One
Charles Boisvert chained his red Vespa to a balcony’s iron support and stepped out onto Rampart Street, the northern boundary of the French Quarter.
The air was heavy with humidity. Wind shook the trees in Armstrong Park across the street. The lamps in the median were still not working after Hurricane Katrina and the neighborhood lay in darkness. But lightning continued to flash on the shuttered shotgun houses and nineteenth-century buildings with their wrought iron balconies. An occasional illumined window and hanging fern announced that a few occupants had returned to their homes after the evacuation.
Charles’s big brown eyes gazed wistfully at the houses. Would New Orleans come back to life? That’s what everyone asked. Would everyone return to the abandoned neighborhoods? Find jobs again? Rebuild their houses and their lives? Charles believed they would. Every day at Mass, he prayed they would. New Orleans was his hometown, and he would never lose hope that it would rise from the dead like Christ.
Charles wore a black clerical shirt with a Roman collar that hugged his thick neck. His ash-blond hair curled up at the back of the collar and over his ears. He was in his mid-twenties, and his good looks reflected his good nature. He had the kind of face that makes a good-looking man approachable—open, accepting, unpretentious, and even tempered—the face of a self-effacing athlete. His young body was athletic, too, his back and shoulders broad as a linebacker’s, his furry forearms thick and strong, his hands big and square.
“Father Boisvert?”
The sonorous voice behind Charles took him by surprise. He’d heard no one approaching. He turned to find a tall, brown woman behind him. She was serene and graceful, draped in a printed orange tunic that fell to her ankles. Gold brocade adorned the tunic’s scooped neckline, revealing her ample bosom. She wore her hair in dreadlocks, gathered at the nape of her neck into an abundant cataract that fell down her back.
“Yes.” Charles nodded. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Dr. Beauchamp.”
Charles recognized the name. When the woman extended her hand, Charles shook it.
“I was just taking a stroll before the rain started.” A hint of a Caribbean accent was in her voice. “I saw your Roman collar. I thought it must be you.”
Charles had noted the accent in his extended phone conversation with Dr. Beauchamp the week before, but he had not pictured such a beautiful woman, so magnificently Caribbean. Instead, her clinical observations on the phone and the formality of their discussion had summoned the image of a woman in a white lab coat, her hair cropped close—peering at him through horn-rimmed glasses.
An advertisement in a conservative religious magazine had led him to Dr. Beauchamp. It invited Roman Catholics to enter treatment to prevent relapses into moral disorders decried by the Church. “Science and Faith can work together,” the ad had announced. “Discover your strength to be a faithful Catholic.”
The ad had seemed to call him by name. Uncannily, it seemed intended for his unique situation. And when he had spoken to Dr. Beauchamp on the phone, she seemed to recognize perfectly his needs—though he provided few details. She told him to hold the information for his first session. She promised him that, whatever the facts, she could help. And he did not doubt her. The connection between them had seemed profound, even mysterious. He felt that God had sent her to him.
Charles and Dr. Beauchamp had walked less than a block when they arrived at her office, a renovated shotgun house with bright blue shutters. Beauchamp opened the door and led him into a dimly lit room with a high ceiling.
On the wall above a computer station hung an African rendition of the Virgin Mary that bore a remarkable resemblance to Dr. Beauchamp. She was wrapped in a bright orange printed garment, and she swaddled her shiny baby in a cloth of royal blue. Her broad nose was pierced by three rings. She stared serenely ahead like a tribal queen.
On one side of the room, floor-to-ceiling shelves displayed more African art—elongated statues carved from dark wood, stylized masks, brightly painted crockery, and baskets. On the opposing wall hung a blanket with a green and white African print. Behind Charles, dark leather chairs were arranged around a glass table, draped with a woven African runner.
“Please have a seat here at the computer, and let me explain this device.”
Charles sat down and listened to Dr. Beauchamp’s instructions, blushing as she indicated how he was to attach the device to his penis and how the square plethysmograph would record his responses to the photos as they flashed on the screen. He was relieved when she finally left him alone, disappearing to an office at the rear of the building.
