The phone woke me up at 1:17 a.m. Phone calls that time of night always sent a chill up my spine. They were never good news.

“Bishop Soto?” A female voice rattled over the other end of the line.

“Yes?”

“This is Kay Long. I’m sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Yes, Kay. How can I help?” I made sure to sound more awake than I was.

Kay prattled on, and I could hear the worry in her voice.

“It’s George. He’s gone off the wagon again. Down on Bourbon Street, and I can’t get him to come home. I’d go after him myself, but I can’t leave the twins, and I can’t put them in a stroller and go get him. Not down at the strip clubs.”

“True.” That wasn’t a practical solution. Mrs. Long had twins who were going on about six months old now. Her husband had been attending AA meetings at the church semi-regularly. He’d been trying.

Rain pinged steadily on the roof, and I really didn’t feel like getting out of bed and heading down to the French Quarter. “Don’t you think he’ll catch a cab when he’s ready to come home?”

“Maybe, but I’m afraid he’ll get locked up, like last time. And I can’t afford the bail money. Not with all these diapers and formula. Can you please help me?”

I held the phone out and sighed. “Want me to go looking for him?”

“I hate to ask, but yes. Unless you can think of another way to get him home without an incident.”

I couldn’t. “I’ll see what I can do. Do you recall the name of a few of his favorite places?”

“Maybe check the Booby Trap or the Leopard Lounge. George likes all those titty bars. I’m sorry Father. I can’t imagine that you’d know much about those types of places.”

I smiled. Mrs. Long would be shocked to learn some of the things I knew about.

“I’ll do my best to bring him home, Kay. You just sit tight, and I’ll call you when I find him.”

It wasn’t my job to round up drunks, but Kay had been the church secretary for years before she’d had the twins, and well, she was important to me. Because of that, I tried to maintain a charitable opinion of her husband George, but honestly the man was a piece of crap. He’d gone on a couple of benders since the twins were born, and I felt bad for Kay. Dealing with two babies must be hard enough without a husband who kept abandoning her for the bottle.

I guess he tried to stay sober, but the man was weak. The stress of fatherhood and its accompanying responsibilities were taking a serious toll on him, and apparently, the only way he knew to cope was through substance abuse.

Before I fell back asleep, I forced myself upright with a grumble, threw on a pair of jeans, a shirt with a clerical collar, and my shoes before grabbing my keys and heading for the car. It was drizzling out, the streets were wet, and the night was quiet until I got closer to the French Quarter. Then things grew livelier with people milling around. Jazz music wafted into the street under the brightly colored neon signs that differentiated one establishment from the next. Partiers stumbled along the sidewalks, a few singing, a couple holding hands, one man passed out on the corner up against the concrete wall.

This side of New Orleans was the side I associated more with tourists than with my usual day-to-day existence. I’d been a reverend at St. John’s for five years, and most of the times I’d been down to the Quarter had been to eat at one of the highly acclaimed restaurants there.

I parked my car on one end of Bourbon in a loading zone and said a quick prayer that number one I would find George quickly, and number two that my car wouldn’t be towed while I was gone.

Walking down the sidewalk, I got a couple of strange looks when passersby noticed my collar, but for the most part, people were too caught up in their own lives to be wondering what a priest was doing creeping around Bourbon street at two in the morning.

At each club I passed, I peeked my head in the door, or looked through the window, looking not for a glimpse of flesh, but for Kay’s wayward husband. The poor woman kept a stiff upper lip, but I knew deep down she was scared that her marriage was falling apart. Just last week she’d asked me about couple’s counseling. She was such a good woman, one who certainly deserved better.

But in my experience people frequently didn’t get what they deserved, not in this life. My faith told me women like Kay would realize their reward in heaven. Some days I believed that wholeheartedly. Some days it seemed like a pie in the sky platitude as empty as George’s promises to stay sober.

