Saturday morning and most the afternoon we spent eating Cocoa Puffs and watching cartoons, for which Juice had an appreciation verging on the spiritual. “When I have rug apes”—Juice called children rug apes—“I ain’t gonna give ’em no motherfuckin’ Bible. Gonna sit their booties down and make ’em watch Looney Tunes.” Juice could be Zen about the most unlikely subjects, and when I asked him why the Roadrunner never got caught, he shot me a look like I was some kind of pagan. “Just watch the show, Toby Sligh,” Juice ordered. The Coyote was about to be crushed by a boulder. “Bam!” Juice reproduced the sound of the impact. Then he said, “Lookit! He always gets up!”
Later on I opened up to Juice about my parents, mostly my dad: I was worried about him. I knew where my mom was; I could find her if I wanted, though I didn’t tell Juice that. I just said they both were missing. I sort of wanted Juice to talk to me about his parents, but his mother was a sore spot; she had kicked him out of the house. And his father, well, Juice wouldn’t talk about his dad. And in the middle of our session Lucinda at St. Osyth’s phoned up to tell me I couldn’t visit Scarcross: “His throat is shot, Toby. He needs to rest today.”
When I hung up, Juice said, “Who’s ’at?”
“Angelina.”
“Bullshit,” Juice said. “Woulda heard Angelina.” And when Juice was in his Porsche getting ready to go, he said, “I’ll put an APB out on your daddy. Pops is always easier to locate than moms is. G.’s is always movin’; ladies keep still.”
“Like the Roadrunner and Coyote?” I asked.
Juice revved the engine. “Them is both G.’s… . ‘Bleep! Bleep!’ ” he said and left.
It was getting on suppertime, but the sun was still shining, and I had spent most of the day on the porchswing staring at a lawn I saw no reason to mow. Ian hadn’t called; I was being forgotten. He had stood me up at the formalwear fitting, and for all I knew he’d do the same thing at the prom. And I could picture Fr. Scarcross alone across town, in bed, and sleeping, and dreaming of me. Then a carhorn goosed me and Fr. Diaz pulled up in a raffle Cadillac with blue-and-white pin- striping. He was brandishing two rackets and a fabulous smile, a cigarette pulsing on his heart-shaped lips.
How are you, Toby?” Fr. Diaz began, and gave my forearm an affectionate pump.
“Muy bien , Father. And you?”
“I am well!”
Riding high around Diaz’s tan, muscled thighs was a skimpy pair of Izod-Lacoste playing shorts. A matching lavender shirt with the alligator logo coming undone hung about his upper body. Tennis balls dotted the floor of the Cadillac—tennis balls and unopened packs of Lucky Strikes. There was also a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue open on a topless goddess pouting in Barbados.
“Don’t you have tennis shorts?”
He was looking at my crotch.
“I guess I don’t, Father.”
He handed me a Lucky.
“I am sure that we have a pair or two at the rectory. We always have things in the Lost and Found closet.”
“Will my parents be there?”
“At St. Patrick’s, Toby?”
“In the Lost and Found closet.”
Diaz smiled and squeezed my forearm.
That should have been his cue to tell me what was going on, but Diaz didn’t say one word about my folks until we were deep in the third set of the match, and then he only addressed the missing duo metaphorically. Diaz had taken the first two sets 6-0, 6-0 with a capacity for cruelty I’d come to expect from close encounters with nuns but would never have thought possible from any parish priest. I didn’t hold serve. I couldn’t even score a point. And Diaz, his swirling hair plastered to his forehead, would curse stray services with sudden shouts of “Coño!” and threaten phantom judges as ferociously as McEnroe, then go all cute and cuddly like that cobra, André Agassi. And then, right when I was catching my breath, he would ace me with a service as fast as a pelota. At first I was distressed by Diaz’s refusal to concede to me at least even one mercy point; I thought he was taking his Wimbledon fantasy, sexy as it was, a little too far. But every time we switched sides he would pat me on the ass and flash that dazzling Latin smile and say, “Do not give up! Never give up, Tobias!” And I’d come back at him with miraculous rallies and volleys at the net I’d never dreamed that I could make. But somehow, always, he managed to return them—until we came to match point, and Diaz was serving, and I found myself soaked head to toe in defeat, and Diaz lobbed the ball up with Pentecostal grace, and brought his racket down, and smoked me with an ace.