Charles positioned himself as directed, unzipped his pants, attached the device to his penis, and viewed the first image. It was a close-up of a wrestling match. The shaggy-haired blond in the photo squeezed the shaved head of his opponent in the crook of his powerful arm.
Charles felt nothing on viewing the image. He was relieved. He relaxed, leaning back in the chair, his broad back butterflied against the chair rest, his massive thighs spread on the seat, and his strong, furry arms rested confidently on the arms of the chair. His big hand worked the computer mouse, his finger clicking through more images: two shirtless movie idols, an Asian man in a thong, and a beautiful boy stretched out on the beach. None of the images troubled Charles, but he occasionally glanced at his penis and the machine registering his reactions.
When he finished viewing the photos, he removed the device, zipped his pants, got up, and opened the door near the computer table.
“Finished, Dr. Beauchamp,” he called down the dark hallway.
A door at the back of the building opened, and the tall silhouette of Dr. Beauchamp appeared. She approached him, and he stood aside to let her in.
“Please, Father Boisvert,” she said, stretching her long, smooth arm toward the seating area behind him. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Charles sat in an armchair. Dr. Beauchamp tore the report from the plethysmograph and took a seat across from him on the sofa, crossing her legs and sitting back to study the results.
“This looks good,” she said, nodding. “Did you have to concentrate very hard to keep from responding?”
Charles grinned and shook his head. “I think I was a little self-conscious.”
“Of course. That’s to be expected your first time. As you relax, your body will respond naturally.”
“Or unnaturally,” Charles admitted with good-natured resignation.
Dr. Beauchamp nodded approvingly. “I’m happy you respect Church teaching. Many people have accepted the relativism of secular society. Even some priests have. It’s good to see a newly ordained priest with your values. I must tell you, that as a faithful Catholic, I would not have accepted you as a client had you told me you were trying to make peace with your orientation. I’m even willing to use methods not approved by my professional associations.” She held up the plethysmograph results. “I’m happy you agreed with my program. In our phone interview, you promised to tell me your story. Why don’t you go ahead now?”
Charles nodded. “Well, like I said on the phone. I was just ordained in June for the Archdiocese of New Orleans, and I’ve been assigned to St. Louis Cathedral.”
“What a wonderful first placement. Quite a privilege.”
Charles nodded in agreement. “What are the odds that a mediocre seminarian ends up in the cathedral?”
“I’m sure academic credentials don’t much matter. It’s piety that counts.”
Charles shrugged. “Maybe. But I wasn’t always pious.”
“Tell me about your upbringing.”
“Well, my family was Catholic. But who isn’t in New Orleans? We had religious pictures and rosaries around the house. Went to Mass most Sundays. At least, my mother did. My dad was usually catching up on his sleep. He’s a plumber. My little brother and I went to Catholic schools. Then I went to New Orleans U. I was pretty wild. Drank a lot on the weekends. Made the rounds at the gay bars on Bourbon Street. Having lots of unsafe sex. I was lucky for the first three years. Then I got a call from the Health Department. A guy I’d been with had given them my name to contact, when he got his results.”
“So, you’re HIV positive?” Dr. Beauchamp said.
“That’s what I thought. Jesus, I knew I was. I’d had sex with the guy enough, in all the right ways. I was scared to death. For the first time in years I started going to Mass—every day. Started saying the rosary. I wanted to change my life. I promised God that I’d stop disobeying the Church if I could just test negative. I mean the Church’s teaching about homosexuality. I’d go through one of those ex-gay programs. I’d quit being gay. I prayed like a saint for almost a month before I finally got the nerve to get tested. And when I did, I was negative for HIV.”
“You must have been incredibly relieved.”
“Hell yes! Ran to church, fell down on my knees and thanked God.” Charles paused. “But you know what they say about the road to hell. It’s paved with good intentions.”
“You strayed?”
“For a month I stayed on the wagon. Then I got horny. Lonely. It was final exam time, very stressful. It was hot and muggy out. I left my folks’ house in the Marigny and took a walk through the Quarter. Café Du Monde was packed with tourists. The tarot card readers and artists had lots of customers on Jackson Square. I just wanted to be with people having a good time. I found myself strolling toward Bourbon Street. I figured I’d just have a drink at a bar. What could it hurt? I’d behave. I’d look, but not touch, if you know what I mean.” Charles sighed. “Of course it didn’t work. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I went home with a lumberjack type. It was probably the best sex I ever had.
