This is the Dog Pound, where the work of our featured writers bark.

Opening Day

This is a piece I submitted for a competition several months ago. It’s actually a piece I like, and I don’t say that about many of my pieces. The word count is 4969.

We got into Marienville around 9 AM and had been working pretty steady on Lottie’s kitchen. Edward got the key from her last week when he went to Erie, and we decided to get a little surprise ready for her when she came down for Opening Day.

“This is going to look pretty good when we get it done, Sammy,” Edward said, taking a break from wiring a box to light a cigar. He found some paneling on sale across the street from his office, and we went halves on it. Her kitchen had bare studs and the exterior walls, but we put this paneling up, some insulation behind it, Edward added a fuse, so he plug his damn radio in and run the toaster oven. “No more blown fuses, huh?” “I hope not,” replied Edward.

He keeps looking at me, not saying anything, but then that’s how he is.

He waits, like a lion hiding in the bush, and then he ambushes you with a question, but I have to wait and see what it is.

“How much longer?” I looked it over. I had two more pieces to hang and a piece of molding. “I don’t know, maybe half an hour or forty minutes. What time they coming in tonight?”

“Around 5 or 6 PM,” and takes a drag on his cigar, then sets it down to take a look at a wire he doesn’t like. “Is that mythical granddaughter of hers coming down this year?” I asked. I had heard about her for several years but had never seen her. “You want to meet her?” Edward says with a grin. “It’s not that. I’m starting to think she doesn’t exist. You just made all that up.”         

“She’s supposed to come in tonight with Lottie,” then a pause, a careful inhale—here’s the windup, I think, as I nail a piece in: “She has some problems at home. You know about problems at home, don’t you, Sammy?” But he leaves it: “I need to get this box in. Do you want to go to the Kelly Hotel for dinner?” “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

We’re back working again, and in about ten minutes: “How much did your dad ask for this time?”

“$75.00,” I say.

“For the family,” Edward said sarcastically.

I shook my head.

“And what else?” he asked, pointing to my cheek. There’s the pitch.

“Oh my God, mom searched my dresser looking for money—”

“For the family,” Edward repeated.

“—she knew I had $200.00 up there, but when she looked it was gone, I had given it to you to hold onto, and when I told her, she went crazy, screaming, telling me I think my parents are thieves, that I don’t trust them, and she swung at me-again-but this time she had house keys in her hand and, it cut me.”

“Sammy—”

“You know what, Edward?” I said, steadying myself for what I knew would come. “I don’t want to hear it.”          

“Everybody wants to advise someone else, and you know why they do it? Because their circumstances are completely different. Nothing you’re going to tell me now is of any use to me at all. I can’t leave, I’ve got nowhere to go, I don’t have a fulltime job yet, so yes I take it. Do you think I like it? Do you think I enjoy it? Do you know how many times I’ve explained these bruises away? Let’s finish this job and go eat, you’re pissing me off—and you know what else, you don’t have any fucking skin in the game.”

Edward stopped working on the box, put his cigar down, turned toward me, pointed his finger at me, and said, “Oh, I have skin in the game, Sammy.”

When we got done, it looked pretty damn good, new paneling, warmer, fuses that wouldn’t blow, not a bad day’s work.

Dinner at the Hotel was pretty standard small-town stuff: open sandwiches, pizza, the usual nacho/taco platters, and chopped sirloin whose picture in the menu looked nothing like the dish itself. I know Edward ordered it. I stuck with meatloaf, that takes real artistry to screw up.

We talked about tomorrow. Edward knew I was going over to Minister Creek, and he was going with Lottie over to the Clarion, despite the fact that they never caught a single fish there—of any kind. But they liked Clarington, so they went.

Walking back toward my truck, Edward saw Lottie’s station wagon over at the Red and White, and she has no idea what we’ve done. I slip Edward a couple of bucks to buy me a pack of Marlboros, and then Lottie sees us, gives us a hug, but there’s a girl with her, big round glasses, hat pulled low down over her face, hair in her eyes, baggy jeans, and orange tennis shoes that look a little big.

Edward points toward Nettie and says to Sam, “Here she is, Nettie, Lottie’s granddaughter.” “

So, you are real,” I say with a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you but have never seen you; I thought you were like the Loch Ness or only in Edward’s imagination!” She laughs, pretty smile.

“You guys eat yet?” Lottie asks.

“Over at the hotel,” I told her.

“Listen,” Edward said, “you have to let us get back to the cabin first because we have a surprise for you.”

“And Nettie, you have to make sure your grandma doesn’t peek until we tell you to look.”

Edward and I left to go back to the cottage. We had a small fire started, but I tossed a couple of logs on. People were out everywhere, walking along, drinking a beer, kids running around, everyone waving, or saying “Good luck tomorrow,” the smell of campfire and pine was overwhelming. You couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful evening, and now, the sun was setting low in the sky behind the hills. Nights like this? I didn’t care if I ever went home.

Dust on the road meant Lottie is close, but Edward and I wouldn’t let her in. “Come on, Nettie, make sure she doesn’t peek!” Nettie thinks—well, she doesn’t know what to think of us—but she’s a good sport and covers her grandma’s eyes. When she lifts her hands to do it, she brushes her hair back from the side of her face, and I think I see a bruise—you know what? It is a bruise because if there’s one thing in this world I know about, it’s bruises—I’m a pro.

The big reveal comes, the door swings open, and Edward says, “OK, open your eyes.”

Lottie opens her eyes and can’t believe what she sees; tears are streaming down her face. Edward said, “Sammy did all the woodwork, and I did the electrical.” Even Nettie was shocked. Lottie lights a Pall Mall, grabs a Black Label, and is asking how much she owes us and Edward tells her nothing, “You do enough for us, this is a little thank you,” and then he gets a big kiss planted on his face from Lottie.

I think he might have enjoyed it.

Edward walks over, plugs the radio in, and turns on the toaster oven. “Notice anything?” he asks. “No blown fuse!”

            The three of them wanted to get out of the cold, but I stayed out and sat by the fire, poking a stick around in it. I could hear Edward and Lottie talking about the Clarion River like it was the Amazon. Lottie had an old radio she kept out by the camper that played mostly static out of Pittsburgh, but “Delta Dawn” came on out of nowhere.

