Episode Three

Freshman Year

Around seven in the evening, Tiny and I return to the house from varmint hunting. My speckled Dane is fourteen now and can’t outrun a jack rabbit like he used to, but he still enjoys a good chase. He’ll get em up on the canal bank and I’ll try to pick them off with the .22 rifle. I got off a couple good shots but didn’t bag any. Since one rabbit can eat twenty cotton plants in a day, shooting rabbits is not only good sport, it’s good farming. But I’d really like to shoot me a gopher one of these days. They’re more clever than a rabbit and a gopher hole in the wrong place can waste a lot of water. I’ve whacked a few with a shovel but never with a .22.

If I go off to boarding school, Tiny’s the one I’ll miss the most.

Getting close to the house I see Daddy’s pick-up in the middle of the driveway, out some fifteen feet from the house. That means he’s drunk again. A few weeks back he smashed into the garage door, so now, when he’s drunk—and that’s most of the time—he parks a safe distance away. As I pull off my boots in the garage, I can hear him yelling at Mama in the kitchen.

“Where the hell is he? I’m hungry and I’m not waiting any longer,” I hear him shout as I walk in the front door. He glares at me. “Where the hell have you been, damnit? Shouldn’t you be milking the cow by now?”

“It’s after seven,” I yell back. “I milked Bag two hours ago, about the same time you were getting liquored up. Check the fridge if you don’t believe me.” I look at Mom to see if she’s okay. She nods.

“You think you’re too goddam good for this family don’t you, now that you’re going to your high and mighty boarding school. We eat dinner at six pm around here, mister!”

“And we did, mister! We ate dinner at six. I was here. Mother and Kathy were here. We ate. Where were you?”

My father turns abruptly toward Mama, grabs her and shakes her at the shoulders, screaming, “You ate without me?”

Mama backs away and shakily says, “I didn’t eat much. I was going to eat. I was going to eat with you, too.” He lunges at her but she dodges. I move in front of her to protect her and he slaps me so hard across the ear that I lose my footing and fall against the washer. Mama grabs a glass vase full of freshly picked camellias from the garden and tries to hit Daddy over the head. But he blocks the vase with his left hand and slaps Mama across the face with his right.

My heart pumping I feel my face turn red with rage. I’d never seen him hit Mama before. I leap on him and bring him to the floor swinging wildly.

“Don’t you ever touch my mother again,” I scream. “Or I’ll put a fuckin bullet in your head!”

He covers his face with his arms. I stand up and kick at his legs again and again, “Get the fuck out of here and leave us alone, you fuckin drunken piece of shit!”

My father scrambles to all fours as I try to get in another kick. He stumbles to his feet and runs out the door. Soon we hear the pick-up tear out of the driveway and roar down Jameson Avenue.

I sit at the table shaking, catching my breath, feeling like I want to beat him unconscious. Mama dampens a dish cloth, presses it to my forehead, and says, “Jimmy, calm yourself, honey. He’s gone.”

Her tone is so soothing, I wonder if I overreacted.

“I’ve never seen you so upset, dear. What got into you?”

I stare into her eyes, puzzled at the question. “What got into me? He hit you, Mother! What did you expect?”

“I’m okay, dear, although I’m not so sure about your father.” She cracks a slight smile. “I don’t think he was prepared for that.” She squeezes my shoulder as I try to return a grin. “Honey, can I get you some hot chocolate and a piece of pie?” My mother is composed as she lifts the jug of milk and cream from the fridge. It’s quiet for a few minutes except for my mother’s faint humming, as if nothing had happened here at all.

“Mama, I’m afraid to go away and leave you alone with him. Without Dick and Billy here, I worry about your safety. Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

As the creamy milk begins to steam in the saucepan, Mama scoops in the powder from the Ghirardelli tin, adds sugar, and slowly, methodically stirs it all together. I feel my shoulders drop. As I watch in silence, I realize how strong my mother really is. “If I do go, I’m really going to miss you making me hot chocolate. It’s doesn’t taste as good when I make it myself.”

