Touched, by Antonio Elefano

When I was seven years old, I was touched by a priest. It was at St. Ignatius Church in Fowler, Massachusetts. No one in Fowler was surprised to hear that Father Todd had molested a child, but all his past incidents had involved boys. I am not a boy. My name is Gretchen Scavo.

It happened three times, between Shrove Tuesday and Easter. It was right after my parents announced they were getting a divorce. My older sister, Barbara, was getting ready to be confirmed. Once a week, she had class at St. I’s with a pair of senior parishioners. Since Mom and Dad both worked in the afternoon, Barbara would leave me in chapel.

“What do I do here?” I said.

“You’re in church,” she said. “Why don’t you try praying?”

“But I don’t got nothing to pray for.”

Barbara scoffed, like she always did when I was being a brat. “If that’s true,” she said, “then I feel sorry for you.”

One day, Father Todd noticed me. An hour after daily mass, the only people there were old ladies in black veils, kneeling in pews and clutching well-worn rosaries. Their eyes were moist and they smelled like cherry cough drops.

“Gretchen,” he said in his reedy tenor. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Most of the time, Father Todd and I just talked. He’d take me to his private chambers and ask what I thought about my folks. He told me that marriage is complicated. He told me I shouldn’t blame myself for Mom and Dad’s failures (though taking blame hadn’t occurred to me until he suggested it).

Three times and three times only, he asked whether I wanted to sit on his lap. I said “okay” because that’s what you say when you’re good and addressed by someone older and good. He put his hand on my leg. Eventually, that hand dug into my shorts and under my underwear. He touched me. Nothing more. Nothing less. The police wanted to know whether his finger ever curled inside. “Penetrate” was the word they kept trying not to say but hinted at with other terms: “poke,” “push,” “slide.”

“No,” I said. “Just touched. No more than five Mississippis.” I was ready for the time question because it seemed important to Mom. I learned later that there was legal significance to a man feeling your private parts versus entering them, and that was enough to keep Father Todd out of jail, I guess. Instead, he went to a rehabilitation facility in Worcester. Mom and Dad got a check from the diocese. Dad swore off Catholicism after that, but Mom, like Barbara, doubled down in her devoutness. “Father Todd was a bad seed,” Mom said, “but he doesn’t represent all the church.” Later that year, I had my first Communion. A month after that, Dad moved out.

The most traumatic part wasn’t the memory of what happened with Father Todd—that mostly felt strange and a little sad—but having to relive it to family, friends and strangers at Mom’s beck and call. She said it was important to my healing, to conquering the evil that had been committed against me. “Gretchen,” she’d say, “this is Mrs. Hooper. Mrs. Hooper taught me how to sew when I was your age. She moved to Florida to be with her daughter—the one with the cyst, but now she’s back. Tell Mrs. Hooper what Father Todd did to you.”

Time passed. Barbara got married to the guy who engraves picture frames at the mall. Dad moved to Maine. I graduated high school and got accepted to Coronado College in northern Massachusetts: far enough away so I could move out of my house but with a manageable in-state tuition. I got a job serving in the cafeteria. I lived in a dorm with an Indian girl named Amisha.

During freshman year, I had an English class with a boy named Garrett Connors. His nickname was Cheese. I once saw him take a bite out of a wedge of manchego, like a cartoon mouse. His top three aspirations post-graduation:

1. Astronaut
2. Inventor
3. Baseball announcer

He ate in the dining hall every day just to be near me. He was gaining weight because he was allergic to exercise, but I still gave him extra starch because that was his favorite food group. I didn’t love him; I probably never would, but he made me laugh in a way I never did in Fowler.

One day at lunch, Cheese didn’t show. It wasn’t like him to miss meatloaf and mash. I kept glancing at my phone, searching for an explanatory text. Then Amisha showed up.

“Your mom’s here,” she said.

“What?”

“She came to surprise you, but she ran into Cheese. They’ve been talking for thirty minutes.”

When I came back to the dorm, Mom and Cheese were sitting at our dining table. Mom looked at me as if to say, “Really? This guy?” But I was more concerned with the look on Cheese’s face, which was confused and hurt. When we finally had a moment alone, I could hear the question before it crossed his lips: “Why didn’t you tell me about Father Todd?”

