Part 32 (1/2)

”Your mother is wrong, dead wrong.”

”She doesn't think she is.”

”She never thinks she's wrong. It's what makes her so much fun to be around.”

”n.o.body on the bus would talk to me.”

”n.o.body on that bus has anything worthwhile to say, Sammy. They're crazy people.”

”Mom's not crazy!” I all but cried, wanting to believe my own words.

”Shut up!” my father hissed. ”Whaddaya want to do, wake her?”

”She's not not crazy! Don't say she's crazy!” crazy! Don't say she's crazy!”

”No, no, of course she isn't! Point is, you shouldn't have been on that trip in the first place. You should have gone to the dance.”

He reached across the table and rubbed my hair, awkwardly, as if he'd read in a magazine that this was a good thing to do when your child is upset.

”This is gonna pa.s.s, Sammy. Not for a few days, maybe, but it'll pa.s.s, and remember-you didn't do anything wrong. If I'd been there and seen somethin' funny about the crucifix, I'd have done the same thing.” If I'd been there and seen somethin' funny about the crucifix, I'd have done the same thing.”

Bulls.h.i.+t, I thought, and then I excused myself to go to bed.

”Don't tell your mother about the beer!” he chuckled as I headed for the stairs. It was a moot point, as far as I was concerned. What were the chances that my mother and I would ever again be on speaking terms?

I stripped down and got into bed without bothering to brush my teeth. I was exhausted. I fell asleep as if I'd been drugged, and I thought I was dreaming when I opened my eyes and saw a woman in a flowing, breeze-puffed nightgown approach my bedside. An angel? The Blessed Mother?

No. It was my my mother, smiling at me as if nothing terrible had happened. She knelt at the head of the bed, stroked my hair. mother, smiling at me as if nothing terrible had happened. She knelt at the head of the bed, stroked my hair.

”Samuel? Samuel, I forgive you.”

I should have been angry, but I couldn't even think that way. I was grateful to be on her good side, no matter what kind of lunacy it involved. So instead of telling her to get out of my room, I did the only thing I thought I could do. I thanked her.

She kissed my forehead, and then her brow knotted in alarm. ”What's that smell on your breath? Beer?”

I lacked the strength to make up a tale. ”Dad shared his beer with me.”

Her back arched with a jolt, St. Sebastian absorbing yet another arrow. But she didn't have the strength for a fight. She rose to her feet and left my room as mysteriously as she'd entered it. The whole thing felt like a dream, but it wasn't.

A cawing, shrieking blue jay woke me in the morning. It was Sunday. In a few hours we'd be getting ready for church. Church! It didn't seem fair to have to go again, after having spent Friday and Sat.u.r.day in church, but routine was routine, and we did what we had to do.

My father urged us not to go. ”Haven't you had enough for a while? And besides, you ought to let this thing die down.”

He might as well have been standing on the edge of the ocean, begging the tide not to come in. My mother smiled at him as falsely as she could.

”Would you rather he stayed here and got drunk with you?”

My father looked at me, his betrayer.

”I didn't say anything!” I cried. ”She smelled it!”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and headed out to Charlie's Bar for the first cold frosty one of the day. My mother and I set off walking to the eleven o'clock Ma.s.s at ten minutes to the hour, as we had for as many Sundays as I could remember.

But of course everything was different. There were murmurs and whispers as we pa.s.sed people...”That's the boy...he's the one...”

My mother didn't say anything. She kept her head as high and proud as a show pony's, but her jaw was clenched as we took our usual seats.

A hard poke to my rib cage-I turned and saw Alonzo Fishetti, the toughest kid from my cla.s.s, the crazy one who'd fallen from the second-story ledge and broken his ankle while trying to spy on the half-dressed girls. His ankle was still in a cast, and he dragged it like a peg-leg pirate when he walked. Even his jet-black hair looked dangerous, soaked with lotion and combed straight back to reveal a dazzling widow's peak. His eyes were a little too close together, separated by a beaky nose. He was the crow, and I was the worm.

”Hey, Sullivan. Did you really pull that statue's leg off?”

This was the first time he'd ever spoken to me. I was honored and intimidated. I shrugged, cleared my throat. ”Just a piece of it.”

He smiled, patted my shoulder. ”Cool!” he said. ”Most definitely a cool thing to do.”

I couldn't believe it. n.o.body had ever accused me of being cool before, and this was coming from the toughest, coolest person I knew! He winked at me.

”Great s.h.i.+t, Sullivan. I didn't think ya had it in ya.”

This was the ultimate-approval from Alonzo Fishetti! For the first time ever, I felt like one of the guys! I had to say something to him, but what? I thought about it and cleared my throat before speaking.

”How was the dance, Alonzo?”

”Ah, I didn't go. How'm I supposed to dance with this f.u.c.kin' ankle?”

With that he dragged himself out of church, probably to go outside for a smoke. I'd never felt so honored, never heard anyone dare to say ”s.h.i.+t” and ”f.u.c.k” in church, and beyond all that I was elated to know that at least one boy, Alonzo Fishetti, did not get to dance with Margaret Thompson while I'd been away.

”Who was was that horrible boy?” my mother demanded. For a moment there, I'd forgotten that she was sitting beside me. that horrible boy?” my mother demanded. For a moment there, I'd forgotten that she was sitting beside me.

”Just a kid from my cla.s.s.”

”What's his name?”

I told her. She made a knowing sound in her throat, a clucking sound. ”Ahhh yes, the Fishettis. His father ran off when he was two years old. His mother has had quite a few...boyfriends over the years.” over the years.”

I was shocked to be hearing something like this from my mother, but of course it made sense. In any act of charity, a person learns all about the weaknesses of those being helped. I guess the Fishettis rated a ca.s.serole or two over the years, to take the sting out of whatever misery Alonzo's mother's chaotic love life created. In her own inimitable way, my mother had just called Alonzo Fishetti's mother a wh.o.r.e.

The Ma.s.s began, and there was a low communal moan as Father Peter Vallone made his way to the pulpit. He was a big, fat, dumb priest whose sermons seemed to last for months and never made any kind of point. He probably had attention deficit disorder back in those days before it was diagnosed, and for this reason he was the best priest to confess your sins to. You could tell him you'd murdered five people and by the time he gave you your penance, he'd have forgotten this sin and given you two Our Fathers and two Hail Marys to wipe your soul clean.

But there was a new determination to Father Vallone on this day. He seemed both focused and angry as he stood before us, his chubby hands gripping the sides of the pulpit.

”We all know about this terrible thing that happened in Scranton, Pennsylvania,” he began, and a movielike murmur ran through the crowd. Hundreds of eyes were upon me. My mother gripped my wrist. If Father Vallone singled me out, I knew I would die of mortification.

”Yes, yes, a terrible thing. A priest cut open a Jesus figure, much like this one”-he gestured at the plaster-cast crucifix behind him-”and stuck a balloon filled with blood inside the leg, to make it bleed from the nail holes in the foot. Well, maybe it wasn't exactly a balloon. balloon. It was probably something thicker than a balloon. Maybe it was a rubber pouch, like a hot water bottle. Maybe it was made of plastic. Maybe...” It was probably something thicker than a balloon. Maybe it was a rubber pouch, like a hot water bottle. Maybe it was made of plastic. Maybe...”

Father Vallone's tangents could take his flock to the ends of the universe. Usually they put us to sleep, but not today. Today we were all listening as this man exhausted the physical possibilities of the reservoir that held the fake blood. He was just explaining how the pouch could have been made out of an old bicycle inner tube when an unbelievably loud voice interrupted him: ”Get to the point!”