Devil’s Night
Six Years Ago
Devil’s Night. This was it.
Our last one.
We were graduating next May, and once the four of us went off to college, we wouldn’t be home unless it was for winter or summer breaks. And by then, we’d be too old for this. We wouldn’t have the excuse of youth to explain why we chose to celebrate the night before Halloween, indulging in pranks and other childish shenanigans, for no other reason than to raise a little hell. We’d be men. It wouldn’t fly, right?
So, tonight would be it. The finale.
I slammed my car door shut and walked through the parking lot, past Damon’s BMW, and toward the rear entrance of the cathedral. Opening the door, I walked into the lounge area, consisting of some tables, a kitchen, a few couches, and a coffee table littered with pamphlets on how to pray the rosary and Fasting in a Healthy Way.
I inhaled a deep breath, the ever-present odor of incense filling the quiet halls. I was Catholic by birth, as was my friend, Damon, but in practice, we were Catholic in the same way Taco Bell was a Mexican restaurant. I played along for my mother, while Damon played along for amusement.
I headed down the hallway to the actual church, but a loud thud pierced the silence, and I stopped short, looking around for where it came from. It sounded like a book dropping onto a desktop.
It was a Friday morning. Not many people would be here, although there were probably a few stragglers kneeling in the pews and praying their penance, since confession had just ended.
“What did we discuss yesterday?” I heard Father Beir’s burly voice from somewhere off to my left.
“I don’t remember, Father.”
I smiled to myself. Damon.
Taking a left, I stepped quietly down another marble hallway, dragging my fingertips over the shiny mahogany paneling on the walls and trying to withhold my laughter.
Stopping just before the open door to the priest’s office, I hung back and listened. Damon’s smooth, calm tone answered Beir as if following a script.
“You’re unrepentant and irresponsible.”
“Yes, Father.”
My chest shook. Damon’s words were always in complete contradiction to how they sounded coming out of his mouth. Yes, Father as if in complete agre
ement that he’d misbehaved, while at the same time Yes, Father, aren’t you proud of me?
Most of us reconciled in the confessionals out in the nave, but Damon—after many years of failed “redirection” on the part of his father and his priest—was forced to be schooled face to face for weekly counseling sessions.
He fucking enjoyed it. He took pleasure in being anyone’s devil.
Twisting my head around, I peeked into the room, seeing the priest walk around the desk while Damon knelt on a single pew, Beir’s big, black Bible on the stand in front of him.
“Do you want to be judged?” the father asked.
“We will all be judged.”
“That’s not what I taught you.”
Damon’s head was bowed enough for his black hair to hang just over his eyes, but I could see the hint of a smile that Beir probably couldn’t. He wore our school uniform, khakis with his typical wrinkled, white Oxford, cuffs unbuttoned, and a loose blue and green necktie hanging around his neck. We were on our way to school, but he looked like he’d been in his clothes all night.
He suddenly turned his head toward me, and I watched as he jutted out his tongue, moving it side to side suggestively and grinning like an asshole.
I broke into silent laughter, smiling at him and shaking my head.
Douche.
Turning away, I walked back down the hallway, toward the church, and left Damon to finish his “lesson.”