§

What happened at Saint Ignatius was years before I had the faintest interest in boys, but every sexual experience of my life was defined in response. Everyone in Fowler knew my Mom which meant they knew my shame. If I was hesitant with a guy, I was scarred and detached. If I was too voracious, I was the sullied slut born of a pervert’s desire. Cheese and Coronado had offered me, at last, a clean slate. But now Mom was here, sitting on my modular furniture, determined to parade my past in front of my once-promising present.   

“Your boyfriend is dumb as a rock,” she said.  

“You can’t say that after one conversation.”

“It’s obvious why you’ve chosen him. He’s nice. Non-threatening. Easy to discard when the time comes.”

“He’s not a piece of garbage. To me, he means the world.” This wasn’t true, not even close, but I had to try.

“Is that right?” Mom said. “Should I invite him back to Fowler then? Set up a dinner with Barbara and Beau? Maybe we can invite Father Phillip.”

She had me now. “I just want a normal boyfriend,” I said.

Mom took me by the shoulders. “But you are not a normal person. You have needs, and you have wounds, and you require someone special to tend to that hurt. Now, I’m not saying you break up right away. But don’t let it go beyond the year. And, please God, don’t get stuck.”

“Like you with Barbara.” I knew I shouldn’t have said it. She’d be furious, of course, and maybe that’s what I wanted. But then, the strangest thing: instead of being angry, Mom replied with tears in her eyes, “Exactly, Gretchen. Whatever you do, don’t end up like me.”

§

“I found Father Todd,” Cheese said. It was the day after my mother left for Fowler.

“What?” I stammered. “Why would you do that?”

“Your mom said he didn’t even go to prison,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not matter?”

“Cheese,” I said, “this is not your problem to solve. Besides—”

“I love you. That’s why I did it.”

Motherfucking sack of dog shit cunt! But what I said was: “You’ve never said that before.”

“Well, I’m saying it now.”

“And how does that connect to Father Todd?”

“My dad used to say: if you love something, set it free. I want to set you free from this man.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding the expression.”

“Don’t make this about smart and not smart, okay? This is about feelings. I have feelings for you. And I want to help.”

“But this isn’t helping.”

“You don’t know that. There’s all this stuff that’s unresolved in your head. And you have to deal with it or you can never open your heart.”

“I don’t know what my mother told you—”

“I’m not doing this for her. No offense, but she’s kind of a dick. She asked me what the capital of Massachusetts was. After telling me all this stuff, that’s what she wanted to know. Every time I see you, I think of you as a girl. You must have been so scared.” He leaned in to embrace me, and I was reminded of all the suburban mothers I’d told my story: their dewy eyes, their cheap perfume, their clumsy and overwhelming compassion.

Because I liked Cheese, I let him hug me for longer than I wanted. And when he was done, I pulled away and said, “I was young. I didn’t understand what was happening, so it wasn’t scary, not like that.”

“That makes it even worse.” He was almost crying now.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re all okay.”

His face suddenly flashed with anger. “He shouldn’t be okay. He should be living in a fucking ditch.”

It was an odd way of saying what he wanted to say, but I got the point.

“What do you want us to do, Cheese?”

“I want to see him,” he said. “He’s not far.”

I don’t know why I answered the way I did—if it was just to placate him or to end this maudlin exchange—but for some reason, all sense left and I replied, “Fine.”

§

     According to Cheese, Father Todd was at the Babbling Brook Long-Term Care Facility in Eustice. Cheese knew the visiting hours and had already told the staff that I was a former parishioner who wanted to say hello. They’d asked if the former parishioner was a man or a woman, and when he told them, Cheese swore he heard a sigh of relief. “Sure,” they said. “He had a stroke last year, so he doesn’t talk much. But I’m sure he’d like to see a friendly face.”

When we reached Eustice, I was sure Cheese had made a mistake. Babbling Brook was just a squat brown building, windows painted over, rotting wood trim along the ledges. Is this where tarnished priests went to die? Or did all holy men end up in places like this, the final consequence of a vow of poverty? I wanted to drive home and never think about him again. But Cheese wouldn’t allow it. He had worked himself into a lather and was hungry for a reckoning.

If there is a cardinal sin in my life, it is this: I say yes too often; I stay silent more than I should. A priest touches you once; shame on you. But three times? What was I waiting for? Years later, my mother humiliates me, publicly and constantly. While this may be the story of every daughter, most at least have the backbone to leave that mother behind, not stay within reach of her tentacles, just an hour’s drive from home. Now, here was my stupid boyfriend with his even stupider plan: I could have stopped him; I should have stopped him, but instead I was becoming an accomplice, if not to a crime, then to a poorly thought-out quest.

