comfort

The joke in those days was that Muriel Fink wasn’t sexy, just alive. Very

few people ever laughed at that joke.

To their credit.

One night a priest caught her tying a necktie around her elbow.

“What are you doing that for?” he asked her.

“Gotta 40 pound monkey climbing up my back, Father,” she told him.

“A monkey?”

“Yessir.”

When she took a hypodermic needle from her purse, the priest’s eyes

suddenly gained weight. “Mary, Joseph and…” He moistened his lips.

“What on earth are you…” He swallowed hard. Sore throat hard. “Please

tell me you’re a diabetic,” he said.

Muriel stuck the needle in her arm. “Hardly, Father,” she said, closing her

eyes. Her head fell forward. Her chin rested on her chest. “I’m just about

habitual… I tried to give it a chance… tried to go on and on and on… but I

owe too much… I’m just too much in debt…”

“In debt to what? To whom?” the priest said.

Muriel tossed the needle into the trash can and put on a raincoat, the kind

the Morton salt girl used to wear. “You name it,” she said.

The priest sighed. Poured a scotch straight up. Loosened his collar with

his index finger. Perspiration sneaked out of every pour in his skin.

“I’m…” He paused. “I…” He could no longer look Muriel in the eye. “I

was under the impression that you had…” He took an aggressive pull of

Chivas. “…more self control…”

Muriel rested her head against the back of the chair. Smiled

unselfconsciously. And slightly seductively. “Father, is it a sin to say I

want to run away?”

“What are you running away from?”

Muriel clucked her tongue. “Treachery…fraud…apostasy…”

The priest took a deep far eastern breath. Nodded compassionately. “We

are all faced with the temptation of running away,” he said. “I have often

fantasized about running away from the Church.” He stroked his collar.

“But what good would it do? What would it solve? What would God

think of me if I just… ran away?” He paused. “He’d be very disappointed

in me, wouldn’t He?”

Muriel stared at the palms of her hands and nodded. Quietly. “Do you

think He’d be disappointed in me if I ran away?” she said.

The priest swallowed soft. Ice-cream soft. “Yes, He’d be very

disappointed…and so would I…”

The muscles in Muriel’s face twitched. “What am I going to do?” she said.

“You can begin by forgiving yourself,” the priest said. “…loving

yourself… being yourself…”

Muriel retrieved a silver cigarette case from her purse. Opened it.

Fingered a Thai stick. “You know you’re talking to a Jewish girl,

Father…”

The priest smiled. “We’re all God’s children…”

Muriel nodded. “I kind of expected you to say something like that,” she

said, lighting the Thai stick with a Bic Banana and taking a long toke. As

she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, she said, “Want some?

You can pretend it’s incense…”

The priest stood up. Awkwardly. “I’ll pray for you,” he said.

“Thank you, Father…I depend on the kindness of clergymen…”

As the priest walked to the door, Muriel said, “Father, are you sure I can’t

run away?”

The priest turned to face Muriel one last time. Said, “You have my

blessing,” and was gone before Muriel could drift off into another

daydream about purgatory.