“On the way home, I puked. I’d had a lot to drink. I felt like I’d betrayed God. Broke my promise. As I walked down St. Peter’s alongside the cathedral, I felt like someone was walking behind me, right on my heels. I turned around. But there was no one in sight. Then it dawned on me how quiet everything seemed. I didn’t hear music or voices from Jackson Square. I didn’t hear any cars. And when I came to the backside of the cathedral on Royal Street, it was deserted. Usually there’s an artist there, with pictures hung up on the fence around the church grounds. But the street was completely empty. Then someone called out my name. ‘Charles, my son, you are mine. Be healed.’ I can still hear that voice, clear as a bell. I looked up through the bars of the fence at the statue of Jesus inside the courtyard. Jesus’s hands were stretched out as always, but they moved toward me, like I was a baby that he wanted to pick up. My chest got warm. As though I’d had a shot of whiskey. I thought I couldn’t be seeing what I was seeing. The statue glowed and moved toward me, and by the time it got to the fence, I could see it wasn’t a statue. It was a man. He was as white as the statue had been. But he was real. And I fell to my knees on the sidewalk. And I said, ‘My Lord and my God.’”
Charles paused, as though waiting for a sign of Dr. Beauchamp’s incredulity. But it didn’t come.
“An apparition,” she said, studying him. “You were favored.”
Charles nodded solemnly. “And I knew I was cured of being gay! I could feel it in my gut. This incredible current of strength rushed through me like a river. My head was clear even after all the drinking. I didn’t feel the least bit sick. I wanted to prove to myself that I was cured. I ran back to the bar where I’d met the guy I’d slept with. I stood by the wall, looking over every attractive guy to see what would happen. There was a hunk in a tank top, and a guy with a swimmer’s body—lean and sinewy—and a beautiful kid with a long ponytail. Didn’t feel a thing! I even tried to get excited, staring at their crotches and butts—but nothing happened.
“Over the next few days I was on a high. As I sat in class, I felt like Superman. Invincible! None of the guys in the class could turn my head. My mind stayed on Christ, his words to me. I felt his love. I felt him calling me. And the feeling didn’t die. It just got stronger day after day and week after week. And so I decided to give my life to God. I’d become a priest. I talked to the vocations director of the archdiocese. He was great. Happy to have me. He gave me all of the application stuff. I worried that somehow the director would look at me and know the things I’d done. I promised God I’d stay on the right path, if I got accepted. I wouldn’t take my cure for granted. I promised I’d go to a counselor for direction.”
“Very wise, Charles—not to presume on the powers of God. We must cooperate with grace. Your decision to monitor yourself was a good one.”
Charles didn’t put up an argument.
“Please go on.”
Charles shrugged. “Not much left to tell. I was accepted by the archdiocese. They sent me to seminary in Rome. That was four years ago. Got ordained at the cathedral in June. Katrina hit in August. And we’re all still trying to pick up the pieces.”
“Your family has returned? Since they live in the Marigny—where there was little flooding.”
“We all spent the last couple of months with relatives in Houston. But everyone’s back. Dad’s got plenty of plumbing work. Mom cleans hotels in the Quarter. The cathedral is up and running.”
“And have your temptations recurred?” Beauchamp said.
“No, not at all. Every now and then, I stare at a good-looking guy, just to check myself. I hope I’m not putting the Lord to the test. I don’t feel a twinge of attraction. Just detachment. Oh, he’s a good-looking guy, I think—just the way a straight guy might notice that a guy is handsome. Christ gave me the power. So, you believe me, Doc? You don’t think I’m nuts?”
Beauchamp did not flinch. “God acts in mysterious ways. I’ve known others with visions. With cures, if you will. My faith tells me these things are possible. For those who believe, all things are possible.”
A sudden flash of lightning brightened the window. A bolt of thunder rattled the statues on the shelves.
“I guess I should take off before it pours,” Charles said, rising.
