I got lucky on my fifth ring. As the door opened, a breeze of cool air and aftershave whooshed out from the bat cave. The man who answered was old, tan, and athletic, his veins prominent on his slender hairy arms. He wore a wristwatch, white shorts, a white and blue polo, and white gym shoes. Maybe he had a game of tennis on his schedule.

“Holy moly, you know you have to go through the church.” He was one of the good ones. His eyes were bright and green.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to Father Gregory.”

“Ho, girlie.” He laughed. Like it would be a cold day in hell for Father Greg to walk outside. “Greg has the day off. He won’t be in the atrium until tomorrow evening. I couldn’t lure him to the door with a slice of pumpkin pie delivered by Cindy Crawford.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and said, “It’s about an exorcism he did in 1991.” Closing my eyes made it easier to say.

I opened my eyes. He gave me his first serious consideration, enthusiasm creeping into his eyes. He loved horror stories. “OK, missy. Better follow me then.”

He led me along a dark hallway with ugly tiled floors, smelling like the subway, and up a dark wooden staircase, to an open dining area attached to a kitchen, all of it dimly lit and somber. A long rectangular dining table. A few saggy couches. The bones of this large room had potential, but it had never been painted or decorated, and it was filthy.

Dishes piled high in the sink, the smell stagnant, grimy floor stains near the baseboard that had attracted and trapped hair. I could not even imagine the state of the bathrooms. How did these old bachelors live like this? My question pretty much answered itself.

Never married, never once nagged at by a woman. Like college boys, except college boys cleaned and decorated their frat house to attract girls.

These men had no one to impress. Their maid probably came tomorrow. And being the good Christian she was, she wouldn’t dare call them pigs. She would wash their dishes and scrub their floors, thinking she was doing God’s work.

“Have a seat at the table,” he said. “Wait here, please.”

“Thank you. I will,” I assured him as he headed down a hallway.

A hardened dime-sized circle of mint green with black flecks stuck to the table to my left. Chocolate mint ice cream?

A man emerged from the hallway, old and rosy-cheeked, a venti Starbucks in hand. He had wild, white eyebrows, and his belly bulged over his belt. He was put together in tan pants and shiny shoes. His T-shirt said, Lord, Keep Your Arm on My Shoulder and Your Hand over My Mouth. Another funny priest. Game night here was either a blast or passive-aggressive and bitchy.