was now more brownish than red) as if for the first time. He had shit himself, (Not surprising considering what he had endured.) the brown diarrhea effectively masking the blood. Had it not, it may have re-triggered those images to come flying back up out of the dark place in which they were hidden.

He was still clearly shaken. But like many a victim of severe trauma he had blacked out every conscious memory of the savage attack. All that had happened tonight was that he had pooped his pants and he had cried about it. That's all there was to it. He had pooped himself and been placed in the tub to clean up.

The Palmolive squirt bottle bobbed lazily on the brown water. Normally it would be great fun to fill it up and squirt a jet of water in the tub. But this was poopy water. Besides, it was getting cold.

Corky reached for the chain of silver bb's that lead to the plug. He gave it a yank and the water receded. He stepped from the tub, a light scrim of feces still clinging to his bottom half, and reached for the only towel in sight a dark blue hand towel hooked next to the sink.

Toweling off was a quick job but not an easy one. Having not submerged lower than his belly button there was only his bottom half to deal with. His preschool awkwardness prevented him from standing upright to do the job. So he sat on the throw rug and wiped in haphazard fashion.

The water had now vacated the tub except for an arrow of brown sludge. The base of the arrow started broadly and faintly at the back of the tub, sluiced around the Palmolive bottle, then narrowed and darkened as it pointed to the mouth of the drain. It would dry and remain that way until the next time mommy took her monthly bath.

By providence, the throw rug that corky sat upon was even darker than the hand towel. Thus, the stain of blood and shit that he left on both were masked by the hue of the latter. Had either the towel or rug been lily white, like his experience in the tub, the sight of blood may have rocked him to memory of his savage experience. And though he was still bleeding, the flow had ebbed to a slight trickle, aided by the remnants of feces clotting the rim of his anus.

Dried but not done.

Normally after a bath he would clamber into the same odiferous clothes that had covered his body pre-bath. But his clothes were no longer there. The question of where his clothes had gone was one his mind could not process. Nor did he exert much effort in trying to find the answer. He had no memory of removing his clothes, leaving them on the floor or even the act of shitting his pants that had brought him to where he was right now. Preschool minds are not wired to look back, or to even look very far forward. All that matters is now.

He then noticed the curiosity of the closed bathroom door. This was a little more unsettling than the vanishing clothes. The bathroom door was never closed. From way, way deep inside him, from a place where you bury the dark matter and then seal it shut for eternity, (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) a muffled voice was trying to scream. Had Corky been able to hear the voice he would have recognized it as his own. He visibly quivered; then startled himself as if waking from a trance. "Cold." He said. In one motion he wrapped his arms around his thin chest, crossed his legs tightly and stood on tiptoe. The primitive human need for warmth was stronger and the voice from deep inside him succumbed.

Turning the door handle pleased him in its novelty and bothered him in its foreignness. Both feelings were quickly dismissed as he opened the door and even colder air greeted him in the hallway. He needed clothes!

And he needed TV.

6.

They resolved the matter in the same way they resolved all of their matters. Daddy, intellectually exhausted, drifted off to the coat closet to stow his winter-wear in a prominent place so he would not be challenged finding it the next morning. Mommy, now somewhat back to her old self, paraded around her kitchen, touching her talismans and wringing her hands. It had gone unspoken that yes, they would be going to church on Sunday, and again the next Sunday and the next. It had also gone unspoken that they would not confront Father Milliken. The art of avoidance was a talent that they had both honed and practiced to a standard of excellence.

Father Milliken could be avoided. Church, on the other hand, could not be missed. Without the necessity of words they independently concluded that each Sunday, as they exited church, if Father Milliken was stationed on the left side, they would sidle to the right. If he was on the right, they would veer left. And if perchance the padre were to acknowledge them and move their way? Well, daddy could examine his keys and mommy could busy herself with whichever nostril held the most promise.

It would be as if nothing had happened.

7.

Corky darted out of the bathroom and scampered to his room naked and on tiptoe. To his good fortune a shirt was lying at the foot of his bed and this he was able to put on quickly.

