Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (classic literature list .txt) 📗

eat. In the meantime, make yourself at home.” The old man retreated out of the den and around the corner.

Maureen could hear him humming in the kitchen, along with the periodic sound of hissing and sizzling. She resisted the urge to walk over to the door and watch him work. She’d never heard of lumpia before and wondered what it was and if she would even like it. Instead, however, she grabbed a piece of bread from the table, filled her glass up, went over to the bookshelf, and began to stare at the titles, wondering what kind of books a Catholic priest kept in his home. She expected nothing but religious and Christian titles to fill the shelves. There were some of these, of course, gathered together on the very corner of the top shelf, almost out of eyeline. The more accessible shelves were filled with history books and even some works of fiction. Maureen traced her finger over the titles. A Comprehensive History of French Indochina. 1968: The Year the War Was Lost. Kamikaze: The Divine Wind. The Tao Te Ching. Miyamoto Musashi and the Book of Five Rings. The Art of Happiness.

It struck Maureen as an oddity that a man like Father Patrick had shelves full of books on Eastern thought and history. The Catholic religion, as she understood it, was supposed to look down on things like that. But then again, she could see from the start that the priest was in no way like most of the other men of God that she had known. It was probably for that reason that she had even agreed to this dinner with him. She had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that the evening would eventually turn into another one of his attempted therapy sessions.

She was staring at the section of the bookshelf that contained Father Patrick’s fantasy novel collection, many written by novelists that she actually recognized, when the priest returned, carrying a platter of golden brown rolls. They looked to Maureen like the egg rolls that she was familiar with from Chinese takeout, only thinner. The smell of their fried shells filled her nose.

Father Patrick set the platter on the table and motioned to Maureen that she should sit down. She eased herself into the leather chair opposite him. He smiled, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. Maureen placed her hands in her lap and tried to be polite. She kept her eyes on the priest as he intoned the blessing.

“We thank you, O merciful Father, for the gifts of food we are about to receive. May it nourish our bodies as your Holy Spirit nourishes our souls. In the name of Christ Jesus, our Lord. Amen.”

Father Patrick crossed himself and opened his eyes. He picked up the platter of food and held it out to Maureen. She gingerly picked one of the rolls from the top of the pile. The priest nodded and kept the food in front of her, encouraging her to take more. Maureen obliged and took three more. Father Patrick placed three rolls on his own plate, put down the platter, and picked up his martini. He held it out to her for a toast.

“I want to thank you for having dinner with me,” he said. “I know it’s something that’s a bit outside your comfort zone.”

Maureen raised her glass in a toast, took a sip, and took a bite of one of the rolls. It really did taste like an egg roll, only the vegetables inside were crisper, the meat—whatever it was—was juicier, and the shell was thinner. She took another big bite and looked up at Father Patrick. The old man was looking at her with an amused look on his face, holding a knife and fork, having cut his own roll into bite-size pieces. Maureen covered her mouth in embarrassment, but the priest let out a short chuckle, put down his silverware, picked up a roll, and stuffed it into his mouth.

“I appreciate the trouble you went through to make dinner,” she said, swallowing her food, “but I’m not sure where you’re expecting this night to end.”

“Oh, my dear,” he replied, shaking his head, “I’ve been celibate for nearly thirty years.”

“Have you ever had sex?”

“I wasn’t always a priest.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” he said and took another sip of his drink, casting his eyes to the side.

“I hope she was special,” she said, trying to cut the tension.

“Oh, she was,” he said warmly. “But that was another life.”

Maureen knew she shouldn’t pry any further. She reached out, grabbed two more rolls from the platter, and took a bite of one before setting them on her plate.

“So what were you before?” she asked, trying to appear casual.

She swallowed her food and took another sip of her drink. The scotch was getting low in her glass again, and she began to wonder how appropriate it might be to get up and pour herself more so early in the meal. There was no need, it turned out. Father Patrick seemed to sense her thoughts. He wiped his face with his napkin and went to the drink cart, retrieved the decanter of scotch, and filled her glass. Maureen couldn’t tell if he was being polite or didn’t want to answer her question.

“You said you weren’t always a priest,” she said, deciding that she really wanted to know, “so what were you before?”

Father Patrick sat down in his chair and sighed. “To tell the whole story would take a very long time, so I’ll give you the short version. After high school, I was in the military, serving my country in Vietnam. It was those experiences that woke me to the evils of this world and made me decide that becoming a priest and serving God and my fellow man would be my life’s work from then on.”

Maureen hadn’t expected that to be the answer. She had pictured him as a college-educated man, maybe the president of a