She smiles but doesn’t look up. She pulls down two cups and two saucers from the cabinet and neatly ladles in the cocoa. She carries the cups around the cook island and sits next to me. “Drink, sweetheart.”

This is a rare moment. Daddy’s gone. Kathy’s asleep. It’s just my mom and me, sipping hot chocolate and enjoying the silence.

“You know, Jimmy, I was never a big fan of your going away. I’ll miss you so much. But I’ve already had two boys head out on their own, so I know I can handle it. You do what you think is best for you, for your future. Your sister and I will be fine.”

I still have two weeks to back out, but now, after talking to Mama, I no longer have any doubt—I will leave.

□ □ □ □

Ever since we got our first television in 1953, I’ve watched in awe the exciting lives of people in big cities. Live shows from New York City—What’s My Line? and The Ed Sullivan Show—were full of colorful people living colorful lives, and none of them lived on farms. Before television, I knew only what I learned on the radio or in history class. That didn’t seem real to me. I thought the real world was made up mostly of farmers. But when I watch I Love Lucy and Amos ‘n Andy, I see another reality. Ricky Ricardo is a band leader in a New York night club, while Amos Jones drives a New York City cab; two jobs that I imagine are the coolest in the world. Lucy and Ricky, as well as Kingfish and Sapphire live in apartment buildings where there are stairs—lots and lots of stairs. Even the Metropolitan Museum has at least forty steps just to get to the front door. I want to live someplace—anyplace—where I have to climb stairs to get somewhere. Stairs are my idea of glamorous and urbane.

For years I’ve been praying to God that my life will no longer be boring. I think by going away to school I’ll finally get a taste of the real world—that big one beyond Jameson Avenue and Fresno. Beyond the whole San Joaquin Valley.

□ □ □ □

With Bellarmine’s List of Necessities for Boarders in hand, my mom and I walk the aisles of Sears and Roebuck for a duffel bag, a toiletry kit, a steam iron, and my own set of sheets and towels. The iron is for emergencies only, since the newest thing in clothing is “permanent pressed” slacks and shirts. This innovation comes at a perfect time for me, since jeans and t-shirts aren’t allowed on campus during school hours. Also, my hair must never touch my ears or my shirt collar, and all shirts must have collars.

Both my parents drive to San Jose to drop me off. My dad’s very proud, but reserved, still looking as if he’s not completely convinced that Bellarmine is what I really need. He has bowed to the pressure, agreeing to try this alternative approach to my education. But in his regimented mind, I know what he really believes— if he’d just beaten me a little harder or a little longer, he could have knocked some real sense into me.

Duffel over my shoulder, I walk my parents up a flight of stairs to the main entrance of Kostka Hall. At a long table I sign in and get my room assignment—Room 201, upstairs. After another flight up the inside staircase, we enter 201, a stark white room with two metal bunk frames on either side of a window and four twin mattresses covered in blue ticking. I toss my pack on a lower bunk and we head back outside.

“Find out if they let you hang pictures,” my mother says as she opens her car door. “The place is just so stark.”

“Perhaps a larger crucifix?” I suggest with a grin. She glares at me, suggesting I have an odd sense of humor, a fact of which I’m well aware.

The concrete under my feet feels especially hard. The air is thick, as I labor to breathe. I know it’s just school, but I’m saying good-bye to my parents. They’re about to get in the car and drive away, leaving me here all alone. There’s room in the back seat. I could quietly sit there and I wouldn’t complain. We could just drive home, pretend we had just gone for a long drive.

“Bye, Son,” my father says as he holds out his hand to shake. I throw my arms around his waist and he holds my head to his chest. For a moment he’s like a real dad. It feels good. Then I hug my mom. She begins to sob like she does every time someone dies on The Loretta Young Show. And, as far back as I can remember, whenever mama cries, I cry, as if we’re plumbed to the same water works.

I wait for a dry moment. After we’ve regained our composure, I raise a farewell palm, turn, and walk away from the car, disappearing up the stairs and into Kostka Hall.

