Father Michael Madigan is an old friend. We grew up together, went to high school together. I went to work selling used cars. He went to divinity school. We were young studs, and fucked anything that walked or crawled. Father Madigan (we call him Mike) decided to become celibate. It must have tough for him because he was the biggest whoremonger I ever met. He always had at least three girl friends at a time. One for weekends, and two for the middle of the week. He'd rotate them out if he got bored with either one of them. Of course she could dump him too if she thought he was too worn out to be of much use in bed. He didn't take his women to the opera, to a concert, or even, God forbid, to a Red Sox game. They just grabbed a bite to eat and fucked.
One day he told us, my wife Jeannie, and myself, he was going to divinity school. He had actually been accepted at Harvard Divinity School. This was great because he could stay with us in Cambridge. Mike was a very good looking guy. The girls were always after him. He was slim; looked like a GQ model.
He graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Divinity and was assigned to a parish in the Boston area. It was there he began to do what priests usually do. I myself am not Catholic. So I have no idea what the censor, holy water, and bells signify. But I do know what confession is. Confession is one of the most beautiful sacraments in the Catholic church. If not abused. If you know what I mean.
Mike had dinner with us every Saturday night. I don't know if priests take a vow of secrecy, as if they're working for the National Security Agency (NSA). To get a top secret clearance from NSA they do a background check, going all the way back to your childhood. They even interview the doctor who delivered you, making certain the doctor isn't a Commie or a Middle Eastern terrorist.
But some of the stories he told us were hilarious. Like some hooker would come to confession, tell Mike how many tricks she turned during the week, and then do a few Hail Mary's. Or a pimp would tell Mike he would be contrite, about the number of hookers he beat up for not bringing in enough cash. If a hooker ever brought in a personal check, her pimp would literally kick the shit out of her. That resulted in a few Hail Mary's. And Our Fathers.
Mike believed in the Devil. Or Satan. His belief in Satan was deeper than his belief in God. He understood God works in mysterious ways. But Mike saw what Satan was doing every day to his flock. Wives were cheating on their husbands. Husbands were cheating on their wives. Men were engaged in insider trading on Wall Street. His politicians were bribing judges, and judges were taking kickbacks. Normally Mike accepted all this in a day's work, as they say. Nothing unusual. How people could live with themselves wasn't his problem. He would simply say, 'your sins are forgiven', and dole out a few hail Mary's and Our Fathers.
One Saturday night, after dinner, he told us an unusual story.
After mass one Sunday, a woman came up to him. Her name was Katie, and she looked like shit. "Father Mike, I need your advice ..." Katie was married to a drunk, but most of the women in his parish were married to drunks.
"Sure, Katie, what's up?"
"It's my sister. Bertie. I think she's possessed. She's changed ..."
"How so? Tell me about it."
"Normally Bertie lets her husband beat her up. You know, he'd have a few drinks, then start yelling - be out of control - punch her out. "
"Go on ..."
"I was there with her last Friday. He got paid and stopped by a pub on the way home. He was drunk as usual. He slapped her across the face, and tore her blouse off. Her tits were just hanging out ..."
"Hanging out ... yes, I understand."
"He called her a whore."
Mike was listening. "Bertie's husband was reaching for the cast iron fry pan ..."
"Then what?"
"Bertie kicked him in the balls. And when he bent over in pain, she kicked him real hard in the head ..."
"Good for her", Mike said.
"But, Father, Bertie has never been violent. She wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Interesting ..."
"And Bertie is not a kick boxer." She continued. "Usually she'd take the abuse. Not even report it ..."
"Where is Bertie now, Katie?"
"She should be home. She didn't go to mass today."
"Why don't I drop by and talk to Bertie."
"OK, let me come with you. It's better we both see her."
They arrived at Bertie's house in Dorchester. A typical lower middle class home. Bertie was sitting in the kitchen having a beer. Which was odd, because Bertie did not drink. She was in her slip, one strap off her shoulder, her big boobs almost falling out.
"Bertie, I brought Father Mike to see you."
Bertie looked up, smiling, at Mike. "How're they hanging, Father?" Her voice sounded strange.
That's how you greet your priest? Mike thought it best not to hug her.
"Can I suck your cock, Father? I hear you got a big cock ..." Bertie asked. Bertie had never talked dirty before. Never said 'cock'.
He did have a big cock, but hadn't fucked anyone in the past five years. No one had ever sucked his cock.
"Katie, may I talk to you in private?" Mike asked. He was shocked.
"Sure, Father ..." They went outside.