Inside, we were greeted by a nurse named Susie. She wore purple scrubs and had a gold cross dangling from her neck. She walked us to Father Todd’s room.

“Here he is,” she said, opening a door I could never shut.

His hair was gone, replaced by a liver-spotted dome. One of his eyes was twitched shut and his mouth puckered into a toothless triangle. From the chest down, he was covered by a sheet, but I could see how thin he’d become—probably less than a hundred pounds. He looked at Susie. He looked at me and Cheese. He sniffed, like a toddler with a cold.

“This is Garrett and Gretchen,” Susie continued. “Gretchen here remembers you from St. Ignatius. They came all the way from Coronado College just to see you.”

Father Todd’s head remained still: elevated slightly from the pillow, facing vaguely toward the door.

“I left a message for Father Phillip letting him know you’re here,” Susie said. “He likes it when people visit Father Todd. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall.”

My throat suddenly felt dry. “Thank you,” I said.

As soon as Susie was no longer in earshot, I turned to Cheese. “We have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“We gave our real names. Father Phillip will know.”

“So? We’re not going to hurt him. We’re just going to talk.”

“Look at him. He’s a fucking vegetable.”

“We didn’t come all this way to run from this piece of shit now. Just look him in the eye. Tell him who you are.”

“Cheese—”

“Come on, Gretchen.”

In the end, I just wanted it to be over. I approached the husk of a man in front of me, bent down to look into his one good eye, and said: “I’m Gretchen Scavo. When I was seven, you put your hand down my pants. Three times. I don’t know why you did it, but it’s caused some problems for me, and I thought you should know. I was just a girl. And you were supposed to be looking out for me, not figuring out your own crap. So now you know.”

Just then, I heard a phone ringing from reception.

“It’s Father Phillip,” I said to Cheese. “It’s over.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Before I could reply, I could hear Susie shrieking, “What?!”

“We have to leave,” I said. “Susie’s coming.”

Cheese walked toward the door but didn’t go through it. Instead, he turned and said, “You go over there and grab his pecker!”

Now, I know how ridiculous I must seem: a grown woman being directed by a man who still used the word “pecker.” And I could see the headlines: “Local Girl Molests Elderly Priest.” Still, here was why I did what I did: I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t eleven years ago, and I didn’t now. So I walked up to Father Todd. I reached my hand into his sheet. I fumbled my way into his gown, and when I found my shriveled target, I didn’t “grab” like Cheese suggested. That was too invasive—the equivalent of a poke, push or slide. No. Instead, I splayed my hand above him, hovering like a claw crane. I aimed and let gravity do the rest. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. By then, Susie was on the other side of the door, but Cheese was holding her back. “What are you two doing?” she screeched. “Let me through right now!” Cheese looked at me as if to say, “Take your time.” But I only had two Mississippis left.

When I lifted my fingers, I caught a glimpse of Father Todd’s Cyclops eye—alert but blurred with tears. I watched as his quivering lips struggled to form the saddest word I’d ever heard:

“Stay,” he said.

It was then, with my eyes on his eye and my palm above his dick, that I finally realized what I should have always known: my story was never Father Todd’s story. Just like that moment in his chambers, we might have existed in the same place but in parallel lives. Maybe that was the real reason he didn’t go to jail. And maybe it was the reason I wasn’t as fucked up as everyone wanted me to be. I meant nothing to him, and that meant, finally, that he could mean nothing to me.  

I backed away. There was no hope for Father Todd anymore, but I knew there was hope for me. Cheese opened the door and Susie burst through, almost tripping onto the tile. “I know who you are,” she said, breathless and red-faced.

“We’re exactly who we said we were,” I answered.

“You failed to mention—” she started. “You should have said—”

“Should have said what?” I replied in a tone I didn’t know I was capable of.

“I called the cops.”

She was lying but it didn’t matter. “We’re done anyway.”

Cheese looked at me and then at Susie and then at Father Todd. He smirked, seeing something in the old priest’s face that satisfied him. I didn’t need to look. I nodded at Susie. I took my dumbass boyfriend’s hand. And I left.

Antonio Elefano is a writing professor at the University of Southern California. Published in 236 and The Journal, he received his JD from Yale Law and his MFA from Boston University. In 2014, his story “Italy” was one of Buzzfeed’s “29 Short Stories You Need to Read in Your Twenties.”