The Fancy Dancer

and learned a mechanic’s trade there. He was off parole now, and married, and had a little kid. He worked in Snow’s Garage downtown, and was supposed to be a good mechanic. When he wasn’t working, he was roaring around the county on his big Japanese motorcycle, or getting into monumental brawls in the bars. The police were tolerant, because he kept their squad cars on a racer’s edge.
    People in town said he was a loner. At the garage, he worked hard and didn’t say much. When he showed up at the bars to get drunk and play poker in the back room, he was always alone, and he always left alone. People said, however, that he seemed very devoted to his young wife. Few had seen her because she stayed in the house all the time, but she was said to be mentally retarded. Vidal was so good-looking that a number of “fast” Cottonwood girls had tried to get friendly with him. But he avoided them and went home to his wife. The joke around town was that maybe his wife was missing something up here, but she sure must have it down there.
    I knew all this from Father Vance, who knew it from the Cottonwood police chief, John Winter. The chief was Catholic and a good friend of Father’s. He loved to gossip when he dropped by the rectory for an off-duty cup of coffee. Father Vance was always saying that Vidal was the biggest lost sheep in town.
    “Father—” Vidal said again. His fingers clenched hard on the lattice, and the wood groaned.
    The recent encyclical Ordo penitentae gave priests a new kind of flexibility when counseling, and I took it literally. Among other things, I tailored my language to the age and viewpoint of the penitent.
    “Relax,” I said. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’m ready when you are.”
    “Father, man... the thing is, I’ve had a few drinks.” “I can see that,” I said. “You smoked a little weed too.”
    “Hell,” he said, “I forgot to eat a mint. I’ve seen you around town, and I figured I could talk to you. A guy can’t talk to old whoozis, he’s too goddam old and prissy.”
    I couldn’t criticize him for that, since I was glad I could take my sins to Father Matt over in Helena.
    “Well, just relax,” I said. “I’m not here to be shocked or pass judgment on you. Just think of how God is ready to help you.”
    “I don’t think God will help me,” Vidal said hollowly. “I’m outside for good.”
    “Jesus can forgive any sin. Any sin. It’s hard for us to understand that I mean, there are some sins that really gross us out. For instance . . .” My mind rummaged around for a good example. “. . . Somebody who did war crimes and killed a lot of women and children. Now if he was really sorry, God would forgive him, even though we might not be able to forgive him.”
    “I’ll bet you my bottom dollar I’m the first guy ever walked in here and told you about my sin.”
    “Listen,” I said, “if you’ve invented a new sin, the world is gonna beat a path to your door. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what it is.”
    “Uh, Father,” he said, “the thing is, I don’t know if I’m ready to confess tonight. I need to do some more thinking. But I wanted to make a start. You know? Maybe just talking to you a couple of times will help. Maybe you can counsel me a little.”
    “I’ll be glad to talk to you,” I said.
    Vidal was silent for a minute.
    Then he said, “Come sit outside here and talk to 12
    me.” He rapped on the lattice with his knuckles. “This goddam thing reminds me of the visitor’s screen in jail.”
    When I stepped out of the confessional, he was already standing beside the nearest pew, clutching his hat.
    In the flickering red half-light from the votive candles, he was a strange sight.
    He was wearing faded, tattered Lee Riders with a wide tarnished silver belt cinched around his narrow hips. His old walking boots were spattered with mud. His shirt was bright red satin, also worn and stained. His wavy black hair came down to his collar. Around his neck he had a couple of tarnished silver necklaces. The men in town had learned the hard way not to make fun of his necklaces.
    He wore this outrageous rig nicely, because he was six feet two inches tall, just my height, and he was built slender and hard as a bronc rider. The hat he twisted in his hands was a black high-crowned thing, very Indian-looking, with a band of silver conchos around the crown.
    Pushing aside the black leather motorcycle jacket in the pew,