Dr. Beauchamp remained seated. She raised her hand. “One last thing. While you were in Rome… you underwent therapy?”
Charles nodded. “But nothing like this. Just counseling. The therapist was a priest. I told him about my cure and how I wanted to keep myself monitored. He was pretty doubtful at first. Thought I was just stifling my attractions. His approach was that you should face attractions so they never overtake you. Every now and then, he’d ask me if I’d had sexual fantasies or dreams. I always said no. I think he started to believe me. He could see how happy I was. We talked about normal problems—stress, conflicts with pastors at the churches where I interned.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dr. Beauchamp said. “I hope my form of monitoring you doesn’t seem outrageous. I believe in it. And I think that now that you are ordained, away from the supportive environment of a seminary, you must be very proactive about the possible dangers of temptation.”
Charles grinned, rising to his feet. “I’m in your hands, Doc. I think that’s the way Christ wants it.”
Smiling, Dr. Beauchamp stood and showed him to the door, where he smiled and thanked her for the session.
Hurrying up the street to his bike, Charles unlocked it, climbed on, and tore off to beat the rain. It was Halloween, the eve of All Saints’ Day, and he was scheduled to hear confessions at seven and say the Holy Day vigil Mass at seven thirty. He’d gone only three blocks when the sky let loose. In the downpour he almost struck a man crossing the street. When he hit the brakes, the man stopped and turned his head. The light from the bike shone on a face that seemed preternaturally white. The weird lividness startled Charles. The man resumed walking, and Charles figured the strange pallor was due to his strong headlight.
His clothes were drenched by the time he reached the triple peaks of the cathedral’s façade. He locked up the bike and entered the vestibule of the church. The sexton had opened the doors and turned on the lights. When Charles passed through the double doors into the nave, he dipped his hand into the bowl of holy water held by a stone cherub and blessed himself.
A dozen people, most of them kneeling, were scattered among the rows and rows of dark pews, and a girl with tattooed arms was lighting a votive candle in the glowing racks in the front of the nave. The church was built in the late eighteenth century when New Orleans was under French rule. On both sides of the nave, columns supported galleries, and high above the nave rose a vault adorned with painted vignettes. In the center vignette, Christ handed keys to the kingdom to St. Peter. In the apse a marble reredos rose above the golden tabernacle. The words Ecce Panis Angelorum were etched in the pediment of the reredos. And above it was a painting of King Louis IX and his grand court with attending priests.
Charles traveled down the marble center aisle, genuflected before the tabernacle, and entered the sacristy on the side of the elevated sanctuary. There he removed his clerical shirt and donned a cassock he found in the closet. He removed a stole from one of the long, thin doors in the oak wardrobe, kissed it, and placed it around his neck before going to the confessional at the back of the church. Several people had already lined up in expectation. Charles avoided looking them in the face as he entered his side of the confessional. A priest had to respect the anonymity of the confessional the best he could.
The first two penitents, an elderly woman and a young father, rattled off a grocery list of sins. Charles assigned the penances, absolved the individuals, and quickly sent them on their way. Then came the third person to enter the chamber on the other side. Whoever it was hesitated to speak.
“You okay?” Charles said.
“Yes,” a man responded, then hesitated again. “No. I’m not. I’m in hell, Father.”
“In hell?” Charles frowned and leaned forward toward the dark panel where not even the outline of the man kneeling on the other side was visible.
“Yes. If I don’t escape, I’ll be damned. But I can’t escape. And I don’t want to escape.”
“Look,” Charles said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I’m a pretty simple guy. You have to give it to me straight.”
“You can’t help me.”
“Well, I think you’re wrong about that,” Charles said emphatically, determined to reach out to this troubled soul. “You must think so, too, or you wouldn’t be here. What do you want to escape from? Your marriage? Addiction? Listen, I’ve heard it all. You don’t have to worry about shocking me.”
“From him!”
By the tone of the young man’s voice, Charles sensed that he was moving into territory too close to home. He shifted uncomfortably, moving back in his seat to distance himself. “Who is this guy?” he said. “Your lover?”
