The Fancy Dancer

if I felt the same way about my parents.
    The fact was, I’d never felt that way about anyone in my life. I’d always been so turned on to people in general that I never got turned on to anyone in particular.
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    That last week in June, the Seattle police finally located Meg Shoup. She turned up at a shelter for street kids, and one of the personnel there recognized her from the bulletin. She was broke, and hadn’t found her boyfriend, and she was scared to death.
    Her parents were so glad to have her back that they gave her less hell than they might have. Quietly they packed her off to the home in Helena without anyone knowing about her (read: their) disgrace. They told people that they’d sent her to camp for the summer. The police search for the boyfriend went on, and Mrs. Shoup swore with the wrath of a passionate mother that she would have him prosecuted for statutory rape to the full extent of the law.
    Most of her wrath, however, fell on me.
    “If I didn’t already know the name of the father,” she thundered, “I would suspect you, Father Meeker. We all know what these young priests are like nowadays.”
    Luckily, she said these things to me right in front of Father Vance, and lost a little more credibility with him. Father took it that she was accusing him of sheltering a Good-time Charlie in his rectory.
    “That woman is a maniac,” he told me when she’d left. “I’ve tried to talk to her about some of her doings, and she even say? I’m a modernist. You be real careful now. Don’t let her catch you in some kind of scallywag silly stuff.”
    “I wouldn’t put it past her to make up something,” I said.
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    In Cottonwood, people noticed idly that the curate of St. Mary’s and the half-blood ex-con mechanic were spending some time together.
    Mrs. Shoup, who seemed to have ears as sensitive as a radar telescope, heard about it. She complained to Father Vance that his curate was engaging in a most unsuitable friendship. Father Vance told her bluntly that he didn’t see anything wrong with our acquaintanceship, especially since I’d had such an edifying effect on Vidal. He’d already made his stand with me, that first day, and he had to stick with it now.
    One day John Winter stopped me on the street and said, “Say, Father, can I have a word with you about Vidal Stump?”
    “Sure,” I said, half-panicked. I wondered if Winter had found out what was behind Vidal’s cover marriage.
    But Winter had the nice mild look on his wide face that he saved for social pleasantries.
    “You’re doing wonders with Vidal. He’s a changed man.”
    “Oh?” I said, trying not to show that I was limp with relief.
    “Dam right,” he said. “The guys at the garage say he’s a lot more friendly and relaxed. They kinda kid him about how he’s got religion. But they respect him too, so they don’t carry it too far.”
    “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Nice to hear it.”
    “Best of all, Father, the guy hasn’t been in a fight for weeks now. Matter of fact, people say they don’t see him around the bars much anymore. The backroom poker game at Brown’s has plumb fallen apart. It’s mighty good of you to take him under your wing. I really believe in rehabilitation, and I’ve always thought Vidal had a lot on the ball.”
    I grinned, and got right into the spirit of the conversation.
    “Just between you and me, he’s going to waste fooling around with those souped-up drag cars of yours.”
    “Oh, izzat so?” said Winter, grinning right back.
    ‘That’s so,” I said. “When I get done with him, he’s going to be back in school.”
    “Does he know that?” laughed Winter.
    “You bet he does,” I said. “I’ve threatened him with it.”
    “That’s real nice of you to let him in on your plans for him,” said Winter.
    “Well, God and I thought it was only fair,” I said.
    Winter had to crack up laughing then, and he leaned back against the fender of his squad car, pounding on his thigh right below his pistol holster.
    “Seriously, Father, so many of these young guys go right back to prison in six months. Vidal’s made it
    through his parole, and even now he’s got nothing more than a little drunk and disorderly. He might make it all the way.”
    “Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” I said.
    “You know, Father, you’re quite a hand with guys that have got themselves in trouble. Maybe we could work up some kind of program. I can think of a few kids in town,