I was singing it softly to myself: Delta Dawn, what’s the flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by? I couldn’t quite get the high note. But before I could continue, I heard someone else singing: And did I hear you say he was meeting you here today to take you to his mansion in the sky? I turned around, and it was Nettie. She smiled and sat down next to me. She grabbed a stick too, started poking around in the coals and the fire began to hiss.

“See that? It’s trying to talk.” She looked at me like I was crazy. “Talk?” I don’t know why I did, but I told her, “If you listen close, you can hear what it’s saying.”

“You’re crazy,” she laughed, I smiled. “Don’t mock the Fire Gods,” I said in a low, serious tone. “Wait, I think I can hear it speaking, umm, yeah, the Fire God needs more wood; he’s hungry.” Nettie shook her head, but she grabbed a piece of wood from under the eave and threw it on; the sparks shot up into the black sky like a volcano.

“See that?” “he was hungry.”

“OK,” she replied, “he ate, now what?”

I held my hands out over the fire, eyes closed, trance-like. I move my head like the fire was talking to me, mumbling all the time, “Yes, yes…OK…I understand,” and I could hear her laugh softly.

“Be careful,” eyes still closed, two fingers on my forehead. You’ll make him angry—wait—wait.” I put my hands back out. Give me a stick, quick,” she handed me one. I poked around a bit, slowly, looked at Nettie, and whispered, “I know. Now listen,” I whispered.

“O, thou God of Smoldering Smoke, whose glowing red ember eyes see all and whose hissing can only be heard by believers, speak thou to me, your servant.” Now she’s watching me closely, probably thinking she’s in the woods with a serial killer or something.

I started in a low voice: “There was a kid who lived on a farm with his grandma and mom. His job each day was to go out to the hen house and gather eggs. To do that, he had to cross in front of the barn doors, and as soon as he did, this giant rooster would attack, yellow claws outstretched, flying straight at him.

He won’t let him near the door to the hen house; worse, he delights in tormenting the kid. He would go back into the house in tears, cut up, scratched, but his grandma would tell him, ‘You have to get those eggs.’ So he’d try and outsmart Zeke- that was the rooster- but no matter what he did, even if he got to the hen house, Zeke would be on the roof, speckled wings spread, ready to pounce down.

Finally, the kid had enough.”

I could see Nettie leaning in now, face glowing from the fire, and for a moment, I thought I saw that bruise again, but anyone with a bruise doesn’t need any questions from me about them- I know the answers.

“He went out one afternoon, took a shovel, and put it inside the barn door. Zeke was busy preening around the yard in front of all the hens and didn’t see it. Next morning, egg time, he starts his journey, this time pausing at the barn door, hand on the shovel.”

“Zeke sees him coming, screeches at him, claws the dirt like some bull in a yard ready to charge, and then flies at him like a bat out of hell. The kid takes the shovel, swings it like a baseball bat and hits that damn Zeke hard, sends him sailing into the air like a flyball.”

“Zeke is stunned, pissed, he fixes his eyes on the kid, but he can’t get up-he’s wounded- he knows it’s over”—by now Nettie is all in, her knee is touching mine and I’m thinking fast about how I’m going to end this, when the fire makes another loud hiss and a pop, sending sparks up into the air again—“But kid has a problem, like a murderer, he has to get rid of the body, everyone will wonder what happened to Zeke. Then, it comes to him: Pap.”

I heard her ask, “Who’s Pap?”

“Shhhhh, don’t interrupt the Fire God!”

“Pap is the old farm dog but terrified of Zeke. The kid coaxed him over to Zeke’s body and gave it a kick into the air to prove that he was dead. That’s all it takes, and Pap lunges.

He takes Zeke in his mouth, tosses him into the air like a toy, thrashes him, feathers are flying and one of Zeke’s legs comes off—” I turned toward her, and she caught a glimpse of the cut on my cheek, but I kept on going—“He tells Pap, that’s enough, and he buries the body of Zeke behind a manure pile, leaving a leg out on the ground, like another animal got Zeke and killed him—BUT—” and I stirred the fire again—“his grandma saw the whole thing from the kitchen window, but he doesn’t know.”

“He brings the eggs in, smiling, and his grandma asks, ‘Any trouble with Zeke?’ She’s got her back to him, cooking bacon at the stove. He tells her none; he didn’t even see Zeke. His grandma says, ‘Hmm, wonder what happened?’ He shrugs his shoulders, says maybe a fox or coyote got him, then tells her he saw a leg in the yard. His grandma says that she expects that’s what happened, and the kid sits down to the best breakfast ever. After he eats, his grandma says, ‘Come over by the window,’ she puts her arm around his shoulder as they look out toward the manure pile-the wind has blown a feather on top it-and she tells him, ‘Sometimes you have to fight back.’”

By now, Nettie is hunched close to me, our thighs are touching, faces lit by the fire. We can both see the bruises, but neither of us says a thing. Why bother? We both know how they happened, seen them dozens of times before, but there’s an understanding in that silence: maybe that slaps can’t reach us here.

“That’s some Fire God,” Nettie says to me, and then there’s a quiet as we stare into the fire, but it starts to become a little awkward; we look at each other, then we look away, and both start to speak at the same time. “You go ahead,” “No, you go,” she replies. “I was going to ask where you’re fishing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, probably around here, Scott’s Run.” She asked if I was going with grandma and Edward, and I laughed and said, “I told Edward I didn’t want to be a third wheel on their ‘date.’” We were still sitting by the fire, and we both laughed again, our hands touched, but briefly.

“Where you going?”

“Over to Minister Creek, near Sheffield. Wanna come with me?” She thought about it for a minute.

 “I swear, no more Fire God—at least in the daylight,” and that made her laugh- I liked her laugh.

“Let’s go find out if your grandma cares if you go,” as we went to the smell of cigars, Pall Malls, and beer. “Is it OK if Nettie comes with me tomorrow to Minister Creek?”

The room got quiet; smiles faded, only a bit. I saw Lottie shoot Edward a quick look, he nodded slightly, and then the smiles again. Lottie told us that was OK- but only because she trusted Edward…and only because Edward trusted me.