Butterflies try to pummel their way out of my stomach, but I keep a confident stride, not wanting either parent to view me as weak. I suppress the desire to run to them and beg to come home. I climb the inside stairs, reminding myself that there is only one alternative to Bellarmine—Riverdale High. So I maintain perfect resolve, making it to my room before I cry a muffled mournful moan alone.

I cry into my pillow for only a moment when I raise my head. I walk to the window and look down at the entry to Kostka Hall and there it is—that big wide staircase inviting me to my future.

□ □ □ □

Like every other freshman boarder, I am assigned to a room with four guys. My roommates are Steve Schrepner, Jim Smith and George Wolfe. Jim and I instantly hit it off. He’s from Taft, California and his parents are middle-class farmers like mine, except they came from Oklahoma. Jim’s accent and broad buck-tooth smile make me want to know him better. He sounds and acts like home. In this particular environment the kids from wealthier families, like Steve and George, go home to their families every weekend, while Jim and I remain on campus until a holiday comes along. Thanksgiving break isn’t for two and a half months.

Within two weeks, Jim teaches me how to smoke cigarettes. They taste like burning trash but provide us diversions that help us deal with horrible home-sickness. The Jesuits object to our smoking but tell us to keep it off campus, and they won’t interfere. The first few weekends we have from one to five in the afternoon to walk and smoke and talk about homes and our families. Growing up, our lives were similar, except that Jim’s family moved around a lot and Jim is really close to his Dad. We also get to know San Jose, at least the homes and businesses along the 22 Bus Line and everywhere along South First.

After the long Christmas break, as great as it is to have seen my family, I look forward to returning to school, spending time with my buck-toothedfriend, and learning about his trip back to Taft.

While I’m unpacking my clean clothes, Mr. Grimaldi, S.J.¹ stops by my room to let me know that Jim won’t be returning to Kostka Hall. He has succumbed to the loneliness and dropped out, leaving me alone and addicted, wandering the streets of San Jose every weekend, looking for smokers to loiter with. Although I’m terribly lonely and miss him, a few weeks around my father reminded me how happy I am to be away from him. So I stick it out. I had imagined the humiliation I would feel my first day at Riverdale High after having failed at boarding school. That strengthens my resolve. I slowly adjust and my freshman year continues without my smoking buddy by my side.

¹Mr. followed by S.J. refers to men studying to become priests. They dress as priests.

□ □ □ □

To keep myself occupied and to pay for my smoking habit (a pack of cigarettes costs thirty cents at College Park Market), I take a job in the campus kitchen helping the cooks prep for the 220 boarders who need feeding three times a day. It pays thirty cents an hour. I soon strike up a friendship with sous-chef Nancy, a bubbly flaming redhead with a southern drawl. Her generous bosom is always cinched in behind the buttons of a blouse a size too small. Mischievous and playful, I often tell the twenty-five-year-old that she’s way too pretty to wear so much make-up. She agrees but claims to have trailer trash in her blood and loves painting herself up so all the young boys have something pretty to gawk at. Considering how often she’s asked to serve dinner in the private Jesuit dining room, I’m pretty sure the young boys aren’t the only ones gawking.

“You know, Jimmy Boy, I like that you don’t fuss over me and glare at my rack. I think we can be friends.” She grins and realize that she’s my friend.

Soon I’m heading to her apartment every weekend just to hang out and smoke. She knows how I hate being stuck on campus, and she’s kind of like a substitute mother to me. A little homesick herself for Oklahoma, she enjoys my gentlemanly manner, my “country charm,” and the fact that I show her respect. I’ll often bring a friend, usually Eric, to her house, so that Nancy, her roommate Sara, (and the two of us) can all go to the movies together. We pair up, Nancy and me, and Sara and Eric, two very odd couples. Each of us has our own reasons for enjoying the stares that we draw from the people we pass on the street. I imagine onlookers think that I must be an extraordinary young man to have such a beautiful mature woman on my arm.

On the way home after seeing The Birds, Nancy sticks her finger in her mouth and then in my ear and a lady on the street gives her a grunt of disapproval. Nancy turns as they pass and shouts, “What’s the matter lady? Never seen young love before?”

We all laugh when the woman grumbles, “Well, I never!”

