It was also reasonable to assume that Mitch felt some of the pressure caused by all these people keeping his secrets.
But pressure was coming from other fronts too.
Easter vacation was almost over. Only a couple of days remained before Mitch would have to return to the seminary and complete the final few months of his junior college year. By his lights, he had been making good use of his time. He had dated Beth Yager practically every night. As far as he was concerned, it was time for vacation to end. The excuses he was giving his parents for his nightly absences from home were growing very thin.
In 1949, drive-in theaters were a relatively new phenomenon. But already, in strict moral circles, they were known as “passion pits.” They were just made for the young Carroll Mitchell.
“What’s supposed to be showing here tonight, anyway?” Beth Yager asked.
“Who cares?” Carroll Mitchell answered. “We wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.”
He was correct. The car windows were so fogged over, it was impossible to see out even if either occupant had been interested. The sound track might have provided some clue. But they had not bothered to bring the speaker into the car. There was still a measure of cold in the spring night air, so they had pulled the portable heater in.
Mitchell had the family car. This was taking a bit of a risk; there was always the chance that someone—a neighbor or a fellow parishioner—might recognize the car or the license. But Carroll Mitchell was not above taking chances.
Carroll and Beth were engaged in what was called necking and petting—making out—in that slightly more innocent day. They had been at it for quite a while. So each had probably committed a mortal sin, since, in the traditional version of Catholic theology, sins of the flesh were always serious matter. And mortal sin consisted of serious matter—full knowledge and full consent.
They certainly knew what they were doing and surely had consented. Each would include it in the next confession. As would just about every other Catholic young adult. The priest might be kindly or abrupt. He would assign a penance—an average of about ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Mitch would be sure to omit from his confession that he was a seminarian. To mention that would be to court a long lecture on jeopardizing one’s vocation.
Like a swimmer struggling to the surface, Beth fought her way to a sitting position. “Whew! Let up for a minute, okay?”
With some reluctance, Mitch backed off to his end of the seat. He lit a cigarette, further fogging the windows.
Beth tried to adjust her clothing. Though none of it had been removed, it had been considerably loosened and twisted. “How am I ever going to explain all these wrinkles?”
Mitch exhaled two streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Don’t try.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! I look like I’ve been in a wrestling match. Which is not far from the truth. My folks are going to notice.”
“The idea is not to stand around waiting for them to notice. I’ll get you home as quietly as possible. Go in the side door, head directly for your bedroom, and change before they get a chance to see you.”
Beth shook her head. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? How do you do it?”
“An inventive mind.” He didn’t think it wise to mention that this was by no means the first time he had confronted this problem. It was, after a brief but intense relationship, the first time with Beth.
She looked at him directly, one eyebrow cocked. “Are you sure you want to be a priest?”
He seemed surprised. “Sure. Why not?”
“Won’t the presence of women all over the rectory kind of clutter your image of celibacy?” Beth and most of her friends were well aware of Carroll Mitchell’s reputation as a restrained Casanova. Someone, versed in Latin, had dubbed him Romanticus Interruptus. He would paw and fondle and hug and French, but he would not “go all the way,” as the euphemism had it. The legend grew that if he ever threw caution to the winds, he might just marry that girl.
Mitch chuckled. “Whatever gave you the idea there’d be women in my rectory? Rectories are homes for unmarried fathers, not mothers. And no tunnel to the convent, either.”
“Really! And when is this magic transition going to take place? When they ordain you? And what makes you think you can turn yourself off like a light bulb?”
“I can do it . . . or haven’t you noticed I go just so far and no farther?”
“I know. It’s not natural.”
Mitch smiled. “It’s supernatural.”
“Supernatural! Come on! You mean what we’ve been doing in the back seat of this car tonight is supernatural?”
“Well, preternatural.” In truth, Mitchell had a difficult enough time satisfying his own conscience without trying to explain the rationalization to someone else. “Look, it’s this easy: I don’t know whether I’m going to be a priest or not. I think I want to be. That’s what I’m in the seminary to find out. I’m a little better than halfway down that road. I’ve been in almost seven years. I’ve got five to go.
“If, when I get close, it looks like all the lights are green for the priesthood, I’ll make the supreme sacrifice. Until then, I don’t need to wonder whether I like girls. I love ’em!” He cracked the window open and flicked his cigarette out, then grinned and reached for her. “But enough talk. I’m getting lonesome.”
“Hold it!” It was Beth’s turn to light a cigarette. “There’s more to it than this, you know.”
“What?”
“One-night stands.”
“Wait a minute! I’m not like that. I don’t do that kind of thing.”
It was true. Although he had been close to many girls, he had never been the one to put an end to any of the affairs. In each case, the girl became convinced that the relationship was dead-end and had nowhere to go. Of course, Mitch had never done anything to prove them wrong.
“I don’t mean ‘one-night stands’ literally. I mean all these wrestling matches in confined places like the back seat of a car.”
“Well, excuse me if I can’t afford a limousine.”
“I don’t mean a limousine.”
“Then what?”
“A bed.”
Panic seized him. “A bed!”
“Yes. You know: a long, soft thing where you can stretch out and be comfortable instead of being twisted up like a pretzel.”
He couldn’t put his finger on it. Somehow the back seat of a car meant a momentary fling while a bed conveyed the idea of a commitment. Permanence. Marriage.
He sat bolt upright. He’d been challenged. All thought of resumption of necking and petting was wiped away. This had to be settled first. “Well, you know, Beth, this isn’t as easy as saying, ‘Your place or mine?’ Our parents would not be nuts about the idea of us going to bed.”
“There are other beds.”
“Can you afford a motel? I can’t.”
“How about where you live?”
“I told you—”
“I mean the seminary.”
“The seminary! You must be out of your—”
“They’ve got beds there.”
“Of course they’ve got beds there. They just don’t allow women in them.”
“Why not be a pioneer? Be the first to have a room with a girl instead of a room with a view.”
“That’s impossible. The place is packed with men. How would you get in there? How could I get you past the guys on duty? There are some rules I can get away with breaking. But this! I’d be out on my ear in a minute.”
“Impossible? For you? Afraid to take the chance?”
Afraid to take the chance? Now, there was a gauntlet. His mind raced. Was there a chance in a million of pulling this off? There were many more doors besides the front door. There was the matter of time and timing. The best time of day or night and gauging the amount of time it would take to get from here to there and from there to there. With some cooperation and a barrel of luck, a guy might just pull it off.