It’s Opening Day, and no matter where you are in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, people are up early. Diners are packed, bait stores are full, last-minute licenses are sold, parking along streams or creeks is a premium, and people are out everywhere.

We got to Minister Creek a little before 7 AM; we couldn’t be in the water with a rod before 8 AM. We walked down to the water, but I let her go in first because I was curious. You can have the best gear in the world and still not know how to use it. At 8 AM, someone downstream blew a compressed air boat horn, and there was a mad dash for the water, with lines flying everywhere.

I watched her; she seemed to work almost effortlessly. There was a grace to her cast, and the way she let the fly drift downstream before starting to work it back was almost like a song. I walked over to where she was and began to fish beside her.

Sometimes, you can try too hard, you know? You try to put something into words, and all you do is make a mess. I’m no Shakespeare; all I can say is that when I stood next to her, I felt like Shakespeare.

What had happened at home, the slaps, the yells, the screams, drifting downstream away from you, catching the sunlight as they bob along, gradually sinking under the water of their own ugliness, drowned. I didn’t know anything about her family, but I knew a lot about bruises.

By 11 AM, we had four trout, and I asked if she wanted to take a break for lunch. Lottie had packed some sandwiches, and I had a thermos of coffee. We climbed back to the truck, got out the sandwiches, poured the coffee, sat on the tailgate, and ate. Not much was said, but it didn’t need to be, at least for the moment; it was peaceful. We were almost like kings and queens, looking out from our tailgate thrones and the kingdom of trout.

You don’t always need talk.

Around 1 PM, the crowd was thinning, the sun still high, not a cloud in the sky, and the glare off the water made your eyes tired even with sunglasses. The air was cold, though, and thankfully, no wind. People were moving around to other areas where they thought the fish might be biting, but we stayed put, lines in the water. Eventually, two more; I reached down to release one that was too small, saw my watch, 4 PM.

“Hey, we better pack up and start back before they have a search party out looking for us. Nettie laughed again—that laugh, like glass tinkling. We were carrying the gear back up to the truck when she tripped a little, and I gave her my hand to help steady her, and she held it all the way up to the truck. We suddenly realized we were holding hands and quickly dropped them.

“You were pretty good out on the water today.”

“Surprised you didn’t I? Your Fire God, should have warned you.”

“Funny you should say that, he came to me last night in a dream—”

Again, that laugh, “Don’t start that again.”

We made the turn onto the dirt road, radio playing loudly, and we were singing along with “Rock Me Gently,” passing pine trees, waving to people, jabbering about everything and nothing, I had my hand on the seat of the truck and hers nearly touched mine all the way back, but…no Edward.

“I wonder where they’re at?” Nettie said.

I smirked and said, “Well maybe—” and she punched my arm, said “Don’t,” and laughed.

“Come on, let’s get our stuff put away, get a small fire going, turn the heat on a little in there, and by then, they should be here. Edward will walk in with a cigar and say, ‘Where’s supper?’”

An hour later, still no sign, and it’s nearly dark. “Do you know how to get down around where they went?” She said, “Out of town, through the four-way, take the left on Rt 889; the river follows the road all the way in Clarington.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

We made the left and started down 889. She was right: the road followed the river, but there weren’t many places to pull over. I was beginning to think they had eloped. The headlights were on now, and it seemed like every deer in the entire state was crossing this road, so I had to be careful. “Look out,” Nettie said, “there’s two more.” They ran across the road in front of the truck. When I slowed that time, I saw it: Edward’s car.

“There it is,” I said, slowing down. He had pulled way off the road onto a gravel parking lot surrounded by pines that you would miss if you didn’t know it was there. We wouldn’t have seen it had it not been for the deer.

I pulled in behind him, high beams up, got out of the truck, and walked over; I saw Nettie get out and walk to the passenger side.

They were gone.

We were right on the river, but it was dark and difficult to see, but I had a flashlight, got it out and looked along the bank, again, nothing.

His car was locked, but I had a key- he had one to my truck. I got in, went to start it, and “click,”—the battery was dead. “But he has jumper cables in his car,” I told her—he had everything in his car—“ I’ll bet he couldn’t find anyone to give him a jump.”

“Did you ever jump a car?” I asked her, and she shook her head no. “I’m going to pull my truck in front of his, almost bumper to bumper. Once I hook up these cables, you need to start his car.” “But I’ve never done that.” “It’s easy: turn the key, foot on the gas, when it starts, let go of the key.”

Well, it wasn’t so easy; she kept letting go of the key too soon and saying “Sorry,” “Sorry,” “Sorry.”

“Plan B,” “you sit in my truck with your foot on the accelerator, and I’ll start Edward’s car, OK?” We trade places; she gets into the truck and floors it. The engine roars. “Easy, easy,” I shout over the noise; she can hardly see over the dash in it. I fire up Edward’s car, and it starts. “We’ll let it run for a couple of minutes, then you’re gonna have to drive it.”

“Me?!? I can’t drive.” That astounded me; Edward had me driving for the last three years. “You never drove?” I asked her, “ Only around the camp, that’s all.”

Now what?

“OK, OK, you drive Edward’s car and pretend you’re down around the camp. Here’s the light switch; you know where the brake and gas pedal are, right? Drive it around this gravel for a minute or two.”

A lot of jerks and fast stops, but I thought—hoped, prayed, O thou Fire God- she could do it.

“Alright, girl, here we go.” I eased out onto the road, but it was taking her FOREVER to follow me. I was going to stop again when I saw the car lurch forward, and she gave me a thumbs up out the window.

I said another silent prayer, this time, that we would find them quick and that Edward’s car and Nettie wouldn’t end up in the Clarion River.

We found them three miles from where the car was parked- the longest three miles of my life- sitting in a National Forest shelter. I pulled the truck in and got out, but where was she? Neither Edward or Lottie knew Nettie was driving his car. I started to tell them when I saw the headlights, and she was coming in fast. This is it, I thought. My truck flashers are on, I wave at her, she pulls in hard and stops harder yet.

Edward and Lottie stare, and I know what they’re both thinking: “What the fuck is this?”

Edward looks at me, Lottie looks at Nettie, and I walked over, put my arm around Nettie’s waist, and said, “We thought you guys could use a little help.” There’s a pause, and then relief.

