In the Cool Night Air, in Sweet Summertime

Reverend Epperly, a small, skittish man who could have been a horse jockey had the Lord not called him off first; slight of frame and stature; so finely-formed that his face looked like something molded in the china-doll-head factory; his expression a delicate scowl of concern; his pallor finely-blended in watercolour shades of white and pink; his slim hands plagued year-round by dry, peeling skin.

He had never been married, nor had he shown anything that would be considered a normal, healthy attraction toward an adult of the opposite sex. He seemed in manner like he did in appearance: frail, underdeveloped, ethereal, boyish.

He had, however—if rumours were to be believed— paid an unsettling amount of attention to girls. Teenage girls, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, one even as young as twelve. That was May Hardacre, daughter of the Happy Apple Acres foreman Thomas Hardacre, who himself had caught the reverend peeping in May’s window one spring evening in 1977 while she was changing for bed.

At first Mr. Hardacre had, among the yelling and swearing and fist-slinging, accused the reverend of spying on seventeen-year-old Stephanie. But it came out then that Stephanie had not been in the room at that time, nor for the forty-five minutes beforehand— she was taking a bath. It was just May, alone, and as he watched she shed her woollen jumper, tights, and underclothes, pulling her soft puff of a nightgown over her head before sitting down at the dressing table to brush her hair.

He claimed that he was only walking past the Hardacre house that night when he was drawn over by the sudden spark of light he’d thought might be a flame— the beginnings of a house fire, God forbid— but then, once up close, he saw it was just a flickering bulb. He hadn’t seen May at all, he said. He swore. He hadn’t seen her in her jumper, her underthings, her nightgown, or anything at all.

And even if he wasn’t telling the truth about the (admittedly, flickering) lamp, his overall weak countenance made him seem very likely ineffectual as far as any potential sort of predatory actions went, and so— as it turned out— most people were willing to believe his story for the sake of preserving community bonds. After all, he was the town’s only Anglican priest. And since the Hardacres were Catholics, not Anglicans, they wouldn’t be obligated to defer to him spiritually or otherwise. In fact, the Hardacre family’s lasting disdain— hate, even— for the little reverend following this incident only bolstered their feelings of holy righteousness, their confidence in God’s affirmation of theirs as the one true Church. No one had ever caught Father Gene Novak peeking in windows.

I was an Anglican, unfortunately, so I still had to see Reverend Epperly every Sunday, and even appear to show appreciation for his long, breathy sermons. I was also next-door neighbours with the Hardacres and, for a summer, May and I were best friends.