The Fancy Dancer

playing some woeful country music.
    “It’s me,” I said. “Listen, we’re in trouble. Mrs. Shoup did follow us around in Denver. She’s got the goods on us. She told Father Vance about it. Father didn’t believe her, but she says she’s going to the Bishop, and she’ll probably tell everybody in town.”
    “Holy Jesus,” said Vidal.
    He was silent for a minute. Then he said: “Well, we might as well get it over with.”
    “It’s easy for you to talk,” I said. “You’re leaving town in a week. I’m not.”
    “You should have thought about that before you—” He broke off, because he was in Trina’s. But I knew the next words would have been, “went to bed with »
    “You should have thought about it,” I snapped, “before you went cruising after a priest.”
    “Look,” he said, “I’m in no mood for your bullshit tonight.”
    He hung up on me.
    Desolate and shaken, I went to the counter and bought some toothpaste I didn’t need. Then I drove back to St. Mary’s.
    In the dark church, only the red flickering sanctuary lamp and a couple of votive candles in front of Mary gave any light. The last dull glow of mountain sunset gave some color to the stained-glass windows. The church was empty.
    I walked slowly up the stairs to the organ loft. It had been a long time since I was up there. The last time I’d played the organ had been that Saturday in June just before Vidal cornered me in the confessional. Without turning on the light, I sat down on the organ bench.
    Above the console, the mirror stared back into the murk of the nave, reflecting the rows of empty pews. In that mirror I had first seen his face. Now, in the horrid light of circumstance, I saw that his beauty was death to all my hopes.
    Mrs. Shoup, sexual bloodhound that she was, wouldn’t stop till she had bayed and bugled me out of the. Church. My ministry in Cottonwood would be a joke. “There goes the queer priest.” Parents would point me out on the street, keep their children away from me. The Bishop would suspend me from my pastoral duties.
    In view of all this, there seemed to be just one thing to do. Pack my things and leave Cottonwood quietly, now. Leave the state. Go to Denver or somewhere in the West where I could see other gay people. Get a job, go back to college, get a regular degree. Fall in love with somebody I could get along with, and move in with him. Forget about caring about other people, and just care about my own sanity.
    I flicked on the organ switch, and the organ drew its deep breath of life. Pulling out the proper stops for a favorite Bach fugue, I put my fingers to the keys.
    The first few notes cut the dark of the church like a fiery knife. But then my hands slid from the keys, almost by themselves. I shut the organ off again.
    That night, three Valiums weren’t enough. The stage was coming for stronger pills. I’d been a fine one to preach to Vidal about dope and booze.
    The “Late Late Show” that night was Captain Horatio Hornblower with Gregory Peck and Virginia Mayo.
    15
    Decisions made in the dark night of insomnia usually look a little strange in the daylight. I decided I’d hang tough for a few more days and see if there were any noises from Bishop Carney.
    On Monday, I saw Mrs. Shoup at the regular meeting of the parish committee. She didn’t say anything during the meeting, though it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d announced to the members that Father Meeker was a fruit.
    We all discussed the rather secular issue of St. Mary’s musical participation in the Bicentennial parade. The Knights of Columbus would play, of course. But some of the St. Mary’s kids now in the high school also played instruments, and we wondered if we could scrape together enough of them for a second band to escort our wonderful cardboard float. We still had the old red-and-gold St. Mary’s band uniforms stored away in mothballs.
    But a few days later, just a week before the fair started, the mail brought me a crisp white bond letter from the Bishop.
    It is urgent that you present yourself in the Bishop’s office on Friday, at 11 a.m. in regard to a highly important matter.
    Yours in Christ,
    Rev. John MacFee Secretary
    A few false hopes fluttered around in my mind. Maybe this summons had nothing to do with Mrs. Shoup. Maybe it was regarding my possible appointment as the Bishop’s secretary. Of course, if this controversy kept raging around me, even that appointment would now be blighted.
    When