Edward and Lottie get into his car, Nettie climbs in with me, and we follow Edward back. “Look,” “you see that?” “See what,” Nettie said, straining to look. “He’s got his arm around her!” Nettie laughed hard. “Look,” I said again, “I swear to God his arm is around her.”

After we both had a good laugh-and he did have his arm around her dammit, he denies it, but he lies-there’s a silence in the truck for a couple of miles, radio a bit lower now. “Hey,” I said to her, “come here beside me.” She scooted over, and I put my arm around her. “You did a great job today,” I said and gave her a squeeze. “I was scared to death,” she said. “It’s OK, though; it worked. Inside that glove box, there’s a pack of cigarettes. Can you grab me one? Thanks.”

She took the pack out, tapped a Marlboro, pushed in the truck cigarette lighter, put it in her mouth and lit it, took a deep inhale and passed it to me. “You want one?” I asked her. “That’s what got me into trouble, my mom said she smelled it on me, I said it was my friend and not me, of course I was a liar—”

I knew the rest of the script, “Of course you were, and then the—”

“Slap.”

“Here, you finish this and grab me one, the hell with slaps.”

The fire was burning low when we got back, so I added a chunk to it. I could see other people out around fires and could smell fish frying and beer in the air. Nettie saw me poking around the fire again and said, “Oh no, not the Fire God again.” We both laughed; it had been a great day, we felt more comfortable with each other, and some of the original awkwardness had left us.

“OK,” she sighed, “what’s he got to say? Do your magic.”

“There you go again, mocking the Fire God,” as if to agree with me, a shower of sparks shot up into the air lighting up her face–“See that,” I started poking around the fire then suddenly stopped—“Hear that,” I whispered, then lowly, “O thou God of Fire and Smoldering Smoke…yes…yes, I know, I saw it, was it..?”

“Well,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips.

“Listen!” I said as I closed my eyes, “he’s telling me about this girl he saw, she wears glasses—big glasses—I can’t see it all, he’s coming to me in pieces tonight—”

“Probably needs a piece of wood,” she says with slight sarcasm.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” I say, “more wood.” She tosses a piece on, and the fire roars,

“There’s more, wait—wait—here it comes, he saw her fishing, and then under a, let me see, under a, car hood, that’s what it was, a car, holding cables, I can’t quite see—O thou God of Fire—there it is—she was helping me, it was—it was————you.”

The awkwardness returned; the Fire God got serious.

I had no idea what to say, how to say it, if I should say it, did I want to say, or why was it so hard to say—but I did want to say it, so after a quick prayer to the Fire God, who got me into this mess, I blurted out:

“Would you be my girlfriend?”

“Would that make the Fire God happy?” she said with a smile.

“The hell with the Fire God’s happiness, it would make me happy.”

“Look at me, big glasses, clothes from St Vincent de Paul Thrift store, no tits, these shoes are too big, baggy-ass jeans, and this jacket was once my mom’s,”

“You done? I mean, are you done?” Mercifully, the polka music inside had stopped, and static was playing now.

“No guy ever looks twice at me.”

“I did.”

“And I’m doing it now and am still waiting for an answer. If it’s no, I get it, but I’m serious.”

Almost on cue, I hear the windup to Ringo Starr’s “You’re Sixteen.” What did I have to lose? I start singing it, acting it out like I was on stage or something: You come on like a dream, peaches and cream, Lips like strawberry wine, You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful, And you’re mine.

She’s trying to get me to stop, but I have both her hands pulling up off the log she was sitting on. You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful, and you’re mine.”

She’s laughing now, begging me to stop singing, “OK, OK, OK.”

“Does that mean you agree with the Fire God?” I ask.

“The hell with the Fire God,” “I agree with you.” Things got awkward; there was silence as the song faded- like neither of us knew what to do next- and there it was, a quiet kiss that lingered only slightly, but yet long enough.

 Silence, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand- who needed more?

I had to head back home the next day; her mom came down before I left. I looked at her and was introduced briefly.

I knew the type.

 I knew.

Nettie walked over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you in Erie,” I tell her quickly and get in the truck, her mom watching.

Home.

Makes me sick in the pit of my stomach.

It’s a long drive home. A thoughtful drive.

The smell of campfire smoke is gone, but my jacket still smells faintly of it- the old Fire God.

Radio is on, Aretha Franklin is singing “Until You Come Back to Me,”- I guess I’ll rap on your door, Tap on your windowpane…Til you come back to me, that’s what I’m gonna do.

Soon, the town arises on the horizon, volume up, sing it baby!

Marienville wasn’t magical, but it was merciful.

And maybe that’s enough.

The Bush Didn’t Burn

This is a piece I’ve written twice. I submitted this version to the Master’s Review Competition, and it didn’t place anywhere but the trash can. I will say that it’s a piece I like, sort of. It’s the kind of writing you grow from, if you’re smart, and I hope I have. Nevertheless, here it is. The word count is 5606.

     Trout Season had opened last weekend, so there were no people lined up along the bank of the Clarion River behind the parish. Fr. Justin, the priest at All Saints, didn’t mind that they fished there, but they never picked up their trash, which always blew into the parish cemetery. It was 8 AM, and Fr. Justin had just finished loading his Subaru. He was taking the weekend off, and Fr. Arthur, who was retired, had agreed to fill in for him. As a rule, priests don’t get weekends off, but the Bishop had granted his request, given the circumstances. Fr. Justin was a young priest, just 29 years old, and had been at All Saints for almost two years. He was well-liked by his parish, didn’t cause headaches for the Bishop, and had a wealthy parish that always paid its diocese’s allotment.

            The other thing to know about Fr. Justin was that he was gay; he just didn’t know it yet. Fr. Justin came to All Saints a complete sexual neophyte; he had never had a sexual encounter in his life. It wasn’t that he objected to it; he didn’t bother pursuing it.

Then he met James, the church organist, a Clarion University grad with an easy laugh and a sharp sense of self. Relationships rarely start all at once; most of the time, you look up and realize you’re in one. There’s no divine sign—just a subtle shift. And by the time you notice it, you’re already too involved to be objective.

