By Kathryn Ptacek
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Additional info for Shadoweyes
If he had a drink, he'd be okay. He'd be steady enough. Yeah, that would do it. Just one drink. He wiped his hands on his jeans. His fingers plucked at the grey sweatshirt. "God," he asked quietly, "where are you? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave my mother? " The tears fell freely, soaking his shirt. Why wouldn't God answer? Why was He so reticent? He thought, in the past, that he had heard God answer him. But perhaps that had been delusion. A religious delusion. Part of his vocation. Vocation?
He'd almost choked, and the girl with him had laughed. So he'd never done it again. He guessed he just wasn't as macho as Trini. Somewhere a girl squealed and Timmy looked around, saw the flash of tan buttocks on one of the blankets. He licked his lips and kept watching as the couple wrestled back and forth. Then her hips were moving fast. Still, he couldn't take his eyes away. His hand strayed to the zipper of his jeans, but at that moment he saw Ned looking at him. He stuck his fingers in his belt instead and concentrated on the car.
Vocation? A joke. He had no vocation. He'd chosen the Church because he was scared of life, scared of the prospect of having to look for a job in the real world, scared of sex. Unlike many of his brethren, he was still a virgin. He had touched neither man nor woman, nor did he intend to. But he had touched the bottle. That had been his downfall. Intemperance. He remembered reading about Carry Nation and her axe-wielding forays into the saloons of a century before, and smiled. He heard a bird trilling somewhere in the trees; it was a pleasant sound.