Blue Coyote Motel (17 page)

It was easy enough to lie to himself. He told himself how much he loved being a part of the service, doing God's work. In seminary school, there was Mass every morning. He could justify wine in the morning because it was part of the religious rite. The evening wine shared with friends was what most college men did, right? Even those in the seminary. As a young priest, he began to officiate at daily Mass. At some point, a little wine with lunch became a routine thing to have. After all, the Italians did it and wasn't the Vatican in Italy? Then a glass or two with dinner. Then a glass or two before dinner. Then a glass or two after dinner. Over time, wine had become a very important part of his life.

Sean couldn't remember exactly when the wine had changed to vodka. He read somewhere that people couldn't detect the smell of vodka on a person's breath. Maybe that was when it started. He did know that he felt a lot more comfortable when he had the vodka bottle in his pocket under his vestments.

He wondered what defrocked priests were expected to do. Was there a twelve-step program for them? How would he introduce himself? "Hi, I'm Sean. I used to be a priest, but I was defrocked for buggering little boys." Yeah, that would be a great line at a party. The party days were probably over anyway. When the word got out, he rather doubted he would be a welcome guest anywhere. He'd miss the parties. Sean was charming and had been widely sought after as a guest at all kinds of social events. People loved to have a priest at their party because it gave the party legitimacy. It also made it a lot easier for everyone else to relax when their own priest was clearly enjoying himself.

Sean liked everything about Santa Fe. The adobe buildings and the pueblos always interested him whenever he spent time away from the parish. Santa Fe was a very social town with a high percentage of the wealthy being Catholic and Sean knew them all. He enjoyed the social scene and rarely turned down an invitation to attend opening night at the world-renowned Santa Fe opera or the art gallery shows on Canyon Road. He particularly looked forward to Indian Market, which was held every August with over 1,000 local artisans displaying their wares in the central plaza. It had become a tradition for him to join several of the parishioners for dinner after the Market at Pasquale's restaurant on Don Gaspar, just off the central plaza.

His car was heading for Southern California after his morning meeting with the Bishop. Sean was traveling towards the old family home in El Monte where one of his younger brothers still lived. Since he had left to join the priesthood, the area had changed. Now it was a haven for gangs and the Irish families he had grown up with were long gone. Maybe this was a blessing because right now he couldn't bear the thought of facing his childhood friends.

He knew his family would have no choice but to take him in, but he didn't know if he could stand to see the disappointment in their eyes. Thank God his mother was gone, since the pride and joy of her life had been her son, the priest. Sean often thought she felt his being a priest elevated her to a place just below the Virgin Mary. His brothers had also been proud of him. "My brother is a priest," they always said. Well, not anymore. They never even suspected that he had a penchant for young boys or alcohol. Irish families enjoyed their drinks and being a celibate priest in the Catholic Church meant women were simply not an option for him.

Sean remembered the first boy. Although it had happened a few years ago, the memory was seared forever on his brain. It had been right after a morning Mass. Jake was thirteen, just coming into puberty. There was innocence and a latent sexuality about Jake that morning that made it hard for Sean to keep his attention on Mass.

After Mass, Jake and Sean went into a small room located behind the altar to change clothes, Sean to his day robes and Jake to his jeans and a T-shirt. Sean undressed and felt Jake's eyes on him, hungry eyes. Before Sean could stop himself, he had Jake in his arms, kissing him, feeling searing heat in his rising penis. Sean pulled Jake's underwear down and fondled his small, immature private parts. Jake moaned with pleasure. Sean reached for the bottle of holy oil, gave it to Jake, and told him to rub it on Sean's penis. His brain had ceased all thought processes between the warmth of the oil and the small hand on his fully erect penis. Sean turned Jake around, leaned him up against a wall, entered him from behind, and exploded in a violent orgasm that caused Sean to sag to his knees. He held on to the boy's hips, raising himself to his feet, and whispered in Jake's ear, "God loves you, Jake. God loves you for letting me do this. Remember it always!" Afterwards, he felt sick with shame and revulsion.

He had turned Jake around, ready to apologize
,
when he realized Jake was smiling. Jake had enjoyed it. He wondered if this was Jake's first time. He couldn't bring himself to ask. Sean really didn't want to know. He only knew he could never, never do this again. And to think he had done this in God's own house. What he had done was beyond blasphemy. Sean also knew he could never confess his sins to one of the other priests, but he made a silent vow to do penance and atone for his sin.

Sean soon learned that while the mind may be willing, the body was weak, very weak. He prayed for strength, but the second boy was just too beautiful. When Sean was in the small room behind the altar after Mass with young Gene, all the strong resolutions he had made left and once again he found himself having sex with a young boy. When he turned Gene around, he saw the terror in the young boy's eyes. Sean profusely apologized, told Gene he had never done anything like that before, and pleaded with him never to tell anyone. Having a priest ask anything of you is hard to resist, particularly one as well loved as Sean. To Sean's knowledge, Gene never told another soul.

There were several other incidents like those with Jake and Gene. How many, Sean couldn't remember, maybe six or eight. He really didn't know and didn't want to remember. All of them left Sean loathing himself and the only thing that seemed to give him relief was the vodka. It had become necessary to numb himself so the feelings of self-loathing and revulsion wouldn't overtake him. He idly wondered which of the boys had told on him. It didn’t really matter now, but he was curious.

When Sean was in college, in addition to his Master of Divinity degree, he had also gotten a Master’s Degree in Psychology, but he'd never practiced it. He probably had used it over the years when he counseled his parishioners, but who knew whether it was the psychology or the religion that seemed to help people? As long as the counseling worked, it never had mattered and even if someone had asked him if it was religion or psychology that he had used, he really couldn't separate the two.

