Buck Hanson looked up in surprise but said nothing. “What about it, Buck?” asked Reardon.
Stretching out both arms in front of him, Buck interlocked his fingers and popped his knuckles. “Not hardly,” he said. Pulling his hands back to his lap, he looked over at Shellenberger, who was looking hopefully for someone to break the silence and pad the next 30 minutes. “Well, there is this friend of mine. He’s had his share of hassles.”
Normally Shellenberger would not tolerate second-hand discussion of people outside the group, but today he seemed more intent on filling up the remainder of the session with discussion, whatever the content. “Hmm,” he reflected, “Concerned about your friend.”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy, but has got himself into a pretty bad pickle. Seems he and his wife took their teenage daughter to this minister who was supposed to be good with kids. She had been messin’ around with boys and all, and they couldn’t figure out any way to stop her. Well, this here minister didn’t help with her problem.” Drumming his fingers on his knee, Buck appeared to becoming more uncomfortable.
“Hmm, the minister wasn’t of much assistance,” said Shellenberger.
“Oh, he assisted all right, but mostly with his sexual organ. Her folks were too damn dumb to figure out what was goin’ on. They figured this preacher was a man of God and all, and could do no wrong. When she started getting more upset and depressed, and even started peeing her pants, the preacher told them that this was normal for ‘sinfully hypersexual girls,’ and reassured them that he had worked with a lot of girls like her.” Buck’s face flushed as he started kneading his fingers. “’Course they believed him, being that he preached God’s word and all, and they gave him their okay to continue ‘counseling’ her.” Buck’s eyes darkened. “They didn’t bother to ask her what she thought about the whole deal.”
“What did she do?” asked Frankie Grayson, who was also getting upset.
Buck struggled to keep his voice on an even pitch, but he got more animated in a way uncharacteristic of himself. “She was scared spitless of her folks, and knew how tied up they were in all this religion stuff. Most of her friends had written her off as ‘loose,’ so she couldn’t go to them. The only one left at home was her older brother, who was scheduled to report for active duty in Nam. His folks had invited the reverend and his wife several times to dinner, but he wasn’t impressed. Although the minister had a good-looking enough wife, the brother had watched the preacher give special attention to the girls at Sunday school, particularly the pretty ones who were kind of shy. He’d always have some reason for hugging them or gettin’ them off in a corner somewhere for ‘individual lessons’.”
Hoffmeister broke into the conversation. “It’s seems she could have told a teacher or a person in authority.”
“She was 15 at the time in a country school house with three teachers,” answered Hanson, “and one of the teachers happened to be married to the preacher.”
“I would have shot the son-of-a-bitch,” snapped Molinari.
Hanson flinched wryly. “Not a bad idea, but she was scared and probably didn’t know how to shoot that well.”
“Did this molesting go on for long?” asked Sonya.
“Long enough,” said Hanson. “It lasted as long as it took her brother to figure out what was going on and what to do about it.”
* * *
With a deep baritone voice that had experienced much practice resonating off sacristy walls, Reverend Jonathon Boughtum intoned, “We’re proud of you, my boy. There are few callings, apart from the ministry, more noble than joining the military service and protecting our country from the threats from without and within.”
Sitting next to Boughtum was his wife, a short, mildly attractive woman whose thin figure and tiny breasts allowed her to blend undetected into most backgrounds. She seemed reconciled to the duty of walking three paces behind her husband and smiling demurely whenever he proclaimed his inspired wisdom. While publically deferring to the religious demeanor of “Father John,” her eyes sparkled behind the stage, searching for something she was not finding at home. Tonight she seemed quietly fascinated with Lance Corporal Hanson. Dressed in his newly pressed uniform, he cut quite a figure that had been sculpted by months of Marine Corps training. More than once, she caught herself staring at his muscular chest and the hint of a six-pack under his tight-fitting shirt.