Better.

It made the job of wrestling out the heavy dresser drawer more tolerable. He tugged the drawer out far enough so he could snake his hand in and paw out underwear and a pair of pants. He didn't sit on the floor to put these on. (too cold!) Nor did he prop himself against the edge of the bed to work through the sequence of one leg after another. Unabashedly he ran out of the room bare-assed, clutching his clothes against his chest with one destination in mind. The TV.

It had been a strange night. He had shit himself but couldn't remember doing it. His clothes had vanished during his bath. The bathroom door had been shut. And now now there was this! The TV was off! The only time the TV was off was when they went to bed at night or on Sunday when they went to... (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) Broken. It had to be broken.

Corky was still plenty cold but more important matters were at hand. He dropped his clothes in the spot where he always sat (as if saving a seat for himself) and inspected the back of the set. Yes, it was plugged in, yes, the housing was intact, no there wasn't water dripping into the breather slots and daddy was not... (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) Numb, and not entirely from the cold, Corky tried to piece it together. He had shit himself, the TV was off, and his bottom... his bottom ached something fierce. Had he been spanked? Had he done something very, very bad. So bad that he couldn't remember it. Tears tried to well up (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!)No! If he cried he would remember! He did not want to remember.

TV. He needed TV. Non blaming, non judgmental, alive, warm, nurturing. He turned on the knob.

The vacuum tubes began humming like a mother coddling her newborn. Then a blot of light appeared in the center of the screen like a star in heav-... (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) ...like a train lantern, yes, like Casey. The light widened and the edges of the screen began to illuminate. Shadows became shapes, shapes became forms, forms became people. And then there was the voice of the red skeleton playing a scene as Freddy the Freeloader.

Corky exhaled and started on his clothes. In spite of the cold, he was unable to hurry. It would all have to be done by feel. He didn't dare to take his eyes off the screen. Otherwise he would... (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) ...otherwise he would... well he would miss something.

Eventually, fully clothed, he slumped to the floor and felt immediate pain from his bottom. He rolled to his side, eyes never leaving the comforting glow of the picture tube. He tucked his legs up tight and crossed his arms.

The glow of the picture tube flooded his mind, soothing, easing, masking whatever bad things that may have been there with an electric corona of comfort. The TV quickly gained a foothold on his consciousness and then pushed deeper. From inside the boy, pools of black evil repelled the assault, straining to break from the barricaded room to which they had been entombed; willing themselves to be recognized, dealt with, resolved.

But the power of the set was stronger. It countered with promises: 'I will give you unending distraction. I will tell you what to do, how to feel. Take in my warm glow, listen to my laugh track. Ignore what you feel inside.' Greedily and subconsciously, Corky absorbed the messages. Each line of dialogue and new camera angle of the skeleton drove the black pool of evil into deeper and dimmer reaches of his being.

And then there were the blessed commercials. Gentle Mister Lipton smiling under the brim of his captain's hat, assuring that all was right in the world when one was dipping a teabag into a cup of steaming water. Comical Mister Peanut, strutting with his monocle and cane, peddling the goodness of his dry roasted peanuts.

Defeated, the last stubborn fibers of black evil finally succumbed and released their tentacles from the boys brain. The mass plummeted down a labyrinth where memories should never be allowed to return. The door slammed shut, the gaps sealed, the bolts secure.

Within minutes, Corky was asleep.

His parents, unequipped to deal with their new dilemma, or perhaps each thinking the other would take care of it, left him there, and wordlessly went to bed.

Chapter 4.

1.

Father Gustavus Milliken didn't miss a thing. He didn't miss the phone call from the church council (though he fully expected to receive one) as no call was ever placed. He didn't miss the late night visit from the sheriff accompanied by two deputies (this too he knew was coming) because no public official decided to drop by. He didn't even miss a bit of sleep, (though one would find this highly unusual considering the circumstances) as being obliterated on sacramental wine had taken care of that matter just fine.

