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Authors: Adrian D'Hagé
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three years.
Tom tried to pull his hand away but Father Courtney held it on his erection. With an expert flick of the wheel he pulled the big car over onto the side track he had reconnoitred earlier in the week and they drove back towards the river. When the track finally petered out in thick brush he turned off the engine and with both hands free he started to fondle Tom. To Tom’s horror he found himself getting an erection as well.
‘There see. Isn’t that good?’ In one movement Father Courtney slipped his own trousers down, grabbed Tom’s hand again and masturbated with it until he came with a high-pitched cry.
Stunned, Tom sat pressed up against the passenger door, putting as much of the big bench seat as possible between himself and the priest.
‘It won’t do any good to tell your mother, Tom. She would never believe you, but we can still do the driving lessons, eh?’
‘No thanks,’ Tom said sullenly. Angry. Ashamed. Confused. Betrayed. A whole mix of emotions that even his weekly bath that night could never remove.
When Tom refused Father Courtney’s invitations to pan for more gold from the river, his mother had been puzzled.
‘It will do you good, Tom. Besides he’s our priest, you should be grateful he wants to spend time with you.’
‘No thanks.’
‘But why?’
Tom wouldn’t answer. His response had been to run upstairs, slam his bedroom door shut and refuse to come out for hours. His mother had become angry, very angry. For weeks there had been a cold distance between them. Then the rumours started. Big Mitch Coburn, a fourth-generation potato farmer and elder of the Church, his complexion more florid than usual, outlined the complaints to the little gathering in his front parlour. Eleanor Schweiker listened with a growing sense of horror as realisation dawned on her.
‘Bobby Shanahan, Hughie Taylor and little Jimmy Osborne. All of them. Not eatin’, wettin’ the bed, sullen, just not themselves. The first one to suspect anything was Grandma Taylor. She came to me and to my undyin’ shame … to my undyin’ shame I told her I would have none a’ that sorta talk in ma parish.’
Mitch Coburn was normally a big jovial gentle giant. Today he looked as if he’d been run over by a Massey-Harris tractor.
‘Ahm afraid to say ah was wrong. Ah’ve been in touch with the Bishop and he’s told me on the quiet that it’s not the first time it’s happened. He’s removed Father Courtney and the Cardinal is coming down next week from Chicago to make amends.’
‘What do you mean it’s not the first time it’s happened, Mitch?’ Eleanor asked, a steely edge to her voice. ‘What sort of “amends” does this Cardinal think he can make?’ Her stomach was churning like a washing machine. ‘My Tom has never been the same since he went out with that priest and now he refuses to discuss it.’
Eleanor’s face was white, matching an anger that was directed at the only target she could find. ‘I stood up for the priest and now you’re saying this might have happened before! My son has had heaven only knows what done to him and all I can do is stick up for a Church that protects its priests and ignores my child and every other child they allow Rory Courtney and others like him to be with. Well, you and your precious Church and that priest can all burn in hell!’
Mitch Coburn blinked at the ferocity of a mother’s anger.
‘I know, Eleanor, I know. It’s the most terrible thing. Terrible,’ was all he could say.
Tom Schweiker groaned wretchedly in his sleep at the memory of a Church offering each family fifty thousand dollars provided that everyone agreed to secrecy. The searing memory of a mother refusing to sign unless the priest was struck off and a cardinal who insisted that was the Church’s business, not hers.
He woke sweating at the memory of a little town that had been destroyed by the suicides of Bobby Shanahan and Hughie Taylor. An anger at a Church that couldn’t
Tom tried to pull his hand away but Father Courtney held it on his erection. With an expert flick of the wheel he pulled the big car over onto the side track he had reconnoitred earlier in the week and they drove back towards the river. When the track finally petered out in thick brush he turned off the engine and with both hands free he started to fondle Tom. To Tom’s horror he found himself getting an erection as well.
‘There see. Isn’t that good?’ In one movement Father Courtney slipped his own trousers down, grabbed Tom’s hand again and masturbated with it until he came with a high-pitched cry.
Stunned, Tom sat pressed up against the passenger door, putting as much of the big bench seat as possible between himself and the priest.
‘It won’t do any good to tell your mother, Tom. She would never believe you, but we can still do the driving lessons, eh?’
‘No thanks,’ Tom said sullenly. Angry. Ashamed. Confused. Betrayed. A whole mix of emotions that even his weekly bath that night could never remove.
When Tom refused Father Courtney’s invitations to pan for more gold from the river, his mother had been puzzled.
‘It will do you good, Tom. Besides he’s our priest, you should be grateful he wants to spend time with you.’
‘No thanks.’
‘But why?’
Tom wouldn’t answer. His response had been to run upstairs, slam his bedroom door shut and refuse to come out for hours. His mother had become angry, very angry. For weeks there had been a cold distance between them. Then the rumours started. Big Mitch Coburn, a fourth-generation potato farmer and elder of the Church, his complexion more florid than usual, outlined the complaints to the little gathering in his front parlour. Eleanor Schweiker listened with a growing sense of horror as realisation dawned on her.
‘Bobby Shanahan, Hughie Taylor and little Jimmy Osborne. All of them. Not eatin’, wettin’ the bed, sullen, just not themselves. The first one to suspect anything was Grandma Taylor. She came to me and to my undyin’ shame … to my undyin’ shame I told her I would have none a’ that sorta talk in ma parish.’
Mitch Coburn was normally a big jovial gentle giant. Today he looked as if he’d been run over by a Massey-Harris tractor.
‘Ahm afraid to say ah was wrong. Ah’ve been in touch with the Bishop and he’s told me on the quiet that it’s not the first time it’s happened. He’s removed Father Courtney and the Cardinal is coming down next week from Chicago to make amends.’
‘What do you mean it’s not the first time it’s happened, Mitch?’ Eleanor asked, a steely edge to her voice. ‘What sort of “amends” does this Cardinal think he can make?’ Her stomach was churning like a washing machine. ‘My Tom has never been the same since he went out with that priest and now he refuses to discuss it.’
Eleanor’s face was white, matching an anger that was directed at the only target she could find. ‘I stood up for the priest and now you’re saying this might have happened before! My son has had heaven only knows what done to him and all I can do is stick up for a Church that protects its priests and ignores my child and every other child they allow Rory Courtney and others like him to be with. Well, you and your precious Church and that priest can all burn in hell!’
Mitch Coburn blinked at the ferocity of a mother’s anger.
‘I know, Eleanor, I know. It’s the most terrible thing. Terrible,’ was all he could say.
Tom Schweiker groaned wretchedly in his sleep at the memory of a Church offering each family fifty thousand dollars provided that everyone agreed to secrecy. The searing memory of a mother refusing to sign unless the priest was struck off and a cardinal who insisted that was the Church’s business, not hers.
He woke sweating at the memory of a little town that had been destroyed by the suicides of Bobby Shanahan and Hughie Taylor. An anger at a Church that couldn’t
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