Lance Corporal Hanson made sure that he sat by his sister as he checked out Father John and his reactions to her. The reverend would have been a good poker player. Most of the dinner was spent with him on center stage, telling stories with just the right amount of humor, pacing, detail and suspense to keep everyone at the table begging for more. Everyone, that is, but his wife, the corporal and Traci.
His dad appeared totally enthralled with the minister. “Father John,” he would say, “You really have a gift for touching people’s hearts and souls.”
“You’re too kind,” drawled the minister, while his smile signaled for another round of applause.
“Even though you’re a man of the cloth, you should think about going bird hunting with me and my son. We’re headed out this weekend for some pheasants and would love to have you come along.”
“Oh thank you for the invitation, but I must confess that I’m not that handy with firearms,” said the preacher, but his voice betrayed excitement about the idea of a hunt.
Buck Hanson picked up the gleam in the minister’s eyes and seized his opportunity. “Reverend, you’ve got to come with us. We’ve got an extra shotgun and would love to have ya. It would be a great going-away present for me too.”
“Well, if you really think . . . ” teased the minister.
“Then it’s settled,” said Buck’s father, clapping his hands. “How does 5:30 sound for us picking you up?”
“In the morning?” joked the minister.
His wife reached over and touched his arm. “Jonathon,” she whispered in his ear, “We were planning a special morning together.”
“Not now,” he mumbled. Turning to the father and Buck, he bubbled, “Then I’ll see you at 5:30 . . . in the morning!” he laughed.
Buck cast a sideways glance at Mrs. Boughtum, who did not look happy. “Jonathon,” she started to say, but he cut he off with a curt glance.
The morning was just awakening as the three hunters stepped out of the truck. A strong breeze buffeted their ears such that Mr. Hanson had to shout to have himself heard as the three hunkered down together to talk hunting strategy. It was agreed that Buck’s dad would take the left side of the stream and Buck and Father John would take the right. Fifty yards of heavy brush entangled itself on both sides of the spring creek and sported its last crop of berries before winter arrived. A perfect habitat for pheasants. The three hunters had agreed that Buck would show the preacher how to operate the 16-gauge shotgun and discuss the hunting protocol. “Remember to keep a healthy distance between us,” Mr. Hanson said as he waved goodbye to his son and the minister. “Safety first is the Hanson motto. I’ll see you at the end of this brush row in about an hour.” Flipping his shotgun against his shoulder, he stalked off to his side of the thicket, which wove a quarter mile down through a wheat field of stubble.
Buck showed Father John how to load his shotgun and then motioned for the minister to wait.
“We need to give Dad a few minutes to get into position.”
Grinning like a carnival hustler, the minister said “Certainly. Why, that will give us some time to visit and get to know each other.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Buck.
“Well, do you think—” began the preacher, but Buck interrupted before he could complete his sentence.
With a calm, quiet voice, he asked, “What’s been going on with you and my sister?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I understand you’ve been having sexual relations with her.”
“Whaat? Why that’s preposterous,” gasped the minister. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Traci and several of her classmates.”
“That’s ridiculous, of course.”
“Then why would they say it?”
The preacher had jumped to his feet, dropping the shotgun, and looked frantically in the direction of Mr. Hanson, who now was out of sight and also out of shouting distance. “How do I know? Your father won’t put up with this nonsense. Your accusations are outrageous.”
Buck slowly moved in front of the minister and, with measured deliberation, shoved three shells into his shotgun. “He’s too far away to hear you.” He paused for the message to sink in, and then said, “I’m going to ask you again, what did you do to Traci?”
Turning paler by the second, the minister struggled to catch his breath and strained to speak in a controlled fashion. “Of course you understand that my counseling relationship with your sister is confidential and I can’t violate that sacred contract.”
“No problem,” said Buck. “I don’t want to know what you said to her. I just wanted to know what you did to her. So, one more time,” he said, raising his shotgun’s barrel in the direction of the preacher, “Did you have sex with her?”