If you were to ask Fr. Justin if he was gay, and James often did, he’d deny it. Instead, he would say that he was in a relationship with someone he cared for deeply, who happened to be the same sex. James would laugh. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he was gay.

He was also not a priest.

Even though he was in a relationship, Fr. Justin liked to point out that he didn’t fit into any model of homosexuality, and when James would ask him what he meant by that, all Fr. Justin could do was to begin listing stereotypes.

James just let it go.

Perhaps it made it easier for Fr. Justin to try and reconcile himself with the fact that he was a small-town priest in a same-sex relationship who proclaimed a loving God and yet couldn’t help but wonder what the same God would say about his relationship. And so, his weekend off was supposed to be time for him to get away and try to think things through.

Whatever he called himself, the simple truth was that Fr. Justin felt guilty about his relationship with James, yet he loved James, but that didn’t make the cross any lighter.

“How long’s the drive up to Warren?” James asked. He had spent the night at the rectory and was going into practice for Sunday.

“It’s about ninety minutes,” Fr. Justin replied, loading the rest of his stuff in the car.

“You’ll get there pretty early,” James said.

“I’ll just take my time, you have to go through every small town in Christendom to get there, and then the drive up to the dam is another thirty minutes.” Fr. Justin was headed up to the Kinzu Dam, Allegheny River area, and staying in Warren.

“I hope you find your burning bush,” James said with no small amount of sarcasm and a smile.

Fr. Justin laughed too, “It could be a still, small voice or a whirlwind.”

“Whatever it is, I hope you can find some resolution for yourself. Come here,” and James kissed him and said, “Now go forth.”

Justin tried not to think too much about the relationship on the drive up. Still, despite himself, he began his typical whining to God, with the usual “I don’t know what to dos,” and the “Will you ever answer my prayers?” and the “I’m willing to be led, but are you willing to lead me? Questions, none of which, to date, have ever been answered.

Same silence.

Same frustration.

He didn’t need God as much as he needed a therapist.

And yet, he held out hope for a burning bush moment. If he just prayed hard enough, long enough, if he was just faithful enough, penitent enough.

If he was just.

But God wasn’t taking requests, at least not from Justin.

He often wondered why he became a priest. From time to time, the seminary almost seemed like a sort of theological witness protection program—a place where you go, put on a chasuble, chant a liturgy, and preach a sermon, and somehow, almost magically, you become immune to humanity’s problems.

No seven deadly sins for you, only virtue.

Then, he met James.

And now, this.

As the towns and villages passed him by, Justin thought about the first time James kissed him. James was staying at the rectory due to a billing issue at the university. They were lying upstairs on the bed, Justin was fully clothed, James was beside him, and they were discussing their “relationship,” in between the text messages James was getting, but he’d look at his phone, laugh, and put it away. Suddenly, James turned to him, took his face in his hands, and kissed him fully on the mouth. While surprised, Justin felt himself responding to the kiss. James had told him, “I was going to ask you if you minded, but I guess you didn’t. Baby steps, Justin, baby steps.”

What bothered Justin was not the kiss, but the fact that he felt himself responding to it. That was his “What the hell is wrong with me?” moment.

Justin found himself at the Days Inn parking lot in Warren sooner than he thought. He’d never been to Warren before, so once he checked in, he decided to walk around town, find lunch, maybe take a nap, and then hike along the river before dinner.

It felt odd not to wear his collar, and to be fair, he wore it all the time in Clarion, but he was known there. Wearing a collar in public was an open invitation for anyone to engage in conversation. He could be giving a person the last rites, and a stranger would walk into the hospital room and say, “Father, could I see you for a minute. I’m having some problems in my marriage.”

And what do you say to that? “Sure, as soon as he dies, I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

At the base of Kinzu Lake Rd., before the climb started, there was an old-school burger place, The Shack. Justin had a greasy burger and equally greasy onion rings, but sometimes you need fat and cholesterol. Justin had met his quota. He could hear the roar of the water as it left the dam, even though the dam itself was twenty more miles up the road. The Shack sat on a hill, and the parking lot looked down onto the Allegheny River. There was some tourist information there, and Justin picked up a map of the river trails around the town. He didn’t need to rush to the dam today; he had the entire weekend.

The sun had climbed higher on his walk back to his room, and he stopped to grab a pack of Marlboros. As he opened the pack, he said, “Give me some sort of sign, and I’ll quit smoking.” Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie; he didn’t smoke enough for them to be a problem. James would say there were only three times when Justin would smoke: after sex, if he was stressed, or if they were out to dinner with friends.

He could always count on James to keep it real.

The sun had warmed his room, which made sleep easier for him. Naturally, he prayed before his nap.

Predictably, there was no divine reaction.

When he woke, he was still a priest in a relationship with a person who just happened to be the same sex.

To put it differently, he was still gay/not gay.

What had he expected?

He looked out his window, and the sun was hanging lower in the sky. It had cooled off, but not enough to require a heavy coat, so Justin set out for the trailhead marked on his map. He followed the river closely and had gone down several times to dip his hand in the cool water and then wipe his face off. He had a feeling that seemed to border on euphoria and mistakenly thought that God was reaching out to him, so he decided to sit down and close his eyes.

The absurdity of it was that even though God had never, ever responded, Justin held out hope, he still thought there was something special about him, after all, he was a priest, that would cause God to walk along the shore, carrying a flyrod, smoking a pipe, walk up to him, smile on his face, offer him a beer, and say, “Come on, Justin, let’s talk.”

But when he opened them, fifteen minutes later, God was not there, unless he had taken the form of an Australian Cattle Dog, which sat directly in front of him and just stared at him, head tilted to one side.

On a whim, Justin said, “Well, what do you think?” He heard a voice coming from the woods yelling, “Susie! Susie!” The dog heard it too, pricked up her ears, and shot toward the sound, but her owner appeared before she got to the tree line.

“I’m so sorry,” the man said, “her problem is that she thinks everyone loves her.”

Justin laughed and called her over to him, “That’s OK, I’ve got a Border Collie back at the rectory.”

“Rectory?” The stranger said, and then looked closely at Justin, “Are you Fr. Justin? All Saints, Clarion?”

Justin was surprised, but said, “That’s me.”

