Alone, Father Marc Pierson pulled a
dark green Oldsmobile to a stop into the only available spot in a
vast parking lot.
Reluctant to leave the safe cocoon of
the Oldsmobile, he sat behind the wheel examining the dials on the
dashboard as he figured the mileage. He was almost a hundred miles
away from the boundary of the diocese, in a vehicle that had been
donated for use in the manifestation of God's work. Somehow he wasn't
certain that he was about to do that.
Somewhere, a car door slammed forcing him away
from this thoughts.
Three scantily clad young women exited
a smoke filled minivan two parking spots away. Father Marc smiled
warmly at the trio, watching as they crossed in front of the
Oldsmobile, their six inch stiletto heels pounding against the
concrete like rapid gun fire. Ta-ta-tat. Ta-ta-tat. Ta-ta-tat.
Laughing heartily amongst themselves,
the women sauntered across the parking lot and disappeared inside the
building.
Standing beside a vacant stool at the entrance, were two male figures clad in matching black outfits. They chatted as they surveyed the parking lot.
Standing beside a vacant stool at the entrance, were two male figures clad in matching black outfits. They chatted as they surveyed the parking lot.
Besides them, the parking lot was
still.
Relieved that he hadn't been noticed,
Father Marc sighed and removed the white collar fastened about his
neck. Slowly, he turned it over in his hands studying every inch of
it. Sighing, he placed the collar inside his jacket and looked over
at the building. He wondered how they had engineered the light to
make the building glow and yet remain almost completely shrouded in
darkness.
Father Marc reached for the key and the Oldsmobile shuddered as the engine ground to a halt.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the darkness. His face
glowed rhythmically, alternating between red and yellow, the
reflection from a neon sign pulsating high above him on the side of
the building. Slamming the car door shut, he looked up and read the
neon sign as each word illuminated against the black sky, “Tit,
Strip, Stop”. Forcing himself to face the building, he turned,
swallowed hard, and strode toward the entrance.
Alone in the foyer, Father Marc stood
motionless with one hand poised to push open the final glass door
that separated him from all the depravity inside.
“Father?”
A shadowy figure began to materialize
over Father Marc's left shoulder.
“Are you alone?”
“Marcello?” Father Marc turned
toward the voice, “Is that you?”
“I've been waiting.”
“I am alone. I came as quickly as I
could.” Father Marc shrugged. “It's a long drive from the
rectory.”
“I know Father. That's why I am
here.”
“We must talk.” Father Marc
pointed to the entrance. “The car?”
“Yes. I,” Marcello emerged from the
shadows just as three men entered the foyer.
The one in the center wore a white lace
garter about his head. His white tee shirt boldly depicted a diamond
engagement ring with the words 'she said yes' printed in it's center.
Clearly inebriated, the young man was being supported on either side
by his friends as they guided him into the foyer.
Discretely, Marcello receded into the
shadows, forcing Father Marc to hold the glass door open for the
three men. The trio barely acknowledged the priest as they struggled
to get inside. Their eyes were focused on a lone spotlight
illuminating the center stage where a semi-nude blonde female with
her back to the crowd was slowly reaching down to touch her toes.
Father Marc shuddered. “You want to
go in?” Marcello's voice whispered behind him.
“No,” Father Marc released the door
handle as if it had suddenly become charged with electricity. “The
car,” he turned to face Marcello. “This way.”
The two men walked out of the building
and into the parking lot in silence, Marcello trailing behind the
priest. As they approached the row of vehicles, Father Marc pointed
to the dark green Oldsmobile. “It is not locked.”
Marcello nodded and cast a glance over
his shoulder as he opened the passenger side door. They sat in the
vehicle together, neither man offering to break the silence.
Finally Father Marc reached into his
jacket pocket. Taking out the collar, he fastened it about his neck.
“It is time, Marcello.”
“I didn't do it, Father. I couldn't.”
“I know, Marcello, I believe you but
it is not up to me. There are accusations that must be faced and you
cannot continue to run.”
“I know I am not perfect Father, but
she was,” Marcello's voice grew hoarse and he struggled to
continue. “She was my everything. How could they.” The young man
gritted his teeth as he tried to swallow the bitterness that was
beginning to wash over him. “How could they think I would do that
to my own,” he swiped a tear from his cheek, “my only child.”
Father Marc sat silently, his hands
clasped tightly in his lap and his eyes focused on the steering
wheel.
“Father?”
The priest exhaled slowly. “Running
only confirms their suspicions,
Marcello. If you stand still and face them, they will be forced to look elsewhere. Let me take you to
them,” he turned to study the young man's reaction. “Let us end
this madness.”
The young man sighed, "You are right." He reached for the
seat belt and fastened it about him. “Let us go, Father.” He
nodded at the priest, leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes.
“I am ready.”
Father Marc placed the key into the
ignition and glanced up at the rear view mirror.
The little girl sitting in the back
seat giggled as she fiddled with her curly brown hair.
© Ehmee Smith, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ehmee Smith, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
© Ehmee Smith, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ehmee Smith, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