The man didn’t seem to hear the question. “He tells me when I can come and when I can go. He tells me what I can feel. I’m at his beck and call. And I want to be. I can’t help it.”
“I’m not getting this,” Charles said, confused. “Does he beat you or something? If he does, you can find protection. The cops are back in New Orleans. You can go to them.”
The man behind the panel said nothing.
“What’s your name?”
“Kyle,” the man whispered.
“Kyle, you’ve done the right thing to come here. You don’t have to feel guilty. If this guy is abusing you, it’s not your fault—if that’s what you think. You’re not morally culpable.”
Kyle emitted something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s no use. I can’t begin to explain. You wouldn’t believe me if I could.”
“Give me a chance,” Charles pleaded, worried that the man sounded desperate.
The man paused. “Have you ever swallowed blood, Father? Have you ever craved it so much, you might even kill for it?”
The words left Charles stunned. He wondered if the man was dangerous.
“You see what I mean? How can you understand anything about me?”
Charles collected himself and proceeded. “But you’re here. You want to tell me. So, what’s this about blood? You talking about revenge?”
“There’s no one I want to hurt. I just do. I’m trapped here.”
“Katrina has devastated lots of lives,” Charles ventured. “You’ve got every reason to want to strike out at somebody. We all do.”
“But I don’t want to strike out. I want to be taken. I want to be lost.”
The declaration sent a chill up Charles’s spine. Who could want to be lost? He had to reason with this man, and that required time. But he’d have to get ready for Mass soon. Charles held his wristwatch close to the dim light in his side of the confessional. It was 7:25. “It’s time for Mass to begin,” he said, reluctant to dismiss the man. “But I’ll come back afterwards. We can talk more. Are you sorry for your sins?”
“Yes,” the man said, softly.
Charles absolved him and waited for him to leave the confessional before switching off the light and climbing out himself. As he hurried to the sacristy, he scanned the people in the pews. There were fifty or so now. One of these people was the strange penitent, but out of respect for the anonymity of the confessional, as worried as he was about the man, he didn’t let himself search their faces. He quickly vested and proceeded to the sanctuary, where he genuflected, kissed the altar, and walked to the presider’s chair.
Facing the congregation, he noticed the face almost immediately. The livid face that had glowed in the headlight of his Vespa. The man sitting in one of the front pews was young and boyish with shaggy white-blond hair, a square jaw, and full, pale lips. Now, in the soft lights of the chandeliers, his pallor didn’t seem as extreme as it had on the dark street, in the glare of the headlight. The man was clearly troubled. He clasped the pew in front of him as though to steady himself, lowering his eyes, as though to avoid Charles’s gaze. Was this Kyle, the distressed penitent?
Throughout the first part of the Mass, Charles’s gaze wandered to the man, who sat and listened and stood like everyone else during the ritual. But something strange happened at the moment of the consecration. As Charles lifted the white host above the altar, a fiercely handsome, dark-haired man walked through the central doors at the back of the nave. He was dressed in black—a turtleneck, leather jacket, jeans, and boots. He stared at Charles for a moment, arrogantly it seemed, but the distance was too great to be sure. Then his eyes roamed over the congregation until they fell on the section of the church where the troubled man was kneeling. And in the midst of the most solemn part of the Mass, he marched brazenly up the center aisle, and, without genuflecting, moved into Kyle’s pew—surely it was Kyle—and sat down, stretching his arms across the back of the pew, as though to take everything in.
His face was even more livid than Kyle’s.
Kneeling, Kyle shifted uncomfortably at the presence behind him, but he remained on his knees, his gaze focused on the altar where Charles now prepared to serve communion.
Accompanied by a young, dark-haired acolyte, Charles carried the golden ciborium to the steps of the sanctuary, where a line began to form. Some people extended their hands to receive the consecrated wafer. The more traditional communicants opened their mouths and extended their tongues to be fed. Charles waited for Kyle, but when the line of people dwindled, it was clear that Kyle was not planning to advance. However, the severe-looking man who sat next to Kyle suddenly stood and moved out of the pew to the side of the transept, where a large crucifix hung. He stared at the plaster corpus for a moment before turning and sauntering to the communion line. He was the final communicant. His defiant eyes remained on Charles as he received the host on his tongue. His eyes were bright and dark as polished stone, impossibly black, it seemed, against the alabaster skin, with its heavy bluish beard. He fixed his eyes on Charles. Unnerved, Charles almost dropped the ciborium.