“Six-love, six-love, six-love!” Diaz sang as he sprang across the net like an antelope in heat and helped me up off of the scorching concrete. “And the lesson, Toby Sligh, is that in tennis, as in life, it is okay not to win, if you do it for love!”
I was leaning on his shoulder.
Then he said: “Let’s take a shower.”
Fr. Diaz lathered up himself from top to bottom and, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer, began to throw soapsudsy punches at me.
“Fight, Toby, fight! Don’t you know how to fight?”
The only thing I was fighting at the moment was a—
“No.”
“Jesus said to turn the other cheek,” Diaz counseled, turning around and showing me his: they were buttered up with soap and they made my stomach flutter. “But when Jesus was a boy, I am sure that Joseph taught him.” I could just picture Jesus going ten rounds with his stepdad: “My father can heat up your father,” he would brag. “But Mary probably taught him the best strategy of all—and that, Toby Sligh, is to sometimes keep quiet. Not to talk, but to listen, as Christ did with his accusers. If you can fight like you did on the courts today, Toby, can you keep still if you absolutely have to?” I was trying to keep still; I was, I swear to God. “Will you promise, Toby Sligh? I’ll show you something if you promise.” “I promise, Fr. Diaz,” I said. I was waiting. “Poom! Poom!” Diaz hollered, whirling around. He caught me in a slippery clinch and pushed me away. This was too much: I had to play Hide-a-Woody. “Muy bien! You’re a fighter! Now get dressed and follow me!”
I watched Diaz step into a pair of Calvin Kleins and drape a black linen alb across his tawny body. The blossomy garment billowed around him. He was going to hear confessions, and he wanted me to come.
“When I get into the confessional”—we were walking toward the church—“wait till no one’s looking, then knock very gently, and I will let you in.”
“But—”
“Silencio, Toby!”
He entered the church, and I followed in after. It was Saturday night—the usual old ladies. When the last had been heard I knocked at the confessional. The church bell struck eight. Fr. Diaz dragged me in.
“Crawl underneath my gown and say absolutely nothing!”
“Crawl underneath your—?”
“Gown, yes! Do it, Toby! Shhhh!”
I did as he asked and crept underneath his garment. His body was warm, like a puppy’s, next to mine. I could feel the bristly hairs of his chest on my shoulders. I could feel his steel crucifix tickling my spine.
“Father—”
“Toby! You promised silencio!” He slapped my ass reprovingly. “Now not another word!”
Outside the booth we heard a single pair of footsteps. They were light, like a woman’s. They were pacing back and forth. Then we heard the door to the booth before us open, and a dark figure cleared her throat and knelt and crossed herself. At the same time, in the booth that was opposite her, someone had entered and silently knelt. It was a man, I could tell; I could peek through Diaz’s collar. He crossed himself quickly and spoke. It was Dad.
“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession, and, Father—and, Father, I—”
Dad started crying.
“I love her!” he blustered. “Oh, Father, I love her! I’m losing my mind! I don’t know where she is! I’ve looked everywhere! You gotta help me find her! If I don’t find her,
Father, I don’t know what I’ll—”
“Shhh!”
Fr. Diaz rested his hand against the webbing. My father was sobbing. And I was crying, too.
“Have patience, Mr. Sligh.”
“I’ve tried everything, Father! I’ve looked so hard I can’t look anymore!”
“She loves you, Mr. Sligh.”
“I know she does, Father! But if I could only find her, everything would be all right!”
In the dark booth behind us I could hear the woman moving. She smelled like suntan oil. She smelled like manicotti.