“I thought so,” the stranger said, “I still get the diocesan newsletter and saw your installation picture in it.”

“Are you a priest?” Justin asked, and then he too stared, but caught himself, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare at you, but you look familiar, are you the priest who—”

“Attempted suicide? Fr. Nick?” the stranger said with a slight smile.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Go ahead, Father—”

“Justin—”

“Go ahead, Justin, ask anything you want.”

How do you ask someone about their suicide? Do you walk up and say, “What’s going on? I heard you tried to jump out of a window. Anything broken?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Any lasting damage?”

“Why?”

“Am I still gay?”

“Do I still have a partner?”

“Is that why?”

Justin was a bit embarrassed by Nick’s frankness, but there was an easiness to the way he spoke. While Justin had never met Nick, what had happened to him was fodder at the seminary cafeteria tables. Whenever a professor wanted to warn a class or a student about something potentially career-ending, they would say, “Don’t be like Nick and hang yourself from a crucifix.”

But then, everything at the seminary is cut and dry, black and white, and easily explainable.

You can afford that luxury when you’re cloistered behind ivy-covered stone walls and have a magnificent chapel where God wouldn’t dare be absent. The problem was that what happened to Nick was reality, not fantasy.

Justin knew Nick was in a relationship much like his own. Something happened, exactly what he didn’t know, and Nick tried to take his life.

Susie began barking and running up and down the riverbank, “Did you have dinner yet?” Nick asked.

“No,” Justin replied.

“Want to join me? A couple of doors down from The Shack is a place called The Waterfall. They have a decent menu and the beer’s always cold.”

“Sure,” Justin said, and they began the walk back.

Neither of them spoke, and yet both of them seemed to be at ease with each other. If Justin had been a pressure cooker, the relief valve would have just been released. There’s something in you that knows when you’ve met a person who doesn’t have an agenda, isn’t trying to trap you, or has no intention of judging you; you just know.

And Justin knew.

When they finished their steaks, Nick asked if Justin wanted to sit and watch the river. On their way out, they bought a six-pack of Rolling Rock.

The sun had set, and the moon was trying to make an appearance low over the water, but so far, it was still nearly invisible. Neither of them spoke. Nick offered Justin a Marlboro. He lit it, inhaled, and after a lengthy exhale, said, “I never meant for it to happen.”

“For what to happen,” Nick asked gently, eyes looking out on the water, but he thought he knew.

“For my relationship with James to, I don’t know, what’s the fucking word,” Justin said, frustrated.

“I don’t know what the word is,” Nick said, still looking out at the water and lighting a Marlboro, Susie sitting between them, “maybe the simplest thing to say is that it just happened.”

“It just happened,” Justin said with a sob that caught in his throat. Nick put his arm on Justin’s shoulder.

“I thought that if I became a priest—”

“That all of those feelings inside of you, all that confusion, all that uncertainty, would divinely vanish? It didn’t for me,” Nick said. “Sometimes becoming a priest only intensifies those feelings, and they become even more dangerous because of the life you’ve decided to lead—”

“But I thought that God—”

“In everything that I did, including my suicide attempt, the time in the hospital, the therapies, the fucking loneliness, I never once saw God. Maybe it’s different for you, but I have a feeling it isn’t. What’s your Bishop say?”

“He’s OK with it as long as there is no trouble with the parish.”

Nick laughed softly, only because he knew better.

“But would he support you if there were?” Nick asked.

Silence. Another Marlboro lit.

“You know, there’s always going to be trouble in a parish because it’s made up of people. Someone will see you and James out somewhere, arm in arm, they’ll see a kiss, or an embrace, and someone will say to their friend, ‘Isn’t that your gay priest?’ Sooner or later, another person will call the Bishop, complain, and then the floodgates open. No matter how great you were, how well you treated people, how effective a pastor you were, you’re gay, and by extension, toxic.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Both are quiet now, Nick scratching Susie behind the ears.

“No. I had a feeling that it might, but that’s not what caused me to try to take my life. I became my own worst enemy. The feelings of guilt, of asking for forgiveness and then going right back into his bed, of preaching on morality, while I was sneaking around with another guy, it just was too much for me. A professor at the seminary once told me that the sins a priest preaches about the most on Sundays are the same ones he himself can’t master. I didn’t want to become that priest; instead, I became the priest found hanging naked from a crucifix in the sanctuary.”

“It was this idea of me being a goddamn hypocrite, or absolute fucking fraud, that swallowed me whole, but it took this attempt to make me realize that before I could stand before the altar and celebrate the Eucharist or a marriage or a christening or anything else, I had to be at peace with myself, and that meant being at peace in my own skin. Otherwise, everything you do becomes a convenient camouflage.”

“What about prayer?” Justin asks.

Nick laughed, “If you’re asking me about that still small voice, not yet.” At that, Justin laughed too.

“What do you do now?” Justin asked.

“I’m a clinical therapist over at the State Hospital,” Nick answered, then, “Some people train for it, mine was OJT, and for the record, I never saw a burning bush.”

“Is that what I’m looking for?” Justin said, reaching down to rub Susie’s belly.

“I don’t know,” Nick said, “all I can tell you is that I looked and never found one, not someplace like this, or in a hospital bed hooked to an IV. My requested audience with the Almighty always came back denied.”

“You know what’s funny, though,” Nick said, lying down on his back, “I still can’t stop doing it.”

“What?”

“Praying. I’d be an atheist, but I’m too scared.”

“Why do you bother?”

“I’m playing the odds,” Nick said with a laugh, “I figure it can only work in my favor. If I die and there is a God, I’m in. If there’s not, I haven’t lost anything.”

At this, Justin laughed too.

“But I just can’t shake the feeling that there really is a God who does love people, and because I haven’t found him, or he hasn’t found me, doesn’t mean he isn’t there…somewhere. So, I fumble my way through prayer.”

“Did you love him?” Justin asked.

Nick just laughed, “I did, my problem was that I loved being a priest too. But we both know what happens when you try to serve two masters.”

Justin smiled.

“What happened to him?” Justin asked.

