spoke to him about you. He has a job for you."
"He does? Well I . . . well . . . yes. I guess so. Yes, I can stay. For a little while."
And the boy went to work that very day, and in the evening after dinner, when the priest returned from visiting a sick parishioner, Greg surprised him by joining in when the priest sang a popular song as they washed the dishes.
"Greg, you have a nice voice."
"My dad's a music teacher. He went to the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. I been playing music and singing since I was a little kid. I can just pick up an instrument and you tell me the scale and I can play. I got perfect pitch."
"Oh you do, do you?" The priest grinned, and took off his glasses looking at the boy more closely.
They spent the rest of the evening singing together and Greg thought that his voice blended nicely with the clear booming baritone of the priest.
The next morning at breakfast the priest said, "There's going to be a dance in the parish hall next week. Would you like to go?"
"Sure."
"I can arrange that you escort a young lady. We've got lots of pretty belles around this part of the country, you know."
"Thanks, but I'd just as soon go stag."
"Can you dance?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever dated a girl, Greg?"
"No, I guess not."
"Really? And why not?"
"I been too busy raising my sisters and my brother. And going to school and working."
The priest seemed to notice the catch in the boy's voice and didn't pursue it.
"It's time you became interested in girls," he said, picking up the dishes, turning his back as he walked to the sink.
"I don't care about them," Greg said.
"You should. You're not a bad looking boy. A bit skinny but we can fix that up." He laughed. Then he came over to the table and put his hand on Greg's head. "You have very handsome hair. Most girls are partial to blond wavy hair, you know."
A few nights later the priest took Greg to bed with him.
"Was that the very first time you've done that with a man?" the priest asked afterward, lying beside him.
"Yes. The first time with anyone, Father."
"Greg, God permits men . . . people ... all people ... to express love in many ways. What I've . . . we've . . . done is a gesture of love. Shame and delight... well... these are man's responses, not God's. With us it was just our way of loving, a moment of love. The only emotion man can ever know for sure he shares with Our Lord. Do you understand, son?"
"Yes, Father. I understand. I'm not sorry. I feel the love. I really do."
And the priest looked sadly at the boy, then turned his back. Greg was puzzled, provoked, impassioned. He had difficulty sleeping.
One evening after a dinner discussion about the intimate sensual beauty of Christ and his world, Greg suddenly craved the darkness and the priest's bed, and there in the small living room of the rectory, he threw his arms around the tall man and touched the priest's fine maple brown hair.
"Father. Father. Oh, Father," he whispered, and was startled when the priest roughly pushed him away.
"Greg, I've got to talk to you."
"What is it, Father?"
"You've got to leave here. You've got to go home to your family."
"Why? What did 1 do wrong?"
"Nothing. You've just got to go. Your parents have undoubtedly notified authorities about you and it's not right for you to be here."
"I done something wrong, didn't I?" asked Greg, eyes already wet.
"No. Yes. Greg, it's becoming obvious ... I mean, about us . . . what . . . the way we express love. It's that . . . you're so clingy. You're getting like a girl. People are bound to notice. Already have, I fear. You've got to leave here, son."
Greg left the next day when the priest was saying mass. He had been awake all night thinking of the virulent letter he would leave. Now he hated the priest, and couldn't understand how he could have felt anything for this Judas. He had a delectable vision of himself walking into the church during mass, mounting the altar, and addressing the congregation, telling them
"He does? Well I . . . well . . . yes. I guess so. Yes, I can stay. For a little while."
And the boy went to work that very day, and in the evening after dinner, when the priest returned from visiting a sick parishioner, Greg surprised him by joining in when the priest sang a popular song as they washed the dishes.
"Greg, you have a nice voice."
"My dad's a music teacher. He went to the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. I been playing music and singing since I was a little kid. I can just pick up an instrument and you tell me the scale and I can play. I got perfect pitch."
"Oh you do, do you?" The priest grinned, and took off his glasses looking at the boy more closely.
They spent the rest of the evening singing together and Greg thought that his voice blended nicely with the clear booming baritone of the priest.
The next morning at breakfast the priest said, "There's going to be a dance in the parish hall next week. Would you like to go?"
"Sure."
"I can arrange that you escort a young lady. We've got lots of pretty belles around this part of the country, you know."
"Thanks, but I'd just as soon go stag."
"Can you dance?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever dated a girl, Greg?"
"No, I guess not."
"Really? And why not?"
"I been too busy raising my sisters and my brother. And going to school and working."
The priest seemed to notice the catch in the boy's voice and didn't pursue it.
"It's time you became interested in girls," he said, picking up the dishes, turning his back as he walked to the sink.
"I don't care about them," Greg said.
"You should. You're not a bad looking boy. A bit skinny but we can fix that up." He laughed. Then he came over to the table and put his hand on Greg's head. "You have very handsome hair. Most girls are partial to blond wavy hair, you know."
A few nights later the priest took Greg to bed with him.
"Was that the very first time you've done that with a man?" the priest asked afterward, lying beside him.
"Yes. The first time with anyone, Father."
"Greg, God permits men . . . people ... all people ... to express love in many ways. What I've . . . we've . . . done is a gesture of love. Shame and delight... well... these are man's responses, not God's. With us it was just our way of loving, a moment of love. The only emotion man can ever know for sure he shares with Our Lord. Do you understand, son?"
"Yes, Father. I understand. I'm not sorry. I feel the love. I really do."
And the priest looked sadly at the boy, then turned his back. Greg was puzzled, provoked, impassioned. He had difficulty sleeping.
One evening after a dinner discussion about the intimate sensual beauty of Christ and his world, Greg suddenly craved the darkness and the priest's bed, and there in the small living room of the rectory, he threw his arms around the tall man and touched the priest's fine maple brown hair.
"Father. Father. Oh, Father," he whispered, and was startled when the priest roughly pushed him away.
"Greg, I've got to talk to you."
"What is it, Father?"
"You've got to leave here. You've got to go home to your family."
"Why? What did 1 do wrong?"
"Nothing. You've just got to go. Your parents have undoubtedly notified authorities about you and it's not right for you to be here."
"I done something wrong, didn't I?" asked Greg, eyes already wet.
"No. Yes. Greg, it's becoming obvious ... I mean, about us . . . what . . . the way we express love. It's that . . . you're so clingy. You're getting like a girl. People are bound to notice. Already have, I fear. You've got to leave here, son."
Greg left the next day when the priest was saying mass. He had been awake all night thinking of the virulent letter he would leave. Now he hated the priest, and couldn't understand how he could have felt anything for this Judas. He had a delectable vision of himself walking into the church during mass, mounting the altar, and addressing the congregation, telling them
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