I discover a new appreciation for the disapproving furled brow of a passing stranger.

One weekend Nancy mentions that Sara’s going into the hospital the following Friday for some minor surgery, so we won't be able to go out as a group. I’m just getting to know Sara, but I like her. She’s much different than Nancy. Sara’s more handsome than pretty. She’s taken to plucking her eyebrows into thin rows and wearing maroon shades of lipstick to make her lips appear full. I ask Sara if she wants me to visit while in the hospital and she smiles big at me.

The following Saturday, I do just that. I’m shocked to see her face all bandaged up, until she confesses to having a nose job. While we’re laughing about how shallow she is about her appearance, her older brother, Claude, knocks on the door. As he enters he immediately gets my attention.

Claude is handsome: six feet tall I’d guess and 130 pounds,. He has a Mediterranean look, tanned with dark curly hair and stylishly dressed. His brown eyes are framed with full brows and long dark lashes, and, although he’s clean shaven, there’s a peppery shadow that cloaks his jaw, where his beard would be. Though his look is quite virile, he’s extremely animated in the manner in which he attends to his little sister. He kisses her head then covers it with a sheet. “I’ll let the public see you when those dreadful bruises fade away. For Christ’s sake, you look like you were in a dyke fight.”

I laugh, hoping no one asks what’s so funny, since I don’t know what a dyke is or why they fight.

I know from our many smoking sessions that Sara and Claude come from a background like mine, that of an alcoholic father and an ever-hopeful mother. Although most of Sara's anger is directed at her mom, I still feel a strong bond with her. She’s really the first person I’d ever talked to about having an alcoholic parent. That’s why I like her. She sad for her father but not ashamed.

Sara makes the introductions and we all visited for awhile. They do most of the talking, quickly paced and enthusiastic, each one finishing the other's sentences. Watching the energy they create together, I begin to miss my sister. The thought of her in that house with my dad with no brother to hide behind leads my mind to wander momentarily, while their lively banter dominates the room.

I decide to head back to school and let them visit, but when I get up to leave, Claude offers me a ride back to campus. I accept his invite, kiss Sara’s hand, since her face is bandaged, and step into the corridor. They hug and, as we’re leaving, I can't help but notice Sara glaring at him as she tells him to “be nice.” I think it odd but assume it to be part of the special way they communicate. Claude laughingly dismisses her comments and we leave.

Once in the car, Claude asks if I’d like to see his place and I say I would. I have two hours before I need to be back on campus.

“How do you like boarding school?”

“It’s okay, a little lonely at times. Thank God for Nancy and Sara!” I try to act calm, like I’m not nervous being alone with an older man, especially one so attractive. I want to touch him but know that would probably freak him out.

“And the Jesuits…..how do you like them?

“They’re pretty cool, so far”

“You know, I was a Jesuit Brother for three years.”

“Oh, that’s pretty neat!” Brother Claude, I think to myself. I picture how the long black robes must have set off his dark features—like a really sexy priest. I quickly imagine God being angry at me for thinking priests could be sexy.

When we pull into the driveway to his house, I am truly surprised. In my mind, I pictured him living in an apartment, just like Sara. Hardly fitting the image in my head, we sit looking at a beautiful thirties Tudor style house with an attached garage, each sporting a gabled roof, and a smaller gable over the rounded front door. The house is painted a soft white, trimmed in dark brown wood, and topped with dark shingles. A finely manicured lawn slopes gently down to the sidewalk.

We enter a foyer with arched doorways on all three walls leading into a sitting room/library on the left, a living room on the right and a wide hallway straight ahead. The color scheme is very similar, inside and out. The walls are hand plastered and give the house the feel of durability. That uneasiness I had about being alone with a near stranger disappears. Claude’s house feels so warm and familiar I feel myself wanting to be closer to him.

He gestures toward the living room and we enter. It’s especially visual, crowded with Victorian furniture, a velvet cushioned sofa and two chairs upholstered in deep rich earth tones, tarnished brass lamps with silk shades trimmed in fringe, a black baby grand Steinway, and a wonderful fireplace of small varnished river rock that have browned over the years. A number of small tables are topped with candles and family pictures in antique wooden frames. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house, except here I’m allowed to touch whatever I want. Although it’s a warm day, Claude lights a fire in the fireplace.