“I don’t know, when it first happened, he was at the hospital every day, but as weeks became months, the visits slowed, until they stopped. The Bishop would call, people from the parish would send cards, I hadn’t been “asked” to resign yet, and the parish council didn’t know the details. But the funny thing about human tragedy is that it always attracts an audience. People stand on the sidelines looking and pointing at you like you’re an animal in a cage. A few will poke sticks, a few will mutter mindless cliches, a few-very few-might even care, or at least believe they care. Priests I knew would stop by, and that stopped too, once the Bishop suggested to them that for their own good, they should ‘limit’ their visits.”

“There’s a stigma around suicide that people can’t get over; it’s like you can never be trusted again. The church despises it and sees it as a sign of weakness. In the end, I’d guess that he felt I was damaged goods, and probably didn’t want to ‘catch’ suicide, as if it were a fucking STD. It’s funny how all that talk about fighting through the prejudices of people just vanished, it went off the chair with me, but didn’t survive.”

“What about James?” Nick asked.

“What about him?” Justin replied.

“Well, so far this has all been about you, but there’s another person invested in this relationship too, what’s he think?”

Justin thought for a while, reaching for a beer. They both saw Canadian geese floating down the river, feathers glistening in the moonlight.

Justin laughed, more to himself than out loud.

“Come on,” Nick said with a smile, “you mean in all of your soul-searching, you never once considered James? I get it. I did the same, at least initially. I wanted God to help me, to answer my prayer, to grant me some sort of relief, without realizing that if God did, it would directly impact him. That’s what that collar does to you: it gives you an inflated ego and, from time to time, a superiority complex. It’s easy to talk to a high school senior who says he’s in a gay relationship and needs some help. But when it’s you? When you’ve got skin in the game? Suddenly, the advice changes. What you told the kid may be a bridge too far for you. And that’s bullshit. I realized I couldn’t give counsel that I wasn’t willing to take myself.”

The silence was only broken by Susie barking at something she heard in the woods.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I—”

“No, no,” Justin said with a smile, “it’s all good, it just hit close to home. James is always, well, just James, and I never considered, I should have—”

“You need to remember that the collar you wear can also hurt people, even the people we love.”

Justin had slid in closer to Nick, their shoulders touching, and Nick didn’t pull away.

No romance, just a feeling of calmness and a freedom to talk.

“James has put up with a great deal, in fact, he could quote you every argument—”

“But do you love him?”

There it was, simple, direct, and asked by someone outside their relationship. It wasn’t a brutal question, yet it carried the weight of raw human emotion. Unfiltered, not run through some theological software, and not cliché ridden.

“Yes.”

“Then whatever else you do, don’t hurt him.”

“Come on, it’s getting late,” Nick said. He stood up and reached out his hands to Justin, who took them, and Nick pulled him up. They turned to face the river, each holding the other’s hand loosely.

“Where you staying?” Nick asked.

“Days Inn,” Justin replied.

“Stay with me and Susie,” Nick said, still looking out at the river, his hand gripped a little more. Justin responded with a squeeze.

“Not for sex, not for some cheap hookup, no desperation fuck, just a place where you don’t need to be alone while you work through this. A place where you can put your bags down, and no one will look through them. Check out tomorrow and stay the weekend.”

Justin’s sense of relief was overwhelming, and he began to sob as Nick put his arms around him. “Oh my God, what have I done, what have I done,” Justin whispered, choking on the words.

“You haven’t done anything,” Nick said, putting his arm around Justin’s waist as they walked toward the truck, “except be human.”

Nick took Justin over to the Days Inn on Saturday morning so he could check out and pick up the rest of his belongings. Nick’s place sat two streets back from the river, in a neighborhood of neatly trimmed lawns, flower beds, and fenced yards. By 9 AM, they had eaten breakfast and were deciding what they wanted to do for the rest of the day. Nick mentioned the Kinzu Days Celebration that was taking place out near the fairgrounds. It was a celebration of the dam’s construction, which included a boat race. But the boat had to be constructed from cardboard and foam. There was an outhouse race, where the outhouse had to be mounted on two wheels and pulled by a team with a person riding inside it, and no end of rides and carnival games.

The day was beautiful, the kind of fall day that should be on postcards, so they went. The two of them talked, they laughed, they rode the rides, and played ridiculous carnival games. There was a concert there in the evening, but after an afternoon of corn dogs, fried dough, and funnel cake, they decided that they’d just stay at Nick’s place.

There had been no talk of being gay, sexuality, staying in the priesthood, getting out, James, the church, or any other existential crisis. They had a good time, and sometimes, you need to have that time where you can stop solving the world’s problems, stop analyzing yourself, and just ride a Ferris wheel while eating a caramel apple.

That’s exactly what Justin did, but like a person who has gone out the night before, drank a little too much, and forgotten about whatever life had thrown at them during the day, when the alcohol begins to wear off, anxiety begins to return, just like it never left, and reality returns.

They were out back on Nick’s porch, nursing a couple of beers, Susie between them. There was supposed to be a fireworks show tonight around 10 PM or so, and Nick said you could see them from his back porch.

They’d both eaten way too much at the Festival and weren’t hungry.

“What parish is up here?” Justin asked, lighting a Marlboro. He bought a pack today, fuck it, no one lives forever.

“The only Anglican one in town is St. John the Evangelist; mass is at 8 AM.”

“You going?”

Nick shook his head no, then a loud BOOM and the bright light of exploding colors.

“I preach better from the porch, no vestments, no wine, no guilt-or at least not much-and the incense of a Marlboro.

More explosions, Susie just slept between them, unfazed by the flashing lights or loud noises. Smoke had begun to hang thick in the air out over the river.

“Pretty egotistical,” Justin said, staring out at the flashes, hearing the audience cheer faintly.

“What is?” Nick asked.

“You and me, sitting here, sarcastic, cynical, trying to convince ourselves that of all the priests in the fucking world, God should have shown some dispensation to us, because we were special, or at least that’s what we told ourselves we were. He didn’t, we got pissed, and now we’re sitting here with beer and cigarettes, drowning in self-pity. Maybe we’re not as fucking smart or philosophical or theological as we think.”

Yellow and white light exploding with a series of smaller explosions.

“Could be something really simple,” Justin said.

“And?” Nick replied.

“We were never meant to be priests.”

Beer caps landed on the concrete porch.