For now.

The next morning Gus (today it would be safer to think of himself as Gus rather than Father Milliken) woke with a feeling of odd discontent not to mention a grinding headache. He had a moment of panic, thinking: 'It's Sunday! Cripes I've overslept!' and lurched from the bed to his feet. The act, far too fast than what his thrumming head would allow, staggered him and made his knees buckle. His body waged a brief battle between prone and erect and then agreed on a compromise. Whoompf. He collapsed back to the bed in a sitting position.

He tried gathering himself; hands scrubbing his face, fingers tracing a path from temple to brow. His head and his body at fully mutiny, for the moment, Gus would have to rely on his eyes until the rest of him caught up.

The eyes weren't much better. The images they revealed were swimmy and filmy. That, and they were all wrong. They showed him that he was fully dressed, shoes and all. At the foot of his bed, piles of his old 'civilian' clothes were spilling out of the open maw of a suitcase.

The floor was littered with the detritus of shattered figurines and a jug that had once held a gallon of Gallo.

When he saw the shovel, the previous nights calamity registered and he was immediately jolted to memory.

'Not Sunday.' Was his first thought. 'Oh shit' was the second.

Friday. This was Friday. He hadn't missed his Sunday obligation which was a good thing. If only he could resolve his other dilemma; his 'oh shit' dilemma just as easily.

The boy and his father. The encounter. Cracking open the new bottle of sacramental wine with the intention of having just a few drinks to calm his paranoia. Righting the figurines that had fallen from their spots. Drinking more wine. Kicking himself for his carelessness. More wine. Smashing a figurine first one, then two, three more. More wine; a lot more. And at some point (on this one he was less clear) packing his clothes with the intention of leaving town. Just jumping in the car and driving until he was out of gas, money and wine.

The reality of the night before and the denial of the morning after clashed hard. Denial had always been one of Gus' best friends. An old friend that he'd known and come to rely on since childhood. His mom was a lush? Denial. The ogres had brutalized him? Denial. Last night? Denial. Nothing had happened! It was all a bad dream. A dream fueled by a lonely priests indiscretion to steal a few sips from the wine cellar.

And as badly as Gus wanted his old friend denial to come out on top, it was reality that pointed out the rest of the evidence: The step stool lay toppled under the window. His telescope was taking in a cosmic view of baseboard trim. And most undeniable were the items left carelessly on the nightstand.

Reality.

"FUCK!" He viciously ripped open the nightstand, slapped the sex aids in the drawer and then rammed it shut.

It had happened. It had happened and all of the wine-induced denial could not change it.

Chapter 5.

1.

If you were to ask Corky what was the earliest thing he could remember, he could tell you quite clearly that it was right before his 5 birthday (the birthday he couldn't remember but the thing that happened before it he did). He could remember it vividly, even provide specific details of everything that had happened.

He had been sitting in this very spot when Walter Cronkite interrupted "Days of our Lives" with a CBS news special bulletin. "A news flash from Dallas, President Kennedy has been shot." The news flash wasn't all that notable to Corky. After all, they were always interrupting his TV shows with things like tests of the emergency broadcast system or announcements of blizzard warnings. This was just another of those interruptions. What was notable was his mother's reaction.

"No. It can't be." Breathlessly at first. There was a pause. And then came a ululating wail that made the boy cower: "Noooooo! Oh but we are sinners! Our President! Our catholic President! I'll set the house on fire if I don't turn off... Pray! where's my rosary?!" She caromed around the kitchen like a lunatic.

Corky watched this with mild fascination. Whatever Walter Cronkite was reporting was pretty important to make her act so strangely.

Back and forth, back and forth. Racing around the kitchen like a bulldozer on roller skates. Opening and closing cupboards, turning the faucet on and off, off and on. The phone, the light switch, the coffee pot, everything within reach was being handled again and again to no visible useful purpose.