I feel comfortable here, like a grown-up.

“May I pour you a glass of wine?” Claude asks.

I’m surprised by the offer. “I really shouldn’t. I’m only fifteen.”

“Don’t be silly. When Sara and I were growing up, there was always wine at the dinner table. And everyone was welcomed.”

“That’s funny. My mom told me the same thing. I think it’s because her family was from France.”

“And our family came from Spain. Same thing.” He pours me a glass and I take a sip. It tastes like grape juice that went bad, but I try not to show it on my face.

Claude stretches his arms and takes his shoes off.

“How about you, Jim? Do you have time to get a little more comfortable?” He kneels in front of me and gestures for me to raise my foot. I do and he gently removes one shoe, then the other. “Isn’t that better?”

I nod.

“About three years ago, one of my favorite clients, Regina Duncan, sat in my chair at work. I was darkening her roots as she carried on about how her house was too big with all the children gone and Albert being dead and all, how she hated having all that space just going to waste. Then she said, ‘Claude, What am I to do? I’d adore living a much simpler life perhaps in the servant’s quarters in back, but what would I do with my house and all my lovely things. I couldn’t bear selling even one item.

“’Give the main house over to a close friend who would appreciate and take care of all your things,’ I told her. ‘Then, you’d have a friend close by to look in on you from time to time.’

“Suddenly, she sits up in the chair, hair dripping with dye and says, ‘Oh, Claude; would you do that for me?’ And I thought about it and here I am, surrounded by Madame’s fabulous things, living quite a nice life.” He leans and whispers in my ear, “And she refuses to take a dime in rent. What do you think about that?”

“That’s great. Hey, Claude, it’s getting really warm in here.”

“You’re right. I love having a nice fire but it does get warm. How ‘bout we adjust to it by taking off some clothes,” he says and proceeds to remove his long sleeved shirt. He suggests I do the same. I unbutton it but don’t remove it as I’m not wearing an undershirt. He has on a sleeveless t-shirt like the torn one Marlon Brando wore in A Streetcar Named Desire. Claude fills it out nicely. I can feel my heart racing. Claude’s being a lot more familiar with me than any older guy I’ve ever met. And I keep catching myself staring at his chest. I’ve seen bodybuilders’ chests but never one with hair. I like it.

“You want to remove that shirt?” he asks.

“I’m not wearing a t-shirt,” I say.”

“Hey, I see bare chests everyday at the gym. It’s no big deal. Get comfortable.” He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. I hand him my shirt and he hangs it on an antique coat rack.

After talking a bit more about the house, he asks if I would be more comfortable if we both took off our pants. I wonder what my mom would think if she could see what I’m doing. I get that thought out of my head and unbuckle my belt, mainly because I want to see more of his body. He has a man’s body, not a boy’s, and that’s very exciting and new to me. We stand at the same time. I remove my belt and undo the button fly. He watches as my Levis drop to the floor. Then, he picks them up and drapes them over the arm of a wing-backed chair. He slowly removes his slacks, so slowly that I look up from the visual lock I have on his waist to find him watching my eyes dart up and down his body. I feel myself getting aroused. When I try to cover it with my hands he looks at me and smiles.

"Don't worry about that.” His slacks drop to the floor. “As long as we're both excited, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." That's when I see the obvious bulge in his shorts. I realize he may want me as much as I want him.

I’m so conflicted. Yes, I’m excited, but Claude’s an old man....at least twenty-five, maybe even older. But in that t-shirt, his pectorals are casting shadows on the white fabric stretched tightly across his ribs. When I see the tufts of silky black hair that curl around the piped edging of the shirt, I feel like I’m seeing him on a giant movie screen, not like I can actually reach out and touch him. But then I catch a very slight hint of sweat, blending with the subtle aroma of cologne. He looks and smells so masculine and he’s enjoying the fact that I can’t take my eyes off of his chest. His smile gives me permission to enjoy staring…..and, for moments at a time, I do.

