school.”
“What did they say?”
Father Dante paused, seemed to consider, and said, “The children had a system to not go to Father Nicolai’s office alone, to go in pairs or groups, especially junior high boys, or to have Sister Mary Theresa waiting outside, but it didn’t always work.”
Her daughters had been in danger, and they knew they were in danger, and they hadn’t told her. They had found a way to defend themselves from rape. “Was it just boys?”
“Nicolai appears to be a primary pedophile. He was attracted to children. Their gender was not as important as their age, between ten and thirteen,” he said. “I trust you will not say anything about this.”
Bev nodded.
“Because some families will want to keep this private.”
Father Nicolai was her friend. Bev would have known.
Bev’s eyes were so dry they felt burned.
“I just can’t believe it.”
~~~~~
Bev picked up her email later that afternoon:
Dearest Beverly,
I have to work late tonight, so I won’t be home for dinner. I’ve attached the proof.
Love,
Conroy
Fwd: an apology
> I can’t see you anymore. > It was all a mistake. I love my wife. You know that.
> I apologize if I hurt > you, if I let you believe that our relationship was anything other than what it was, or if you > believed so anyway.
Conroy
~~~~~
Conroy waited in his Porsche outside Leila’s apartment building. The kung pao and mu shus were stinking up his car but he couldn’t roll down the window because the rain would ruin the leather seats.
Something knocked on his window and he jumped. Outside, Leila was so rained-on that frigid water streamed from her long, black hair and dragged her clothes against her shoulders. She motioned him toward her apartment building. Her mincing shadow dodged through the foggy January rain. She unlocked the building’s door and flung it back.
The paper bag crackled in his hands as he followed her. Her elevator closed its doors before he caught up.
His elevator beat hers to the twelfth floor, so he ambled down the hall, rolling and unrolling the top of the bag. She strode past and unlocked the deadbolt on her door.
Inside, Conroy set the bag on her dining table. A freaky blue chandelier above the table looked like a church stained-glass window and threw spider shadows on the walls’ blue and green molding and ceiling medallions. The funky, faux plasterwork looked like the Palace of Versailles had relocated to New Hamilton.
Leila peeled off her soaked clothes and tossed them in the kitchen sink. Her black hair trailed water behind her. “Meth,” she called. The old dog sauntered over, all black fur and muscle, claws scritching on the hardwood floor. It stood up beside her and sniffed her breath, nuzzling but not licking.
Leila said, “Good boy. Go lie down,” and he ambled away, doubtless to sleep again.
“How’d you get so wet?” Conroy asked.
“It’s raining, and I walked home.” she called from her tiny bathroom, past the rows of closets that held her silvery and black clothes. Once, while she was showering, he had stroked the crotch of a pair of black pants with a red matador sash and she had worn the pants the next day, unsuspecting. He had been turned on all day, imagining his fingers in those pants.
She came out of the bathroom nude and fingerwalked through the clothes in her closet. Her body was lithe, even angular over her collarbones and pelvis. Her hair, usually sleek and black as a beaded curtain against his face, had tightened into slick spirals.
Conroy stood behind her and pressed his body on her chilly skin. The ice of her passed through his damp clothes. Shivery goose flesh peppered her arms and torso, and looking down from behind her, her nipples poked out hard. He thumbed one.
She wiggled her cold ass against him but otherwise didn’t comment, just touched the shoulders of her clothes in the long closet, deciding.
Blood rushed in him, streaming into his dick
“What did they say?”
Father Dante paused, seemed to consider, and said, “The children had a system to not go to Father Nicolai’s office alone, to go in pairs or groups, especially junior high boys, or to have Sister Mary Theresa waiting outside, but it didn’t always work.”
Her daughters had been in danger, and they knew they were in danger, and they hadn’t told her. They had found a way to defend themselves from rape. “Was it just boys?”
“Nicolai appears to be a primary pedophile. He was attracted to children. Their gender was not as important as their age, between ten and thirteen,” he said. “I trust you will not say anything about this.”
Bev nodded.
“Because some families will want to keep this private.”
Father Nicolai was her friend. Bev would have known.
Bev’s eyes were so dry they felt burned.
“I just can’t believe it.”
~~~~~
Bev picked up her email later that afternoon:
Dearest Beverly,
I have to work late tonight, so I won’t be home for dinner. I’ve attached the proof.
Love,
Conroy
Fwd: an apology
> I can’t see you anymore. > It was all a mistake. I love my wife. You know that.
> I apologize if I hurt > you, if I let you believe that our relationship was anything other than what it was, or if you > believed so anyway.
Conroy
~~~~~
Conroy waited in his Porsche outside Leila’s apartment building. The kung pao and mu shus were stinking up his car but he couldn’t roll down the window because the rain would ruin the leather seats.
Something knocked on his window and he jumped. Outside, Leila was so rained-on that frigid water streamed from her long, black hair and dragged her clothes against her shoulders. She motioned him toward her apartment building. Her mincing shadow dodged through the foggy January rain. She unlocked the building’s door and flung it back.
The paper bag crackled in his hands as he followed her. Her elevator closed its doors before he caught up.
His elevator beat hers to the twelfth floor, so he ambled down the hall, rolling and unrolling the top of the bag. She strode past and unlocked the deadbolt on her door.
Inside, Conroy set the bag on her dining table. A freaky blue chandelier above the table looked like a church stained-glass window and threw spider shadows on the walls’ blue and green molding and ceiling medallions. The funky, faux plasterwork looked like the Palace of Versailles had relocated to New Hamilton.
Leila peeled off her soaked clothes and tossed them in the kitchen sink. Her black hair trailed water behind her. “Meth,” she called. The old dog sauntered over, all black fur and muscle, claws scritching on the hardwood floor. It stood up beside her and sniffed her breath, nuzzling but not licking.
Leila said, “Good boy. Go lie down,” and he ambled away, doubtless to sleep again.
“How’d you get so wet?” Conroy asked.
“It’s raining, and I walked home.” she called from her tiny bathroom, past the rows of closets that held her silvery and black clothes. Once, while she was showering, he had stroked the crotch of a pair of black pants with a red matador sash and she had worn the pants the next day, unsuspecting. He had been turned on all day, imagining his fingers in those pants.
She came out of the bathroom nude and fingerwalked through the clothes in her closet. Her body was lithe, even angular over her collarbones and pelvis. Her hair, usually sleek and black as a beaded curtain against his face, had tightened into slick spirals.
Conroy stood behind her and pressed his body on her chilly skin. The ice of her passed through his damp clothes. Shivery goose flesh peppered her arms and torso, and looking down from behind her, her nipples poked out hard. He thumbed one.
She wiggled her cold ass against him but otherwise didn’t comment, just touched the shoulders of her clothes in the long closet, deciding.
Blood rushed in him, streaming into his dick
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