“You have to help me, Father. You have to help me find her! I know that she’s seen you! I know that you’ve spoken! For the love a’ God, Father, if you value the family—”
“I cannot tell you where she is without her permission,” Fr. Diaz said.
“I know,” my dad sniffled. “Does she want me to find her?”
“I think so, Mr. Slight
“I’m tired of searching. Every day we’re searching.”
“Who’s we?” Diaz asked.
“Nobody,” Dad said.
There was silence. In the next room, the woman straightened up.
“I better go, Father. I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that I love her. Is that such a sin?”
Lifting up my hand, Fr. Diaz blessed my father.
“We should have so many sinners. Now go and get some sleep.”
Then my dad rose up, as if the world were on his shoulders, and right before he left he pressed his face against the grating.
“You gaining weight, Padre?” Dad said, leaning in.
“Good night, Mr. Sligh,” Diaz said, and closed the grate.
When my father had gone, Diaz pivoted around and peered into the darkness of the booth that was before us. The breath of a woman wafted lightly on our faces. She sat there, huddled over. She didn’t say a word.
“Did you hear him?” Diaz asked.
The woman only nodded.
“He loves you,” Diaz said.
“I know he does.”
It was my mom.
“He loves you a lot,” Diaz said.
“I love him too.”
“He wants me to tell him where you’re living.”
Mom exhaled.
“I’ll have to think about it, Fr. Diaz,” she whispered. She ran her fingers through her hair and rose up slowly from the kneeler. Then she knelt back down. “How is Toby?” she asked.
Fr. Diaz clamped my mouth shut.
“Just fine. We played tennis.”
“I’ll call you, Fr. Diaz,” Mom said, and then she left.
We listened to her go, her footsteps disappearing.
That night I slept in my parents’ big bed. The mattress still carried the impressions of their bodies. There was room enough for two, but Juice didn’t show, so the bed was all mine. I slept in it alone.
Now two beds were vacant in Room 1111. The third, containing Magda, had her sitting up in bed, eating an orange in methodical sections and concealing the peelings in her Havatampa box. Fr. Scarcross was lying in bed with his rosary, fingers ticking off the smooth porcelain beads, mouthing a meager Morse code of supplication. Sitting beside him, leafing through the Sunday paper, was the last man I expected to find there—Kickliter. He stood up when I entered and said, “Dr. Sligh!” and took the books from me and examined them with interest.
Scarcross dropped his rosary.
“Is Toby here already?”
His voice was much stronger than it had been before.
“He’s brought you something, Father,” Kickliter told him, and handed him the books, one after the other.
“I don’t want the books! Not now, Jerry!” Scarcross scolded K., motioning for me.
I went over to him. His fingers were extended. He reached beneath my mask and began to trace my face—the lines of my mouth, and my nose, and my eyes, the lines of my neck, and my chin, and my forehead.
“You know Toby, Jerry?”
He called Kickliter Jerry.
“He’s one of our best, Fr. Scarcross,” K. said.
“I imagine he is. He’s dreadfully honest! You can read it in the lines of his face. Go ahead!”
Scarcross’s fingers reached out for Kickliter’s and closed down upon them, then pressed them onto me. K. traced the lines of my face with his fingers, and when he had finished, he said he had to go.
“Everyone at Sacred Heart is rooting for you, man.”
“But don’t let them come and see me!” Scarcross insisted. His voice was overpowering. “I’m in no condition to be seen!”
As K. turned to go Fr. Scarcross cried out and clutched the books close to his bosom and said, “Look at these books! All these lovely books, Jerry! We’ll have so much to talk about, Toby and I!”
They’re operating on my throat this afternoon, Toby.”
It was hard to conceive of: his voice sounded strong.
“I don’t understand it. Yesterday, it was in pieces! Now, I’m like a songbird!”
He trilled a nonsense song.
“Maybe you don’t need surgery at all.”
“But if I lose my voice”—he drew my mask away from me— “how will we talk and tell the truth to each other?”
