Cross Dressing by Bill Fitzhugh Page A

do some surgery.”
    “What, like a witch doctor?” Dan leaned in to get a closer look. “Mangy cats leave cleaner scars than that.”
    “It was field surgery, not the Mayo Clinic. I think it’s infected or something. I really need to see a doctor.” He was nervous and full of regret.
    “Don’t you have insurance through the Church?”
    “They canceled it.”
    Dan needed a minute to think. There was no need to tapinto the last few bucks in his checking account if he could come up with a better idea. He stood at the balcony door looking down at the moonlight shimmering on Santa Monica Bay. He wondered why this kind of shit always landed in his lap. First his mother, now this. His family seemed determined to prevent him from getting ahead in this life. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t bail them out every time they got in a bind. Maybe they’d learn to swim. Then again, maybe they’d drown.
    Father Michael had another spasm, causing him to double over. “This isn’t getting any better,” he said. “My jaw really hurts. It’s hard to move.”
    Finally it came to Dan. It was unoriginal, but it had a good chance of working. That, plus the fact that Dan didn’t think he’d get caught, convinced him. He turned around and looked at his brother. “I tell you what,” Dan said. “You probably just need a shot of penicillin or something, right?”
    Father Michael sat up; a sense of hope returned to his voice. “Yeah, probably.”
    Dan nodded agreement. “All right. Let’s go.” They got into Dan’s car and headed for the hospital. On the way, Father Michael felt an odd combination of relief and pain. The relief was understandable given that he knew he was finally going to receive some treatment. Ironically, that allowed Father Michael to acknowledge to himself just how bad the pain was. They arrived at St. Luke’s Hospital and parked near the top of the crowded parking structure. Walking toward the elevators, Dan pulled out his wallet and held it out to his brother. “Here, take this and give me yours,” he said.
    Father Michael looked at Dan’s wallet, a regular serpent in the tree. Then he looked at Dan. “And herein do I exercise myself, to have always a conscience void of offense toward God, and toward men. Acts twenty-four:sixteen.”
    Like the tempting snake’s tongue, Dan wiggled the wallet at his principled brother. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Father, but I believe it was St. Schulberg, in a letter to the Friars, who said, ‘Living with a conscience is like driving with the brakes on.’ ” Dan raised his eyebrows as though he had made an irrefutable point. “Now, take the damn wallet.”
    Father Michael, in a moment of weakness, took it and followed Dan toward the elevator.
    “Okay,” Dan said. “Now, my insurance card’s in front, right by my driver’s license. I think you look enough like the photo. If anyone asks”—Dan rubbed his chin—“tell them you shaved.” They were almost at the elevators when Dan suddenly grabbed his brother and dragged him aside. “Whoa! What the hell am I thinking? Take your clothes off!”
    “What?”
    “You can’t be using my insurance dressed like Father Flanagan.” They ducked between a minivan and a Volvo wagon to change clothes. Dan put on the black shirt and white collar. “C’mon, hurry up,” he insisted. “Take your pants off!”
    “Oh my Lord,” a woman said. She had never witnessed such a sordid scene, though she had heard such things happened.
    With his pants around his ankles, Father Michael looked up and saw the disappointed faces of a Catholic couple in their sixties who were looking for their car. The man put his hands over his wife’s eyes and hurried her away.
    Having inadvertently reinforced the popular stereotype of the aberrant cleric, Dan and Michael finished changing clothes and headed for the emergency room.
    “All right,” Dan said. “This is a piece of cake, yes? No point in feeling guilty until it’s