The Reality Conspiracy by Joseph A. Citro Page A

right with you?"
    "Oh yes, yes of course. It would be a great privilege—"
    "Privilege nothing. I think, Doctor, that we may be on to something rather disturbing here. Look, I wonder If I can talk you into delaying your return trip to Burlington for an hour or so. I'd like to get some things together and ride up with you, that is if you don't mind a hitchhiker. We'll have plenty of time to talk in the car. Then I can catch a flight back."
    "Yes, certainly, of course."
    "I'll need an hour and a half, max. That'll give me time to make some arrangements and get a few things cleared up before I leave."
    "Okay, sure."
    "Can you pick me up at my office?"
    "Just tell me when."
    "Shall we make it one o'clock?"
    "One o'clock it is. Thanks for calling. Oh, Dr. Gudhausen—"
    But he had already hung up.
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    Montreal, Quebec
    T he brasserie on Maisonneuve was quiet and dark at midday. As they entered, the two priests attracted surprised glances and pleasant greetings. "Hello, Father," the bartender said directly to Sullivan.
    "How do they know to speak to me in English?"
    LeClair smiled mysteriously. "We can just tell."
    They sat down at a table and gave their orders to a buxom young waitress in a white peasant blouse.
    Father Sullivan had polished off three Molson ales before he finished his thick smoked meat sandwich. LeClair drank sparkling cider and picked at his poutine , a platter of french fries swimming in brown gravy and melted cheese. Little swirls of steam rose from the potatoes.
    "Food was always my undoing," Sullivan said after rinsing his mouth with ale. "I was always a little fat kid. At the orphanage, St. Luke's—gosh, I must have been fourteen, fifteen years old at the time—they wouldn't exempt me from physical education in spite of my weight and my asthma. And, man, I hated to go to that gymnasium, not because of Father Mosely—he was the coach—but because of the other kids. They made fun of me." Sullivan chuckled sadly as he remembered. "When Father wasn't looking they'd pull down my shorts, or snap me on the ass with a wet towel. Then they'd remind me to turn the other cheek. After a while I refused to shower at all. Father would overlook this little breech of protocol and let me go directly back to class, drenched with sweat. Then they'd make fun of my smell'. 'Do you smell bacon frying?' they'd say."
    LeClair half smiled. "Children are such . . . savages, but I've always thought the little Catholic children were the worst of all. Little demons. Horrible little sadists."
    "You can imagine what my self-image was like. I remember one time when physical education was the last class of the day. We all had to do ten chin-ups before we were permitted to leave. The meanest kids, of course, were also the strongest—it must be some kind of natural law—they'd do their chin-ups and get out. But there were enough kids left over to give me plenty of guff.
    "After a monumental effort—a small miracle, really—I had just two chin-ups to go. Just two. I'll never forget it. After the eighth, my arms felt like they were going to stretch and rip apart; my shoulders hurt like hell. I pulled and pulled, grunting all the time. Kids were cheering and laughing. Someone oinked every time I grunted. Sweat just pumped out of me in buckets. Finally, I hung there like a fat apple on a limb, almost ready to drop. 'I can't do it, Father,' I said. I think I was crying but no one could tell because I was sweating more. 'Please, Father, I can't.' I was begging, actually begging; I remember every humiliating syllable. All I wanted to do was give up and get out and hide forever. I was terrified that I couldn't hold on much longer and I knew if I lost my grip and fell I'd be even more of a laughingstock. So I was trying to get Father Mosely to excuse me. I wanted him to let me off the hook, comfort me. I wanted him to say, 'It's all right, Billy.' But he wouldn't; he'd have no part of it.
    "He said, 'You can