But talking,” I said to him, “talking is lying.”
No, it isn’t, Toby! Everything we say is true. But some things we say are just truer than others. For instance, if I told you that once I knew a man who lay down to die beneath a juniper tree, and an angel touched him, and brought him cake and water and said, ‘The word of the Lord in thy mouth is truth’; and if I told you, Toby Sligh, that I was that man, would you believe my story, or would you say I was a liar?”
“That’s too imaginative to be a lie,” I concluded. “Lies are ordinary. It must be the truth.”
Fr. Scarcross smiled and caught my hands in his.
“Why couldn’t I have met you when I was full of life?”
“You are full of life.”
“God love you for a liar.”
Outside, a bird flew against the windowpane. It struggled there awhile, and then it flew away. I watched it receding in the afternoon sky—just wings, then a smear, then a speck. And it was gone.
“Was Jesus a liar?” I asked for no reason when Eli’s hands abandoned mine for his beads. “He said he was the Son of God. Do you believe him?”
Fr. Scarcross thought it over, breathing like a whistle.
“I don’t believe Jesus believed himself, Toby. Christ didn’t know whether he was a liar. He thought his dad was God. He thought he was the Savior. But how could he be sure? So he died to prove his love.”
“Did Christ have to die to prove his love for his father? Couldn’t he have, like, just mowed the yard or something?”
Scarcross let the rosary spill into his lap. Then he picked it up again and counted as he spoke.
“Would you die for your father if he asked you to, Toby?”
“I’d live for my mother.”
Fr. Scarcross stopped counting.
“But would you die for anyone? Anyone you loved?”
I was thinking of Ian.
“Are you in love, Toby Sligh?”
I didn’t answer right away: it wasn’t any of his business. But I sighed, without knowing it. Eli opened up his arms.
“Love,” he exhaled. He embraced himself sadly. “Here it is; there it goes.” He released himself again.
I wondered if Scarcross had ever been in love. Jesuit priests took a vow of chastity. Had he broken his vow? Or had his vow broken him? Who was his undoing? And was it any of my business?
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked, with difficulty.
“Yes,” he said and shuddered, and spat up a pat of blood. “I wasn’t alive till I fell in love, Toby.” He examined his body. “Now look at me.”
“Who were you in love with?” I asked, very softly.
“God knows who it was. God knows who I loved.”
I was looking at my
shoes. I was thinking of my parents. The whole world was quiet. It was biting its tongue.
“Where is your family?” Fr. Scarcross asked suddenly.
He was sitting up in bed. He was staring at me, blindly.
“Away,” I said, trembling. “My family’s away.”
“Here is your family,” Scarcross said, and touched his heart. “Here is your family. Right here, Toby Sligh.”
We sat there awhile. My heart felt abandoned. I was tired. I was empty. I was trying not to cry.
“If I lose my voice, will you be my voice; and if you become my voice, Toby Sligh, will you speak truly? When God lost his voice, Jesus Christ spoke for him. That’s why they crucified him. Because he spoke for God.”
“So God decides to pout and a man gets murdered. That isn’t very fair.”
“It’s fair if it’s love.”
Outside, we heard a siren. It pined and died away. Scarcross lay back and clasped his books against his chest.
“Do you like the books I brought you?”
He gave each a kiss.
“They smell just like bug spray!”
I stifled a laugh.
“Read one to me.”
“Which one?”
“Read The Tempest! We’ll skip the first act, except for the shipwreck… . Would you like to hear the shipwreck?”
“Dunno. Is it exciting?”
“Is it exciting?” Scarcross said, and he bolted up in bed.
A maelstrom of noises—waves and shouts and rolling thunder—escaped Eli’s lips and set the AIDS ward deep at sea. Magda chimed in and started groaning like weak lumber, and two nurses—boatswains—hustled in and out again. When Scarcross had finished, and the room hadn’t capsized, Sr. Cindy and Lucinda stood whistling at the doorway, two new arrivals clapping meekly at their sides.
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