Tales From Father Parsley’s Parish

ONE

Clacton was a good town. It was small, after all. At least, that is what the people of Clacton told themselves and each other. It was easy to tell each other this, as they all knew each other and their histories and dramas well. Rumor has it that if you go into Clacton Library and find a dictionary, “privacy” is hidden beneath scribbles—everyone knows that the rumor spread very quickly. Of course there was the doctor and the priest which had their discretion, but even still, Father Parsley’s confession booth is rather porous and Doctor Glint’s walls resemble closely Father Parsley’s wafers. A life in Clackton was a life in the thick of the public eye.

Father Parsley was perhaps the most visible and the most perceptive. Father Parsley was a good man. He was a pastor, after all. It would be a lot of pressure for a less Godly man, or maybe just a less liked man, but Father Parsley was revered and adored. A charmer, they called him. He knew this and it felt right to him. He would think to himself aloud mid-sermon:“Well, everybody loves parsley… thank gosh, I’m not Father Cilantro!” The less discerning members thought this was written in the Bible, which only made him more majestic.

One day, Amadeus, an orange squiggly fella with floppy ears that end a few inches below her head, came home to her mother, Avignon. Amadeus’ face was adorned with the sincerest joy and her ears were in a high ponytail with a bright pink scrunchie.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

“What is it, Amadeus?”

“Look at this scrunchie I got at the mall!”

“Amadeus, you were supposed to be at confession with Father Parsley,” Avignon said with blunt force.

Avignon sometimes worried Amadeus was a bad child. Amadeus sometimes worried this, too. But right now she felt beautiful in her scrunchie, and she does not often feel beautiful like that. Every once in a while, she wants to feel special, and she wanted her mom to give her that.

“Mom, Father Parsley is no fun. The mall is so fun.”

“Father Parsley is the spice of life in this town.”

“Herb.”

“Not when dried.”

“Mom, he always looks like he was, until very recently, sopping wet.”

“Hyperhidrosis is real.”

Avignon was growing bitter with each word spit out. Amadeus was becoming sadder with each rebuttal. She did not care that damp was dry enough for Father Parsley. She just wanted to hear her mom say, “and you look beautiful in your new scrunchie.” She swallowed her tears and felt a rose opening in her throat. She felt her wobbly legs twitching with each tick on their Father Parsley Original clock. Amadeus remembered something she read on a sign once: “Fuck your feelings.” She decided then that she would win this argument, however she could. Fuck her feelings, they would not get what they needed anyway.

“I had nothing to confess anyway. Now I do. I skipped confession and went to the mall so that I did not waste Father Parsley’s Precious Time (TM Pending). Now when I go, I can say: 

“Father Parsley, bless me for I have sinned. I went to the mall instead of confession. I got a wonderful scrunchie that brings out my eyes, but at what spiritual cost? Help me, Father, help me, please!”

“Amadeus, you are the most sinful creature I know. You could confess a million things every day and not get it all off your chest.”

Amadeus knew sinful meant bad to Avignon. Her mom thought she was bad. What could be worse?

“Mom, I had to go to the mall.”

“Why?”

“It was for Make-a-Wish. One of the kids said their last wish was for me to go to the mall and get a scrunchie.”

“Dr. Spock never prepared me for my child lying about kids with cancer. That is truly heinous.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Yes, and I am staging for The French Laundry. We can all say things.”

“I swear.”

“What was the kid’s name?”

“It was… H something… Humbert Humbert. Wait, no it was Hippa.”

“Can you tell me one thing that is true?”

“Can you tell me I look pretty?”

Avignon and Amadeus really only wanted answers to those questions, the rest was filler. Unfortunately, those were the two questions neither could answer.

The air was heavy enough to choke on, and the silence was loud enough to burst an ear drum. Then the town chatter began. The tale of the liar and her mother, of the scrunchie mistaken for a rosary, of the woman who single-handedly raised a blasphemer sinner antichrist. Then the rumors swirled as they often did. Each one competing with the others until the last few remain and become accepted as truths.

In the town canon it is said that Avignon could not tell Amadeus she looked beautiful, because Amadeus looked like her, and she was never able to say those words in a mirror. Amadeus could not tell Avignon one thing that is true, because if she did and her mother judged her for it, she would know that her mom was judging the “real” her, not the persona she made to protect herself.

Avignon and Amadeus were a good family. They were doing their best, after all.

***

TWO

When Slink was young, he dreamed of living in the fish tank section of Petsmart. “Oh, it is so fun to look at them there, how fun it must be to live in there,” he thought. But what is there to do when you are born a mammal who wishes to be a fish. Of course there is the obvious answer, that is, to sleep with the fishes. This is what his teachers told him to do.

