It was a night of tradition. For the past few years, the Anglican priests of my Deanery gathered on Fat Tuesday to enjoy a night of revelry just before the austerity of Lent. This year was my turn to host the occasion. We usually had a business meeting just after lunch, and this year's meeting was incredibly stressful: Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was there to declaim the latest set of directives from on high and lecture us on the importance of the Bishop's Lenten Appeal. He also rehashed every critical note he made during his round of visits around the Deanery since the beginning of the year.
"Boys and Girls," he snarled as he approached his conclusion, "things are not going well in this Deanery. Only one parish out of eight is in the black, and only one parish has met its quota in the Bishop's Appeal. Within two years there's going to be new leadership in this Diocese, and these trends must be reversed or there will be significant changes here. None of you are exempt. Be warned." With that, he filed his papers in his leather briefcase, shrugged on his coat and waddled uncomfortably out the door.
"Haemorrhoids," Father Arthur Farnsworth said calmly after the Archdeacon left the house. "Tommy's always had problems with them, and I confess, I made those problems a little worse last night." His face creased in a self-satisfied smirk "I'm doing you a public service, lads and lassies. At least in this Deanery, he's getting a royal pain in the arse before he inflicts one."
His high pitched giggle pierced the quiet for several moments.
"Why don't I get a pitcher of Hurricanes ready for us?" I proposed after Artie subsided. "There's also a single malt Scotch for those who prefer English tradition over New Orleans. Drinks in two minutes, maybe less; food in thirty." I bustled to the kitchen to check my simmering pots and start the rice cooker.
Coming back, I brought some shaved ice and concocted a couple of pitchers of the Louisiana punch. Artie took one with relish, as did the female vicars of the Deanery: Edwina Hall of St. Augustine's, a thin, tall brunette in her 40's with sparkling blue eyes; Roberta Okoye of St, Barnabas, a short, skinny Nigerian also around 40's with a few flecks on white in her short black hair; Beatrice Williams of St. Paul's, a medium height, pleasingly plump woman not yet 30, whose dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and dark hair betrayed her Indian ancestry; Miriam Hali of St. William's (St. Will's as she usually called it), another young thin woman in her 30's from Nigeria; and Pamela Andrews of St. Helen's, another 30 something brunette with blue eyes and rounded curves who hailed from Brighton. George Staton, the middle aged Vicar of St. Alban's, with brown eyes, hair almost completely turned from black to grey, lean with a small paunch, chose to not to deviate from his habitual Scotch.
By dinnertime, those assembled had recovered from their verbal sodomization via alcoholic consolation and were ready for a party. Since the usual chefs were unavailable that evening, I was happy to cook, preparing gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and other Southern delicacies for our repast. Some nice imported California Beaujolais accompanied the meal, and after a simple dessert, we repaired to my sitting room for our revelry.
Sitting around and listening to Cajun music from my iPod, we were in a gleeful mood. Two sofas and four cozy chairs were drawn into a circle; Roberta and Miriam her protegé took one sofa and George and Artie made an odd couple on the other. Artie had managed to slip out and return with eight bead necklaces around his neck: leave it to him to find a good thing and overdo it. Looking around the room, I was struck with a realization: almost all the female Vicars in the Diocese were here. There were a few female Curates around, but all the Vicars were in this one and the one next to us. I pointed this out to Roberta, who was next to me as I sat between the sofas, and she answered with her head held high in noble, resonant tones with her crisp accent slightly dulled by several Hurricanes:
"Damn straight, Alfie. I am amazed that a poofter like Tommy Hughes can keep us Lady Vicars so thoroughly screwed. He's been making the pastoral assignments for the past five years, and he keeps us on the poor side of town. I'm not complaining, my needs are simple and my people I would not trade for any price, but for once I'd like to run a parish where keeping the lights on was NOT a day to day soap opera."
Miriam nodded in agreement. "At St. Will's, I had a marathon sit in with my Curate to raise funds. We sat on the roof for three days, had reporters from the local telly to publicize it, in order to fix the Church roof. If it wasn't for your mate, Jim Lefebvre, we won't have had enough after all that, but fortunately he was willing to give us a break."
"Jim's a great guy," I said, "He redid my Vicarage roof a few months ago."
"Tell us how you got the money for that roof, Alfie," Arthur's voice broke the conversation in the room.
It was an embarrassing moment that left me uncertain, but I decided on simplicity. "A parishioner donated the funds."
"And who was that, Alfie? Was it Clarissa Clyde-Walker?"
I fixed my gaze calmly on Arthur. "Yes, it was. Ms. Clyde-Walker has helped us before, and was generous in our time of need."
"I hear she's as tight with her cash as her legs were open in her youth," Pamela interjected, "her exploits were legend when I was in school. Teased all the boys, kept only the best athletes and the richest boys. Never understood how she ended up with Percival."
"Artie probably has that story, don't you Artie?" I replied. "Why don't you give us that little tidbit, just between us in this room. Right?" My suggestion was met with nods. "We're all comfy here, and ready for some juicy stories in honor of Fat Tuesday to pump up the revelry."
Artie looked uncomfortable for a few moments and gulped down the rest of his drink. Going to the sideboard, he poured another and turned around with a wicked look on his face. "All right, but in exchange I want something special."
"Special," George said, "what kind of special?"
"You all have to tell me the story of how you lost it," he asked with a self satisfied smirk.
"Lost what?" Edwina asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Lost
it
," Artie plowed on, "Your innocence. Your cherry, if you haven't already."
"This had better be a good one," George murmured. He took another sip from his glass and glanced at the bottle that rested next to him on the end table. It had started the evening full and was now three quarters empty. "If it is, then you have a deal, but you have to go first."
"No, no, Georgie, I'm not giving you the product before payment. You tell your stories first."
There was a stillness in the room that lasted several moments, while the music played. Beatrice William's dark eyes were shining in interest. "Perhaps we could go on the installment plan, "she suggested. "We can tell a couple of our stories, and when the down payment is sufficient, you tell us yours. If it's good enough, then we'll finish you off."
Artie swayed a little thinking about it, then lurched over to the sofa next to George to spin awkwardly landing, almost spilling his drink. "All right, agreed. As long as Alfie and George start us off, and then you, little Bee."
"Done," George said, "And I'll go first."
***
It was a warm evening as Rachel and I strolled down the beach on Samos. Take in the scene with your imagination with my friends, the temperature is perfect, a slight breeze wafts delicious aromas your direction, the moist sand feels refreshing under your bare feet. She was wearing a one piece swimsuit with a wrap around skirt, her figure in those days was stunning; I wore a t-shirt and cutoffs, the lean, young stallion. Strolling hand in hand as the round full moon lit our way almost as brightly as the daylight, a few bright stars peek through the moonlight, we were in paradise. No on else is on the beach: it was just the two of us and the waves.
Up the cliff, we heard a party going on at a private club. They had a live band, and the music was excellent, not the wheezy Greek crap we'd been swimming in for the past week. We swayed involuntarily to the music, our feet embraced the rhythms of the music. I stopped, drew her close, took the oversized bag from her shoulder that contained everything she needed, and said softly, "May I have this dance?"
"But I'm not that good a dancer," Rachel protested feebly.
"That's all right, neither am I," I replied. "What matters is that we have each other, the moon, the stars, the beach, the music, and we have now."
I held her in my strong arms, and our feet moved in the sand to the music. No, we weren't good dancers, but you had the universe to ourselves. Our bodies were pressed against each another, and I sensed that she would never let me go. Of course, at that time, it seemed like the best thing. in the world.
