43. A PRIEST WALKS INTO A BROTHEL…
A PRIEST WALKS INTO A brOTHEL…
FATHER CYRUS
Istood in the vestibule of the church, my hands clasped tightly in front of me, my thoughts a swirl of confusion, anger, and fear.
I’d spent most of the sermon fighting the urge to step forward and stop Father Frederick, to call him out for the venom he was spewing.
But I hadn’t, at least, not like I should have, and now my guilt weighed heavily on me.
The sermon had been one of the most dangerous I’d ever heard.
Father Frederick, with his fire-and-brimstone rhetoric, had transformed the pulpit into a weapon.
He’d painted a grotesque portrait of the brothel, Bernadette’s establishment, and its inhabitants.
He’d accused them of being agents of the devil himself, poisoning the town from within.
The people, their hearts and minds primed by Father Frederick’s own emotion, had swallowed the lies whole.
They were angry, they were scared, and now, with the preacher’s words still buzzing in their heads, they wanted blood.
I looked around, my eyes scanning across faces that now seemed unfamiliar, hardened by fear, fueled by the poison of Father Frederick’s sermon.
These were not the people I had mentored, counseled, and prayed with.
They had taken Father Frederick’s sermon as gospel, and I knew that nothing I said would change their minds.
They will come for her, I realized. They will come for all of them.
My heart hammered in my chest as I made my decision.
I turned sharply on my heel and exited through the back door of St. Ann’s, a singular purpose guiding my every step.
The town felt different now. People moved in groups, eyes darting nervously, as if waiting for something to happen, as if the storm Father Frederick had promised was already on its way.
I quickened my pace.
The brothel wasn’t far, only a few blocks down from the church, but every step felt like an eternity.
The buildings in Butte were old, weathered by time and neglect, but The Oily Cat stood out among them all.
It was a place of sin, they said, but to me it was a place of survival.
A place where women, broken and cast aside by the world, had built a life.
A place where they fought back, day after day, against a world eager to forget them.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, the warm scent of whiskey, perfume, and tobacco flooding my senses.
I inhaled deeply, forcing myself to stay focused.
As I moved further inside, my eyes scanned the room, my heart breaking over the sadness of the situation.
The bar sat quiet and empty in the dim light, and there, at the far end of the room, I finally located Bernadette.
She was seated with Violet and Maeve, posture straight, eyes glowing with a mesmerizing intensity that made it impossible to look away.
She was speaking quietly to the other women, her voice low.
She exuded a quiet strength, and in that moment, I could see it: the woman who had endured so much, and yet, remained unbroken.
I approached, aware of the eyes turning toward me.
Bernadette looked up, eyes locking with mine, and for the briefest moment I saw something rare in her expression: uncertainty.
She knew something was wrong, and my unexpected presence in this place would have been telling even if she hadn’t sensed it.
“Father?” Her voice was full of concern. “What’s happened?”
I gripped the back of a chair, grounding myself.
“Bernadette,” I began, my voice urgent, “I’ve just come from St. Ann’s.
The sermon . . . it was worse than I feared.
Father Frederick, he’s incited something.
The people . . .” I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat.
“They believe him, and they’re angry and frightened.
And now . . . they’ve turned against you. ”
Her face didn’t change, but a cold resolve settled in her eyes. “What exactly did he say?”
I hesitated, gathering my words. “He’s convinced them that your brothel, your girls, your place here, is the root of all the town’s moral decay. Said you were poisoning Butte. He demanded your destruction.”
Bernadette’s eyes stayed fixed. “What does that mean? What are they going to do?”
My voice dropped to a near whisper. “They’re coming, Bernadette. They’ve been stirred into a frenzy, and they won’t stop until this place, everything you’ve built, is gone.”
Something passed across her expression, fury, maybe, or something colder.
But what settled there was determination.
“I won’t leave,” she said. “I’ve fought too hard, for too long.
This is my home. If they want a war, they’ll get one.
But I’ll fight every last one of them before I let them take this from me. ”
I opened my mouth to protest, to try to convince her to leave, but Violet cut me off with a quick wave of her hand. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, but there was no fear in them. “Father,” she said firmly, “you’re wasting your time. Birdie doesn’t run. She never has, and she never will.”
I stared at her, my mind spinning. I was a man of God, sworn to peace and compassion, and here I was, begging a woman who had survived hell not to stand her ground.
I had never felt so powerless. “I wish I could do more,” I said, voice hoarse, “but if you stay, Bernadette, it will get worse. They’ll burn it all down. ”
For a moment, Bernadette’s fierce exterior faltered. She stepped closer to me, placing a hand on my arm, an unexpected gesture. “I can’t leave, Father,” she said quietly. “This is my fight. And if they mean to destroy me, they’ll have to face me first.”
I nodded, though the gesture felt hollow. My heart ached for her, for them all. I had known Bernadette for years, but only now did I truly understand what she had endured, and what she was willing to sacrifice.
“I’ll pray for you,” I said, barely holding it together. “For all of you. Just . . . be careful.”
I stepped out of the brothel and into the streets, a pit opening in my stomach, the pain in my chest deeper than fear.
It was grief. Grief for what Butte had been.
Grief for what it was about to become. And guilt.
Painful, inescapable guilt over the fact that I had not spoken louder, not fought harder.
Butte was no longer the caring town I had loved; it had become a battleground.
And the first shot had been fired.