Slink wasn’t all that familiar with “mafia talk,” as it were, and he did not yet know what it meant to sleep with the fishes. He was only 11 years old, after all. Still, he did his best. He put on his rubberiest clothes and went to the creek where he lied down until the dark sky slowly turned to reds and oranges. When he awoke he was no different, with the exception of his shriveled hands.

So he decided to do what Father Parsley had always told him to do.

“Slink, you must hope and pray and dream every day. Your relationship with God is not transactional. You cannot give a to do list and expect it to be done, but you can build trust and godliness that just might make God grant your wishes.”

This sucked!

(In Slink’s opinion.)

Nevertheless he did it. Each night he would sit on the edge of his bed, interlock his fingers and say something like:

“Dear God, every once in a while, I go to Petsmart and I look at all of those fish, and I confess I am filled with jealousy. I am no better than a fool who covets his neighbor’s wife, only for me, I covet the home of aquatic creatures. I am embarrassed but I tell only the truth.”

Days would pass and still no gills developed in his neck or wherever they would go on a human.

“God, it’s me again, Slink, the fish boy. I just want to be a fish. I do not want much else in this life. Luxury? No, only in the form of a tank with some other fish. Money? No need for a fish like me, hopefully someday, at least. The Smiths? Far too sad and, frankly, I can’t stand Morrissey one bit. I long for the days that I can swim in a school and feel at home.”

When Slink opened his eyes after his prayer, he had hoped that this time would be different and he would look on his arms and see scales. It wasn’t so. Reluctantly, Slink went to sleep and hoped that at least in his dreams, he would be a fish. It was so.

The dream was beautiful. Slink’s tail swished in the water, flowing and rippling behind him. He swam in circles and lines and zig zags and all of the sort.

It was simple. It was what he wanted. It was perfect.

And it was too good to be true. For when Slink went to sleep, he was indeed turning into a fish. In his deep slumber, he grew fins and scales and gills and all such things. But a fish needs water to live, and Slink did not sleep with the fishes anymore. He did wake, about half way through his dry thrashing, but he could make no sound.

He tried to yell, “glug glug glug bubble bubble.”

But you need water for that.

And this is how Slink died.

***

THREE

Benedictine did not understand why everyone assumed she was religious. She grew up listening to Father Parsley, but, frankly, she did not get it. None of the bible or the church made any sense to her. She could have guessed fifty times and still spelled “Psalms” wrong; she had always been taught blood was thicker than water but the blood of Christ was runnier than Usain Bolt; Father Parsley always said “God heals all,” but she had interstitial cystitis and arthritis that never went away. 

Still, any time she introduced herself in a class, people thought she believed in God. One time it was that icebreaker that goes: “Say an adjective that starts with the first letter of your name, and your name. For example: Awesome Abigail!” Benedictine just said what came to her first, which happened to be “Blessed Benedectine.” It seemed accurate, as she was so optimistic and grateful for her life. And yes, it was at divinity school, but it just happened to give her the biggest scholarship! Benedictine didn’t need to have God’s omniscience to see the best economical decision. 

It did not matter: no one saw her as the nation’s brightest financial mind, most did not even see her as being in the top ten. They saw her as one thing: devout. Benedictine would mutter to herself, “Why? Why, God, do they think this of me? Even if I was devout, I do not want to belong to any Church or building that is supposedly closer to God than nature.”

One day, Father Parsley overheard her mumbles and grumbles. 

“Oh, but Benedictine, you must believe! It is in your name.”

Benedictine appreciated Father Parsley for saying what everyone clearly thought about her aloud, but she resented it, too. She did not choose her name, it was bequeathed unto her. 

“Mom and Dad gave me this name.”

“So what? You were chosen, even if only by your parents!”

The truth was that Benedictine was not even an atheist, she just did not want people to tell her what she believed. She wanted to decide for herself. To others, God was everything. To her, it was a burden. Something or someone she had to revere and impress. She eventually began talking about her relationship with God, and her divinity school classmates were rather put off by her. 

Soon, Benedictine thought she might have to drop out of school. She used to love school, but now it felt like an imposition, and a hostile one at that. Benedictine wanted to rediscover her love of learning, so she went to her old school, St. Agatha’s, and sat on the playground. It must have been recess, because kids were running about like little Energizer bunnies. One walked up to her, a young girl with an objectively bad haircut. 

“You are sad.”

“No, no. I’m not sad. I’m Benedictine. But I may be a bit lost, too.”

“Benedictine is pretty. I’m always a little lost. They say God will find me someday, but I don’t know. God is just a four-legged friend to me.”

Benedictine thought this was beautiful, and did not know that this little girl was just dyslexic.