Then the man turned away, spitting the host on the marble tile.
The action stunned Charles. He’d never seen anything so blasphemous in his life. Finally recovering himself, Charles stooped, collected the wafer from the floor, and swallowed it himself, the only thing to do with a desecrated host—apart from burying it. When he turned, the little acolyte looked shaken. His freckled face was pale, and his chocolate eyes were wide.
“It’s all right,” Charles whispered. He guided him back to the altar to clean the sacred vessels and conclude the Mass.
After the benediction, he exited down the aisle with the acolyte to the vestibule, where he greeted departing worshippers as they passed into the storm still raging over the dark streets of the Quarter. No one remarked on the awful scene at the communion rail. Probably no one had seen it. Most of the congregation had been kneeling in their pews, their eyes closed as they offered prayers of thanksgiving. When Charles had shaken the hand of the last departing person, he moved back into the church to seek the two strangers. At first there was no sign of Kyle and his companion. But as the edge of the transept came into view, he saw them both standing under the crucifix. The fierce man in black clenched Kyle by the back of his neck. He seemed to be directing Kyle’s gaze toward the bowed head of the dying Christ. Everything in the man’s posture, everything in the way he spoke into Kyle’s face, announced his profound ability to control someone he deemed a protégé, and one who had failed to live up to the mark.
“It’s from France,” Charles said, indicating the crucifix. “The late eighteenth century.”
“Fascinating,” the man in black said, without deigning to glance at Charles.
“Let’s go, Victor,” Kyle pleaded.
“We’re not through,” the fierce man responded. “I want you to get your fill.” He tightened his grip on Kyle’s neck.
Charles stopped himself from rushing at this Victor and prying his hand away. An attack could have bad results for Kyle. Instead, he tried distraction. “Why did you do it?”
The technique worked. Victor released Kyle and turned to Charles, suddenly eyeing him with interest. “It,” Victor said, spitting out the word as he’d spit out the sacred host, “disagreed with me.”
“If you don’t respect the Eucharist, you should stay away from churches.” Unflinching, Charles folded his arms over his chasuble.
Victor laughed disdainfully, baring his teeth. For a split second, his flashing canines seemed elongated, and the sight unnerved Charles. He took a step back. Victor laughed again.
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Charles said to Kyle, who’d turned from the crucifix. He hesitated to say more, for fear that Victor would punish Kyle for betraying his master. Charles might not have ventured saying even this much if he hadn’t sensed the abuse that awaited Kyle in Victor’s hands.
Now apprised of the transgression, Victor studied his protégé. “Well, there’s an interesting offer, Kyle. Do you want to go with this priest? What’s your name, Father?”
“Charles Boisvert.”
“And you’ve returned to your flock in New Orleans. You know, they say the water is still contaminated. They say there are still dead to recover. Are you sure you want to be in such a devastated city?”
“It’s my home.”
“Your family lives here?” Victor’s eyes, black as onyx, were full of menace.
Charles did not favor him with a reply. He turned to Kyle. “Do you want to stay with me?”
His glance full of sad resignation, Kyle shook his head.
“You have your answer, Father.” Victor placed his pale hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “He’s a grown man. He knows his own mind. But he might be back. He can’t keep himself away from churches. It’s an obsession of his.”
“Maybe it’s God’s voice.” Reassuringly, Charles directed the words to Kyle.
Kyle looked at him. His gray eyes were eerily feral, the eyes of a frightened wolf.
As Victor led his charge away, he touched Charles’s cheek. His hand stung like ice. The church was not particularly cold, and even if it were, it could hardly explain Victor’s chilled flesh. Or was Charles mistaken? After all, Victor’s hand had barely brushed his face. Maybe Victor’s cold heart had distorted every perception about Victor, even his sense of Victor’s touch. If so, surely Victor’s heart was the coldest Charles had ever encountered.