Maybe he could help other priests who needed counseling. He was sure there was a code of ethics against allowing a priest defrocked for child molestation to be anywhere near children. And anyway, who would want to be counseled by a priest who had been defrocked for child molestation? He probably wouldn't even be welcome at school events for his nieces and nephews.

He thought there was some law about sex offenders and his "crime" fit that category. It involved keeping a certain distance from schools. That brought up another thought about being a "registered sex offender." He vaguely remembered according to the Church's charter adopted in 2002, that if a priest was defrocked for child molestation the Bishop was required to report him to the authorities. But since the church had settled out-of-court, he wondered if any of that would apply to him?
Swell
, he thought,
one
more
thing
to
put
on
the
list
of
"
things
I
need
to
do
when
I
get
to
Southern
California"—find
out
if
I
need
to
register
as
a
sex
offender
and
wait
for
the
authorities
to
come
knocking
on
my
door
.

But first, he had to get his life in order. The silver flask on the passenger seat called to him once again. He needed another swig of vodka. He wanted some wine; no, he needed some wine, and a lot of it; right now. For the hundredth time since his meeting with the Bishop this morning, he swore to himself that after today, he would quit drinking. The one thing he didn't know was how he was going to shut up the insistent inner voice that demanded a drink, the voice that caused him to unscrew the cap on the flask and take another swig.

He knew if he hadn't been addicted to alcohol, he would have heeded the voice of reason in his mind. No matter how strongly he felt the urge to touch and be touched by young boys, he had always been able to listen to that voice of reason in his mind. It was only in the last couple of years that he began to ignore the voice, seducing the boys in the small room behind the altar, swearing them to secrecy. What he had done was criminal and immoral. How could he forgive himself or for that matter, how could anyone else ever forgive him? He never would have been a child molester if alcohol hadn't affected his judgment. He had never been in denial about his alcoholism; he just hadn't wanted to quit.

Sean was a large bear of a man with a roadmap of red veins covering his nose and cheeks. He was pale from spending most of his life indoors and his steely grey hair was cut short. He was dressed in a pair of old khakis and an out-of-date sport shirt. He rarely dressed in anything other than his daytime clerical clothing or the robes he wore when he officiated at Mass. It felt very strange not to be wearing his stiff priest's collar.

He was still wearing the huge silver cross that almost covered his chest. It had been given to him when he became a priest. He knew he should take it off, but not yet. Never again would he hear the words, "Father, I have sinned. Forgive me." Once again, the enormity of what had happened that morning swept over him. As he reached for his flask, he veered off the road and almost sideswiped a bridge abutment. He realized he'd had too much to drink and was under too much emotional strain. A strong voice inside him cautioned him to pull off the road and get some sleep. He wondered if God was talking to him. Now that he was no longer a priest, maybe God felt it was time to help him.

Ahead of him, just to the right of the shimmering blacktop, he noticed a sign for the Blue Coyote Motel. He couldn't go any farther. Sean was seriously drunk and he knew it. He turned off the highway and entered the driveway of the motel. Perhaps this was a place where he could try and deal with his devils, staying at this motel in the middle of nowhere. Later, he would recall that his decision to stop at the motel had been as bad a choice as the young boys and alcohol had been.

He staggered and caught his balance as he got out of his old car. There hadn't been much need for a car for the last twenty-three years, as most of his time was spent in the parish. Looking at the car with new eyes, he realized that he had better make getting a new car a top priority. If he kept it any longer, it would probably have value only to an antique collector. One more thing to put on the "things I need to do when I get to Southern California" list. Fortunately, he had been able to save most of his salary, as his basic living needs were met by the parish. Room, board, and clothing were furnished to him. The only expense had been his alcohol and that wasn't much because after Mass he was often able to secretly take the leftover wine back to his room.

He stepped into the motel office area. "Do you have a room for tonight?" he asked the beautiful young Latina woman standing behind the desk.

"Of course, Father, we would be happy to have you stay here," The woman said, smelling the alcohol on his breath and noticing the broken red veins on his nose and cheeks.
He really needs to be here,
she thought.
We can help him.

He didn't bother to correct her. He looked like a priest and how many people wore a cross as large as his? She'd probably noticed the "St. Michael's Church" bumper sticker on his car, which the church had sold as a fundraiser. Probably not too many people with that bumper sticker and a large cross checked into this motel. He signed the registration book as Father Sean Moriarty, knowing he no longer was a priest, but unwilling to admit it.

He wondered where she lived. There wasn't a city for miles. He had noticed what looked like a house attached to the rear of the motel. Maybe she stayed there, but even in his befuddled state, he wondered why a beautiful young woman would work at a motel in the middle of a nowhere desert.

"Let me show you to your room," she said. "We'll stop by the refreshment area on the way. Beer and wine are always available on an honor system and we have some food and a microwave. The weather is so hot here in the desert that we have provided a commercial grade air-conditioner in each room. I think you'll find it very comfortable."

"Thanks," Sean said. As she showed him the refreshment area, he thought how he could take a couple of glasses of wine to his room and finish off the vodka.
Might
as
well
he thought, After all, this was the last day he would ever drink again.

His room was larger and more comfortable than he would have thought. The namesake of the motel, the blue coyote, figured prominently in the decor of the room. A framed painting of it was on the white adobe wall.

The room was beginning to spin. He must have had more to drink than he thought. Sean remembered going back to his room at the rectory and drinking some wine while he quickly packed. He'd also stopped at a rest area and refilled his flask from the vodka he kept in the trunk. He decided to lie down. Stripping off his clothes, he flopped down on the bed and quickly fell asleep.