“Now, Buck,” the man stammered, “Teenagers blow things out of proportion. I may have given her a fatherly hug once or twice to comfort her, but no more.”
With a quick, smooth snap, Hanson pumped the shotgun, slamming a shell into the chamber. Pushing in the safety, he repeated, “One last time, ‘Reverend.’ Level with me or I’ll blow your head off.”
“As God is my judge,” the preacher cried, “I did not intend to harm your sister, but I am a man with carnal needs. She needed a guiding hand to introduce her gently into the sexual world that we all know can be so perverse. I was merely her loving guide.”
The shotgun started to shake in Buck’s hands, as he gritted his teeth to help control the anger raging inside him. “So you had sex with her.”
“The way you say it makes it sound so dirty,” sobbed the minister. “Our exchanges did become warm and intimate at times, but they were loving.” Continuing to whine, he clasped his hands together in a prayerful gesture. “As God is my witness, I was helping Traci blend the carnal with the spiritual, so that she would be prepared for heterosexual intimacy.”
Buck knew he was starting to lose it. “Better keep God out of this for the time being, Father John. But just so I’m clear, you admit that you had sexual relations with my sister and she’s 15-years-old.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Buck, how can you put yourself in the seat of judgment? Yes, we celebrated God’s love for us all, by sharing that love together as a man and young woman. But we didn’t commit any crime. The love of God can never be considered sinful.”
“Then you admit it,” growled Buck, “You’re screwing my sister.”
“Alright, alright! I admit it! I have a sexual addiction. So there, I said it. I’m suffering from an illness that renders me vulnerable to sins of the flesh. Yes, I’m weak in the sight of God, but aren’t we all sinners of some kind? Where’s your compassion, young man. I have a disease that cries out for treatment.”
Pulling his hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt, Buck flashed the blade in front of the minister. “I agree. You’ve made some mistakes here, Reverend, that are going to require some serious intervention.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Boughtum cried out. “I praise God that you understand that what I need is counseling to deal with my sexual addiction and carnal compulsions.”
“Not exactly,” said Hanson. “I think you need practice in making better choices. Here’s two choices I’m gonna offer you. For practice. Call them ‘treatment options’ if you’d like. You can drop your drawers, while I take this knife and cut open those two sacs between your legs and drop out your nuts. I’ve done it hundreds of times to bull calves; they don’t bleed hardly at all. Bawl a lot, but not much blood.“ Boughtum’s face contorted in total shock, as he screamed in horror and dropped to his knees. “Or you can be a victim of a hunting accident and have your right hand blown off. That choice will make it tough for you to fondle anybody, boy or girl. The first choice will make poking vulnerable children less addicting.” Father John’s screaming reached panic proportions, as he fell prostrate on the ground and squirmed like a worm being stuck on a hook.
Hanson kicked Boughtum in the side of his ribs and hissed, “Shut the fuck up, Father John, or I’ll make the decision for you. You pick one or the other in ten seconds, or I’m going to do both. Those ten seconds start now. “
* * *
“As a point of interest,” asked Hoffmeister, “How did you avoid being prosecuted?”
“A gentlemen’s agreement. Boughtum didn’t want the word out that he was a child molester and I didn’t want it broadcast that I had gone into business briefly as a sex therapist. We both kept our mouths shut. Oh, the doctors wondered what happened, but Boughtum was already an accomplished liar and spun a yarn I need not go into. But it was a dandy.”
“Hmm, feeling like you don’t need to reveal anything further,” said Shellenberger.
“Roger, that,” said Hanson.
“But, Buck,” pleaded Molinari. “I need to hear the rest of the story.”
Shellenberger put his foot down. “Unfortunately, our time is up.” Watching Molinari’s jaw drop and his eyes harden, he paused and added what he felt was the final therapeutic comment: “You feel you would love to hear more details, although I feel how you feel Buck feels, and further sense regret in having to end this session.” Then he cleared his throat and finished with, “We’ll reconvene next week.”