“Or,” Nick replied, “Maybe we were, but we tried to have it on our own terms, and it didn’t work.”

“But that’s not the fault of the priesthood—”

“You’re right, it’s not, yet here we are, and you with a decision to make. What are you going to do?” Nick asked, sitting there, watching the last of blues and reds fall from the sky. “Sooner or later, the clock strikes twelve and the carriage turns back into a pumpkin.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can I ask you something?” Nick said.

They could hear the shouts and applause coming from the festival grounds as the fireworks ended.

“Sure.”

“Did you ever love anyone before James?”

“No.”

“But you love James?”

“I think so.”

“Well, I guess I wonder how it is that you know,” was the reply.

“Know what?”

“That you’re in love.”

And there it was, the rock thrown into the stream with the loud splash.

Nick held out his hand in the dark, and Justin took it.

“I’m not trying to wreck your life; all I’m saying is you need to figure that out before you burn your vestments. I was sure, too, and here I sit with a dog.”

The smoke hung over the pines now like a thick fog, the smell of gunpowder in the air mixed with fried food. The occasional shouts from the crowds in the distance as they made their way to their cars. The moon no longer required to share the night sky with explosives, now made an entrance, took a bow, and hung in the sky at its assigned place.

The weekend at Nick’s had to end, as much as Justin would have liked it not to.  Nick and Susie walked out to his car with him.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Nick said, as they stood in the driveway. Susie barked once and jumped into Justin’s car.

“Come on, you dope, you have to stay with me,” Nick said, and out she jumped. “Good luck,” Nick said, hugging Justin.

“I’d ask you to say a prayer for me, but I know how you feel about that,” Justin said with a smile. “Can I call you?”

“Sure,” Nick said, “Anytime.”

Justin had gone away for the weekend, hoping to make a decision—well, that’s what he told himself on the ride up, anyway. In reality, he had made up his mind before he even pulled out of the rectory driveway. He wasn’t looking for clarification; what he wanted was confirmation.       

On the ride home, he was much more honest with himself than he was on the way up. Riding up, he was full of certainty; he’d become a martyr to his sexuality and the love of his life. Riding home, it wasn’t anxiety that bothered him; it was reality that he wasn’t sure he loved James, he wasn’t even sure what love was.

He once thought that maybe he was in love with the idea of being a priest, more than the office itself.

Now he wondered if he was more in love with the idea of being in love than with love itself.

He had a thriving parish, he loved what he did, despite his struggles with God; his parishioners liked him, the campus ministry flourished, and the only issue he had with the Bishop was his sexuality.

In the end, things he thought to be certain on Friday morning looked a little different on Sunday afternoon, but that’s not a bad thing, he told himself.

He was in Clarion by 4 PM Sunday, and James was at the rectory.

“Well,” James said, looking him over, “I don’t see any burn marks on you, must not have gotten too close to the bush?”

Justin laughed, Max ran out, and acted like she hadn’t seen him in years. There was an awkward silence, neither one of them wanted to ask—

“Well?” James said.

“I’m going to remain a priest.”

James was visibly disappointed, but maintained a smile. As Justin watched James, it occurred to him that James had never said that he loved him. He might, but if he did, he never verbalized it.

“Do you mind if I ask why?” James asked.

“Is there any beer in the house?” Justin asked, carrying his backpack in.

“Cold ones in fridge.”

“Want one?”

“Do I need it?”

Justin laughed, “I doubt one beer will make any difference.”

“Sure, I’ll take one,” James said, smiling.

Tops off, cigarettes lit, back doors open, and out on the deck they went—James’ cell phone buzzing.

“I love being a priest,” Justin said, “Even on the days that I hate it, I still love it. I understand it, and most days I’m sure of it, even when I’m not. What I’m not sure about is us.”

That hit harder than Justin wanted it to, but there was no going back. He saw James’ body stiffen, and he hunched forward in his chair.

“What does that mean?” He asked.

“I think maybe we moved—I moved—too fast. I think that I fell in love with the idea of love, and that maybe, we need to slow things down, and see where the relationship goes.”

“You know I care deeply about you,” James said, but what he didn’t say was that he loved Justin.

What did he have to lose?

“But do you love me? Would you be willing to give up your career for me?”

The only sound they heard was that of the Clarion River, and kids in the distance, down along its banks.

“I—but—no. No, I can’t say it, and I can’t say I’d give up a career for you.”

“Did you know you didn’t love me before I left?” Justin asked, lighting another cigarette.

“To be fair,” James said, “I never told you I loved you.”

“What about the sex?” Justin asked.

James smirked, “Sex is sex,” he said, “It certainly doesn’t mean a person is in love. Come on, you enjoyed it too.”

Justin smiled, nodded, started to get angry, but then realized this was for the best.

Maybe there was a God.

“This is it, then?” James asked.

“It is,” was the reply.

James walked out toward his car, talking on his cell phone, and then looked at his watch before saying something else into the phone. Put it back in his pocket and looked back at Justin standing in the doorway.

“You know,” he said, “The sex wasn’t that good anyway.”

Justin wasn’t hurt by what James had said; if anything, he was grateful. It was the first honest conversation that they had.

He paused and turned to walk to his car.

“Hey,” he heard Justin yell, “You know, you’re right.”

Inside the rectory, mail was scattered on the dining room table. Justin looked through it, and most of it was junk. He picked up his phone, dialed, Nick answered.

“What’s up?” Nick said.

“He just left,” Justin replied.

Silence.

“Was he pissed?”

“He said the sex wasn’t that good anyway.”

Nick laughed so hard that Justin began to laugh too.

“Now that’s some fucking shit,” Nick said, once he was able to breathe.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said, ‘You’re right.’”

Silence.

“You OK?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Justin said, “I think I am. Maybe more OK than I’ve been in a while.”

“Still a priest?”

“For better or for worse.”

“That’s what God says at every fucking ordination.”

Now it was Justin’s turn to laugh.

“I’m coming to your place for mass next weekend.”

“Come on, bring Susie, her and Max can tear up the Clarion River. Stay and we’ll go out for lunch.”

“Deal. You take care.”

“You too.”

The call disconnected, the bells called out 6 PM.

“Come on, Max, let’s eat.”

           e seen.