escalated in Cheney’s relationship with Father Nicky. The gifts got greater and the degradation deepened. Cheney became one of Father Nicky’s special boys, a favorite. Once Cheney suffered rectal bleeding and was admitted to the local hospital. The physician diagnosed the cause as a hard stool. Father Nicky visited him every day and brought gifts, once whispering, “Even a doctor cannot know our secrets.”
The night before his tenth birthday, Cheney had collected every gift the priest had ever given him and dumped them in the canal where the shrimp boats and tugs were moored.
Now, as Randy Falgout climbed out of the engine well, Cheney grabbed his papa and started crying. The fisherman sat on the deck and pulled his child into his lap. Cheney clung to him, sobbing, “I’m scared, Papa.” When he had told enough of his secrets for his papa to have a clear picture, his father wiped the tears and sweat from the child’s face.
“Papa, I’m tired. Everything hurts inside.”
Randy Falgout picked Cheney up, cradled him like an infant and carried him down a short stairwell to the crew quarters. He put the child in a bottom bunk. Kneeling next to him, he held Cheney’s hand until he was in a deep sleep. After watching him sleep for a while, he climbed back to the deck and paced, circling the engine parts that were spread across the planking.
He could hardly think; his emotions overpowered his mind. How could anyone do this to a child? His gut burned like fire. He could almost see himself killing the priest. His chest tightened and he began to sweat.
Staring at the sun setting over the gulf, kneeling and holding onto the bow rail, Randy remembered. He remembered that his two older sons had been altar boys at Our Lady of the Seas in Amalie under Father Francis Dubois, the man all the children called Father Nicky.
10
THE SACRAMENTS
11:30 a.m., Friday September 9, 1983
Rectory of Saint Bernadette, Bayou Saint John, Louisiana
The pastor of Saint Bernadette Church in Bayou Saint John, Monsignor Phillip Jules Gaudet, changed the color of his cassocks twice a year. Each year on the day of the autumn equinox he donned black clothing of the kind worn by other priests in the diocese, and on the vernal equinox he switched to the white attire favored by some Mediterranean clerics.
That morning the monsignor was wearing a straw hat with a wide brim, white cassock, white socks and Mexican-made sandals. He stepped gingerly onto the wet lawn, clipped off an orange-colored rose with a long stem, and held it in his gloved hand. Using the clipper, he surgically removed the thorns, then admired the flower and laid it in a basket alongside roses of other hues. Humming the aria “ Nessun dorma ”, Monsignor Phillip Jules Gaudet carefully surveyed the circular bed of roses that dominated the garden between his residence and the Church of Saint Bernadette. Satisfied, he removed his gloves and carried the roses into his home.
Across the street, in the tiny oak-shaded town square, six adults stood in a tight circle around the miniature replica of the cave in Lourdes, France, with its statue of a young girl in brown clothes kneeling before the Virgin Mary.
“We are going in there,” Randy Falgout said, nodding towards the rectory. “We have to. Somebody’s got to get Father Francis outtahere.”
Two of the women were crying. It had been a night without sleep for all of them. After Randy had put Cheney to bed at home, he talked to his two older sons, who broke down and told him about things Father Dubois had done to them. Then Randy called his two sisters about their sons who had served as altar boys in Amalie and they too learned a truth too terrible to believe.
The three couples spent the night on the end of the pier in front of the Falgouts’ bayside home. It had been quiet all night, the only sound being the bay lapping against the pilings and, every so often, the sobbing of the women. None of the six could understand
The night before his tenth birthday, Cheney had collected every gift the priest had ever given him and dumped them in the canal where the shrimp boats and tugs were moored.
Now, as Randy Falgout climbed out of the engine well, Cheney grabbed his papa and started crying. The fisherman sat on the deck and pulled his child into his lap. Cheney clung to him, sobbing, “I’m scared, Papa.” When he had told enough of his secrets for his papa to have a clear picture, his father wiped the tears and sweat from the child’s face.
“Papa, I’m tired. Everything hurts inside.”
Randy Falgout picked Cheney up, cradled him like an infant and carried him down a short stairwell to the crew quarters. He put the child in a bottom bunk. Kneeling next to him, he held Cheney’s hand until he was in a deep sleep. After watching him sleep for a while, he climbed back to the deck and paced, circling the engine parts that were spread across the planking.
He could hardly think; his emotions overpowered his mind. How could anyone do this to a child? His gut burned like fire. He could almost see himself killing the priest. His chest tightened and he began to sweat.
Staring at the sun setting over the gulf, kneeling and holding onto the bow rail, Randy remembered. He remembered that his two older sons had been altar boys at Our Lady of the Seas in Amalie under Father Francis Dubois, the man all the children called Father Nicky.
10
THE SACRAMENTS
11:30 a.m., Friday September 9, 1983
Rectory of Saint Bernadette, Bayou Saint John, Louisiana
The pastor of Saint Bernadette Church in Bayou Saint John, Monsignor Phillip Jules Gaudet, changed the color of his cassocks twice a year. Each year on the day of the autumn equinox he donned black clothing of the kind worn by other priests in the diocese, and on the vernal equinox he switched to the white attire favored by some Mediterranean clerics.
That morning the monsignor was wearing a straw hat with a wide brim, white cassock, white socks and Mexican-made sandals. He stepped gingerly onto the wet lawn, clipped off an orange-colored rose with a long stem, and held it in his gloved hand. Using the clipper, he surgically removed the thorns, then admired the flower and laid it in a basket alongside roses of other hues. Humming the aria “ Nessun dorma ”, Monsignor Phillip Jules Gaudet carefully surveyed the circular bed of roses that dominated the garden between his residence and the Church of Saint Bernadette. Satisfied, he removed his gloves and carried the roses into his home.
Across the street, in the tiny oak-shaded town square, six adults stood in a tight circle around the miniature replica of the cave in Lourdes, France, with its statue of a young girl in brown clothes kneeling before the Virgin Mary.
“We are going in there,” Randy Falgout said, nodding towards the rectory. “We have to. Somebody’s got to get Father Francis outtahere.”
Two of the women were crying. It had been a night without sleep for all of them. After Randy had put Cheney to bed at home, he talked to his two older sons, who broke down and told him about things Father Dubois had done to them. Then Randy called his two sisters about their sons who had served as altar boys in Amalie and they too learned a truth too terrible to believe.
The three couples spent the night on the end of the pier in front of the Falgouts’ bayside home. It had been quiet all night, the only sound being the bay lapping against the pilings and, every so often, the sobbing of the women. None of the six could understand
Similar Books