At the third bar I passed, I thought I saw through the window a man who resembled George. Same thinning bald spot in the back, a purple T-shirt that likely sported an LSU logo since that was the school George and almost everyone else in Louisiana supported. I made my way inside, only to be stopped by a burly guy with a beard. “There’s a cover, Padre,” he said.

I nodded and paid the ten dollars required to enter, all the while cursing George Long a blue streak in my head.

In my peripheral vision, I was aware that there were women on stage—naked ones, grinding against poles—but I made a conscious effort not to look at them. Instead I focused my attention on the man who thankfully did turn out to be George. He was sitting at the edge of the stage, bleary-eyed, and talking to a dancer, who was basically ignoring him while shoving her G-string in his face.

Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I bent to yell over the music in his ear, “George, Kay called me. I need to get you home.”

He stared up at me through glazed eyes. “Not yet.” Then he signaled for the nearest cocktail waitress, and I wasn’t sure he even understood who I was, he was so drunk.

A pretty dark-haired girl wearing what the kids called “booty shorts” and a bikini-style top came over. “What can I get you?” she asked George, but her gaze swept over me as well.

“I’m fine,” I told her, and gave George a pointed look. “I just came to bring him home.”

Her mouth formed an O shape, and I could tell she got my meaning. “Let me just get your tab, sir.”

George held his hand up in protest, but before he could get the words out, he leaned over and vomited on the floor. I managed to dodge most of it, but some of his stomach contents splattered the leg of my jeans and my shoes.

“Oh dear. Let me get something to clean that up with. I’ll be right back.” The waitress scampered away.

I helped settle George back into his chair, and took the seat next to him. When I looked up, I noticed the stripper who had been shaking her ass in front of him had moved to the far side of the stage, not that I blamed her. The smell of regurgitated alcohol made my eyes water, and I suddenly questioned why I’d agreed to perform this errand.

The waitress came back and when she handed me a rag to clean myself up, I was struck again by her beauty. She had that classic, almost Princess Kate-like wholesomeness, not the sort of hard look you’d expect to see in a strip joint. “Here ya go,” she said, tapping George on the shoulder trying to hand him his bill.

George sat with his head in his hands. I could tell he was babbling, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

“Just give it to me,” I told her, not wanting her to have to wait.

“Are you sure?” She bit her lip, and I could tell she was attributing saint status to me that I absolutely did not deserve, especially as impure thoughts about her were filling my head. Watching her bite that luscious red lip of hers gave me all sorts of dirty ideas not befitting a priest. How screwed up was it that I went into a club filled with nude girls, and I became aroused by the only clothed one?

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it,” I said, and handed her my personal debit card. I could only imagine the scandal if I’d accidentally given her the card for my church expense account. The thought of it made me laugh out loud.

She took the card and looked at me funny. “Did I miss something?”

“No. This is just not how I expected I’d be spending my night.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, nodding at my collar. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” I said and proceeded to wipe off my shoes and pants leg.

When she returned with George’s bill which, to my irritation, exceeded a hundred dollars, I gave her a big tip anyway, telling myself she could probably use the money or she wouldn’t be working in a dive like this. As I handed it back to her I noticed that she’d written Thanks with a heart then a dash, and the word Vixen.

My heart sank. I might be wrong, but something about that name told me that she wasn’t just a waitress, but that she was also a “performer.” I had no idea why it mattered to me, but it made me sad for her.

These days people in New Orleans talked a lot about being “sex positive” and that women who chose “sex worker” type jobs were empowered, but I thought it was garbage. It wasn’t something I’d want my sister or my daughter doing. Most women who had money didn’t choose those sorts of jobs, so it always seemed like women did them out of necessity rather than because they’d always wanted to grow up to be an “exotic dancer.”

Bringing my attention back to George, I hoisted him up, threw one of his arms around my neck and helped him to his feet.

“Y’all have a nice night,” Vixen said.

I gave her a big smile. “You too,” I said and then I dragged a wobbly George to my car, which was still in the illegal place I parked it.

Looking up at the twinkling stars just beginning to peek through the clouds, I said aloud, “Thank you, Lord.”