The last time I’d been this close to another male was with David. He was my age and the moment seemed fine, never a notion of right or wrong. But the thought of being intimate with a grown-up rings a cautionary bell in my head. Might I be doing something wrong? I feel confusion about what to do next.

He fluffs a small throw pillow at one end of the couch.

“Why don’t you just stretch out and relax. Close your eyes and let me take care of you.” His voice is soothing.

Nervously I follow his instructions. I love that I don't have to think. I really don’t know what happens next, anyway. I tell myself over and over that it’s okay to feel pleasure, at least for a few minutes. I haven't been touched by anyone in almost two years, and with this slow playful dance of his, I’m on the verge of exploding before he even touches me. I become totally absorbed in the moment. My mind drifts off and I simply enjoy the spectacular feeling of being touched by someone who wants only to give me pleasure. The crackling fire and Claude’s gentle caress add an element of romance, a pleasure that I’ve never felt before. I want it to last forever.

And, just as quickly as it all begins, it ends. I don’t languish in a euphoric afterglow. Once my mind is back in the room, I feel like I did when I was twelve in the JC Penney bathroom. I’m dirty. I’m sinful. I allowed a queer to touch me. I’ve played with the devil himself. Fear grips me and all I want is out. I can't get my pants on fast enough. I feign a quick glance at my watch, mutter a few slurred syllables, pull on my jeans, and head straight for the door.

“Jim, where are you going?”

“I gotta leave. I’m late.”

“I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? Would you like a ride?”

I ignore him, running out and slamming the door behind me. I look about hoping I haven’t been seen leaving a queer’s house. I keep a rapid pace, feeling an exhilaration that might be equated to finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground, but fearing that the person who dropped it is following fast on my heels. I look behind me, but no one is there. My breathing doesn’t return to normal until I’m safe inside my room. This is one time I’m glad to be the only one spending the weekend on campus. I strip and hit the showers, hoping to wash the queer off me.

□ □ □ □

Waiting in line for confession the next day, I feel my heart race. I have somehow lived through the night, praying constantly that I not die while in the state of sin. I know that the threat of eternal damnation will be averted once I’m inside and receive absolution. This is my chance for redemption, to say I’m sorry for what I did and promise to never do it again. Why did I let the devil tempt me like that? What will I say to the priest? I can’t say I let a queer blow me. That would sound like I wanted it. That would make me look like a queer too. I come up with an ambiguous term—“sexual relations with another.” That might work. It will get me forgiveness without actually admitting that I did that. I rehearse it over in my head.

When another student pulls back the curtain to leave, I step in, pull the curtain shut and kneel in front of the tiny veiled partition. I hear it slide open.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” I whisper. “It’s been a week since my last confession. I used the Lord’s name in vain, twice. I said the F-word once. I had impure thoughts in a dream……and…….oh, yeah, I had sexual relations with another.” The silence is deafening. Finally…..

“Say four Our Fathers and four Hail Marys. That will be all. Bless you my son.”

“Thank you Father.” I step out into the sunlight.

I feel bathed in God’s blessing. I have been absolved. And my vague words actually worked. I take note of which priest it is. I decide, right then and there, in the future, I’ll only confess to Father Ryan. I’m so relieved.

□ □ □ □

I spend the next three days telling myself that I can never see Claude again. Then, I spend the following three days obsessing over how thrilling it was. How can something that feels that good be a sin? I just don’t get it. But I’m not supposed to get it. It’s God’s law and I should never question it. Period.

On the very next Saturday, when I go to visit Nancy and Sara, I manage to get Claude’s phone number. I immediately know that Claude has told them nothing. Sara fishes around with a couple of questions about Claude’s behavior, but I tell her he was very nice to me….like a big brother! And I keep a straight face as I say it.

The laws of the church notwithstanding, I find myself calling Claude. Not knowing if there are any other guys in the world like him, I fear this might be my only chance to find someone who will touch me the way Claude did. Most of all, I really like him. That same afternoon I call him and go over to see him.

The moment I walk in I apologize for my quick exit the week before.

