Lucifer's Lottery

and that includes the world of women. If you don’t, you’ll probably quit in ten or twenty years. It doesn’t do God any good to have priests that quit when they start feeling that they’ve missed out. It’s the same things with the nuns—good Lord. I’ve been around a while so I know what I’m talking about.”

Before the notion to ask even occurred consciously, Hudson began, “Monsignor, did you ever . . .”

The old man lurched forward in his chair. “Did I ever break my vow of celibacy? Are you being audacious enough to ask me that? Me?”

“I-I-I,” Hudson bumbled. “Not audacious, sir. But . . .”

“Fine. It’s an honest answer. God needs priests with balls, too.”

Hudson’s brow shot up.

“No, I never broke my vow of celibacy, and I’ve been a priest for almost seventy years.” The monsignor’s gaze sharpened to pinpoints on Hudson. “But I’ll tell you this. I almost did many times, but in the end, I resisted.”

“That’s . . . probably easier said than done.”

“Nope. I asked God to take the burden of my temptations off of my shoulder and onto his. And he did. He always does”—very quickly, the Monsignor pointed—“if you have faith.”

“I have faith, Monsignor.”

“Of course you do, but you’re also full of idealism—you’re too young to know what you’re talking about.” The old smile leveled on Hudson. “I’ll bet you don’t even masturbate—”

Hudson didn’t, but he blushed.

“I won’t ask if you do or you don’t, but know this, young man. There’ll be none of that shit after you’re a priest.”

Hudson had to laugh.

“All I’m saying is it’s reasonable in God’s eyes to get all of that out of your system before you take your true vows. That’s why I won’t give you a referral until you’ve gone out into the world for a year or so. You see, if I recommend you to a seminary, what I’m really doing is recommending you to God. Don’t make a monkey out of me in front of God.”

This guy’s a trip, Hudson thought. “I understand, sir.”

“Good, so where are you going?”

Hudson drew on a long breath. “Florida, I think. I grew up in Maryland, where I learned to shuck oysters. I could get a job doing that.”

“Good, a real-world job, like I’ve been saying.”

“A friend of mine lives down there now. We were acolytes together.”

The old priest’s eyes widened. “Is he in the vocation?”

Hudson chuckled. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. He’s, I guess, lost his faith, but—”

“Excellent. You can help him find it again while you’re shucking oysters in Florida and experiencing real life. The real world, Hudson. You need to know it before you can be a priest.”

“Yes, sir.”

The monsignor looked at his watch. “I have a golf match now. Make sure you clean all the windows in the chancellery today. Then you can take off. Go to Florida, live amongst the other people. Then come back in a year or so and I’ll get you into any seminary you want.”

“Thank you, Monsignor.” Hudson kissed the old man’s ring as he reached for his golf bag . . .

That was the dream. Hudson awoke late, slightly hung-over. He supposed a soon-to-be seminarist getting half drunk was easily more pardonable than soliciting hookers. He was proud of himself for resisting the temptation last night, but then . . .

Pride’s a sin, too.

Had it really been resistance, had it really been faith? Had passing up the prostitutes to help a poor woman really been a good deed? Or was it just guilt?

He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

He had very little money right now, especially after emptying his wallet to the poor mother last night. And he’d been let go at the Oyster House several days ago due to a recession-induced lull in local tourism. It didn’t matter, though; he’d be leaving for the seminary in Jersey in less than a week, and he could always get a meal at the church where he helped out with lay duties. He had to go there today, as a matter of fact, to help Father Darren prep for the late service. God will provide, he thought, and believed it. But still . . .

It would be nice to have a little cash for his remaining days in town.

Hudson grimaced when a knock resounded at the door.

Oh, for pity’s sake . . . It had to be somebody selling something. No one else ever knocked on Hudson’s door. He pulled on his robe inside out.

“Look, whatever it is you’re selling,” he preempted when he opened the front door, “I’m flat broke—” But the rest was severed when he looked at his caller.

An attractive but blank-faced woman stood without. The cause of Hudson’s jolt was her attire: a long black surplice and, of all things, a Roman collar. A female minister? he hazarded. Must be asking for donations—He could’ve laughed. Lady, you picked the WRONG door to knock on today!

Her blonde hair had been pulled back; her eyes were an odd dull blue. She was in her forties but striking: shapely, ample bosomed. A stout wooden cross hung about her neck.

“Are you Hudson Hudson?” the woman asked in the driest tone.

“Yes, and I’d love to give a donation but I’m afraid—”

“My name is Deaconess Wilson.” She stared as she spoke, as if on tranquilizers.

“I’m sorry . . . Deaconess, but I don’t have any money—”

“I’m here to tell you that you’ve won the Senary,” she said.

Hudson stalled. “The what?”

She handed him a nine-by-six manila envelope. “May I . . . come in, Mr. Hudson?”

Hudson winced. “I’d rather you didn’t, the place is a—” He looked at the envelope. “What is this?”

“It . . . would be easier if I told you inside . . .”

He stepped back. Obviously she was Protestant. “All right, but just for a minute. I’m very busy,” he lied.

She entered slowly as if unsure of her footing. Hudson closed the door. “Now what’s this? I’ve won the what?”

She turned and stood perfectly still. It occurred to Hudson now that whenever she spoke, she seemed to falter, as if either she didn’t know what to say or she was resisting something.

“The Senary,” she said in that low monotone. “It’s like . . . a lottery.”

“Well I never signed up for any Senary, and I never bought a ticket.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to . . . do is be born.” She blinked. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that you’re the twelfth person to win the Senary. Ever. In all of history.”

“Oh, you’re with one of those apocalyptic religious sects—”

“No, no.” The deaconess ground her teeth. “I’m just . . . the messenger, so to speak.” Then she flinched and shook her head. “I’m-I’m . . . not sure what I’m supposed to say . . .”

Crazy, Hudson thought, a little scared now. Mental patient with some religious delusion. Probably just escaped from a hospital.

She groaned. “You see, every . . . six hundred . . . and sixty-six . . . years, someone wins the Senary. This . . . time it’s . . . you.”

She reminded Hudson of a faulty robot, experiencing minor short circuits. Several times her hands rose up, then lowered. She’d shrug one shoulder for no reason, wince off to one side, flinch, raise a foot, then put it back down. And again he had the impression that some aspect of her volition was resisting an unbidden impulse when her hands struggled to rise again.

Shaking, they stopped at the top button of her surplice. Then, as if palsied, her fingers began to unfasten the buttons.

Her words faltered. “Ssssssss-atan fell from Heaven in 5318 BC. The ffffffffff-irst Senary was held in 4652 BC.