It went on for about twenty minutes. News flashes from CBS and manic outbursts from the kitchen. And when Walter Cronkite declared the President as dead, mommy fell to her knees. She crossed herself and launched into the apostles creed, already counting and recounting the prayer beads with her fingers.

Corky watched her for a few more minutes. But when it became apparent that mommy was going to stay on her knees and keep saying her prayers, he turned his attention back to the television. It was still Walter Cronkite. He tried the other channel, but that was no good, it too was just N.E.W.S. about the President. So he decided to just play with his toys and wait until he heard the glorious announcement: "We now return to our regularly scheduled program."

The wait would be much longer than anticipated.

2.

The Presidents death couldn't have come at a better time.

Gus had spent the morning putting his room back in order. A task that was both accusatory and exonerating. He felt culpable as he righted the stool and re-set the telescope, then the slightest sense of calm when they were back in their proper places. He scowled and self-admonished as he swept up the colored glass and ceramics, but allowed himself a gentle glimmer of hope with each deposit of the dustpan into the garbage.

Perhaps denial and reality could coexist.

Thanks to his pounding head the work was slow and methodical. And more than once Gus fell into a trance-like state. Opposite forces wrestling for control of his mind. He jerked awake from these episodes, his brain a little further away from what had occurred and a little closer to what still could be. It gave him hope. But hope would be pretty useless unless he got this shit hole cleaned up.

He set back to work.

It was not hard work, but it was hard to finish. The mind-numbing duties he was performing provided a catharsis. But finishing the task would mean moving on to the cerebral (accusatory!) duties of the rest of the world. With everything back in order Gus sat on the bed and scanned the room in hopes of finding some small detail that he had missed.

No luck. He would have to leave his sanctuary and do do what? Drive down to the police station and turn himself in? Write out his letter of resignation? Buy a gun and blow his brains out? Oddly the last option had the most appeal. But as good as it felt Gus was beginning to believe (with a little help from his old friend denial) that he still might get out of this mess. Plus there was something else he was feeling but he couldn't quite put a finger to it. It was an uncomfortable but not unpleasant sensation coming from his midsection. Something so familiar, yet so foreign due to (what happened) due to the wine.

And then it struck him. He was hungry! He had slept well beyond breakfast, had cleaned through lunch and now his stomach was telling him what his brain could not. Food. It would be a good start.

It was twenty paces at most. He felt both relief as the room (the scene of the crime) was left behind, and trepidation as the kitchen (home to many a church council meeting at the large oak table) came into view.

It was empty of course. The rectory was his and his alone. The only time that others were in the rectory was at times of his biding. Or when they came barging in unannounced.

"Stupid clodhopper" he hissed.

But no one would come barging in today. Even the police would have the courtesy to--. "Stop it. Just fucking stop it."

With determination Gus yanked on the refrigerator latch and let the heavy door swing free. It banged on the sink counter and got halfway back home before Gus stopped its retreat with his knee.

Food.

Eggs were an easy choice. Milk. Butter for the toast. Bacon or sausage were too much work today. A leftover dish of cling peaches had a strange appeal so he added that as well.

Like so many others who had preceded him; in the ages old practice of recovering from brown bottle flu, Gus prepared the meal for his eyes and not his stomach. He cracked six eggs into a mixing bowl and it just didn't look like enough. He added the rest of the dozen, poured in milk without measuring, and scrambled the mess together.

The eggs screamed in protest when he poured them into the red hot pan. He yanked it off the burner, adjusted the setting, and when the coil had tempered, returned the eggs to their fate. The mixture bubbled reasonably. He browned toast, slathered on too much butter, and considered the coffee pot.

'Twelve cups.' The water he could gauge by the lines of the percolator, the amount of coffee would be by pure chance although the stronger the better. Later he would dump out most of it, but for now it was what he needed.

The coffee would have to catch up with the rest of his meal, but he had plenty to start with. He arranged two slices of toast on a plate and dumped half of the scrambled eggs on top. The rest of the eggs went back on the stove to warm and a fresh pair of bread slices were dropped in the toaster.