“I understand,” he says. “The church makes it hard to be who you are. That’s why I left. Maybe I moved too quickly. I should have done this first.” While standing just inside the front door, Claude brushes my cheek with his fingers, leans forward, and kisses me. I think for a second of David, the only boy who had ever kissed me. This is not that. Claude is a man, a man who understands that it is okay to like men. He isn’t a queer. He has feelings. And best of all, he likes me. We walk straight to the couch and kiss. I feel his tongue meet mine. I like it. We kiss for hours and eventually have sex. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

I go to Claude’s every Saturday, followed by confession every Sunday. I come to appreciate Claude for his patience with me and his attention to detail. Every time I’m with him I learn some new way of getting sexual pleasure. At first, I only let him do things to me. But I so want to know everything. Soon I am learning how to give him pleasure in return. By mid-April, I’m at Claude’s every Wednesday afternoon, as well.

For a few weeks, everything’s perfect. I daydream in class about the next time I’ll get to see him. But as the weeks pass, he starts drinking more and more while I’m there and encouraging me to do the same. Once, another boarder returned to Kostka Hall after having consumed far more alcohol than he could handle and was required to sit in the main corridor wearing a sign that read ‘Future Drunk?’ Seeing how the Jesuits deal with intoxicated students, I know I couldn’t endure that kind of embarrassment, so I don’t drink during my visits.

Soon, I find him increasingly intoxicated whenever I arrive. Finally, one afternoon I tell him how much I hate his drinking. I remind him that one time he passed out before I had even left. I tell him that school’s going to be out for the summer soon and I won’t get to see him for months, so couldn’t we just have the last few weeks together sober. He acquiesces.

Then, the following Tuesday night at about 9:30 PM, I’m told I have a phone call at the pay phone downstairs. This seems odd, because those phones are supposed to be for outgoing calls only. When I pick it up there’s Claude on the other end, drunk as a skunk, crying and professing his undying love for me.

“Jimmy, sweetheart,” he slurs heavily. “I’ve been crying all afternoon at the thought of you going away and leaving me all alone for the summer. Baby, I can’t bear it!”

“Claude, why are you calling me here? How did you get this number? I don’t even know this number.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I love you. Please come over and spend the night.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t do that. Please take one of those pills of yours and get some sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow after school.”

“But baby, I can’t live without you. Pack some things right now and I’ll come to get you!”

“Claude! You’re going to get me in trouble. You can’t come here, not now, not . . ever! This has gone too far and I don’t think I should see you anymore. And don’t ever call here again. Are you trying to ruin my life? Just go to bed and leave me alone!” It’s hard to yell and whisper at the same time. I hang up the phone and hurry back to my room.

Having lived with my own father's alcoholism, and observing Claude’s behavior over the last few weeks, I know that this is not a healthy situation. It would be like trading one alcoholic for another. A few minutes pass when I’m told that Father McConville, the Prefect of Boarders, wants to see me. His office is directly behind the pay phones. When I enter his office I immediately notice three black phones on his desk, one with a dial on it and two without. I instantly realize that these are extensions to the pay phones and that he’s probably heard every word. That’s the first time I ever remember feeling a chill shudder through my entire body. I stand there, clearly shaking, terrified of what he’s about to say. I watch him search for the right words.

“Jim, I would recommend that you be very discriminating when choosing the people with whom you socialize”.

I stand there, frozen, waiting for him to tell me what a sinful young boy I’ve become. The silence is interminable.

Then, finally, "Enough said, now, off to bed!"

My first reaction is shock, followed quickly by relief. I become present again and leave his office, still reeling a bit from all the events of the evening.

That night as I lie in bed, I realize that this situation, had it occurred on the farm, would have been countered by a severe lashing from my father. But here, in this place, Father McConville gives me his observations, without guilt, and perhaps, in his own subtle way, he validates the wise decision that I had already made on the phone.

This is the first sign I get that Jesuits, unlike most other Catholic orders, are not big on the whole 'guilt' thing. They make their point intellectually and they move on.

I never return to Claude’s house. I want so much to be with the wise man I had met that day in the hospital, but I don’t know where to find him, anymore.