by D Keith Mano
are, hand-in-hand like a couple of gay lovers. Gladys thought
we were nuts.
“ So that’s how they do it in New York,” she says.
We’re none of us wrapped too tight in this weather.
SUNDAY, JUNE 19
This morning I got me some Krazy Glue and stuck my shoe
back together. Great idea—only I shouldn’t have done it while
my foot was inside. When I went to undress just now, my sock
was Krazy Glued to the inside tip of my shoe. Had to cut myself
loose with a pair of scissors.
Do I really want to live this way? Can I woo Kay, in all
TOPLESS
9
fairness, with prospects like these? Twenty-eight and earning a
big four figures. Got a letter from Miles Holbrook, whom I
haven’t seen since we graduated from New Paltz. Regional sales
manager for NYNEX, whatever that means. Means, Miko, that
he can buy and sell you. Would the disciples have dropped everything and followed Jesus if they’d had to give up six-figure jobs with stock options and pension? After all, the fishing business was lousy—no future, no medical benefits.
It’s a year today since Father Mac died—maybe that’s why
I ’m so cranky. Foolish as I know it is, it gave me motivation,
and great pleasure, to be a priest fo r him. To justify his faith in
mié. He was so good during my Time of Shame—carried me
through it—when Dad (may he rest in peace) was more interested in seeing how many times he could zetz me in the head.
And Mom was just gratefél I ’d given her another excuse to drink
(may she rest there, too).
Never have I met a man with such joy in Christ. The Resurrection was a daily miracle to him. And he was fascinated by sin—not as a vulture might be, but because he thought it was an
opportunity. He certainly turned it into my opportunity for grace.
When I was near suicide. “ Sin is a cry,” he used to say, “ listen
to it.”
I miss him. Not least because, with Father Mac at bat for me,
I ’d have a better shot at a parish back in Queens Diocese.
Jesus, Savior, buck my spirit up. This morning I heard a
woman in the choir say, “ I don’t want to know the mystery of
life. I just want to live for a change.” She’s about 40 years old,
and her voice sounded dead. She was saying, “ I need love, I
need to be loved, I need a—
Lord. Lord.
Gladys just called me down to the phone. It was Ethel. She
says Tony is missing. Missing. What does that mean? My brother
is missing.
And she wants me back in New York.
MONDAY, JUNE 20
Tony, big bro.
It’s not right, it’s like disreputable, to be missing. Someone
croaks you, you get hit by a Transit-Mix truck, okay, no prob-
10
D. Keith Mano
lem. Our sympathies and those of our entire family are with
you. But missing?
People don’t like to waste their condolences—hey, listen, Tony
could be in Hawaii with a redhead, far as they know. Missing
is something that happens to Jimmy Hoffa. Something that happens to people who deserve to vanish.
I ’ve decided not to go into details. Schantzy’s reaction was
enough to convince me of that. In Lekachman there’s no place
to hide. Folk drop dead in plain sight. No hanky-panky. I just
say ‘ ‘a family emergency. ’ ’ Which it is—considering Tony is all
the blood I ’ve got left.
And I didn’t realize just how much brotherhood meant to me
until last night. I mean, it’s not as if we spent much time together. Actually I haven’t seen him but once since he and Ethel got married. Still, alone in my room last night, I felt afraid. The
way I felt after Mom and Dad were killed in die crash.
I guess it was important to my sense of well-being to know
my brother was there. Tony, he took my G.I. Joe doll. Tony, he
poked me in the eye. Tony, tell Dad I need more allowance. I
did a lot of that cry-babying. Tony was half my agent, half my
personal enforcer.
And, face facts, he paid my tuition at New Paltz and Neshotah
House. I wouldn’t be a priest now if it weren’t for Tony. Ethel
is wiring cash so I can get a plane out of here Wednesday.
She wasn’t any clearer about Tony this morning. Did she
suspect foul play? Sure—but, I realize now, Ethel has a stake in
foul play. No woman wants it known that her husband up and
left. Doesn’t reflect well on the housekeeping. But Ethel couldn’t
or wouldn’t come up with a motive. Her tone seemed agitated—
but I couldn’t tell whether that was fear or anger or general
despair. She’s hard to read. But then, I hardly know her.
Well, with four kids to raise in New York, fear makes good
sense. Ethel wants me to take over the restaurant full-time for a
while. Said something about employees cheating. What I know
about restaurants you could put in a cherrystone clamshell. But,
God knows, it would be a welcome change.
In fact, let’s be honest, it’s a godsend. Not Tony being missing. I wish that weren’t the reason. But a chance for me to hit the Apple and squeeze out from under supervision for a while.
There’s something about the Church that keeps you permanently
TOPLESS
11
at age 14. They call you Father, but they treat you like the Mongoloid child of a hired hand.
I ’d like to sell my car—but I don’t want Schantzy to think I ’m
not returning. In truth, I ’m not sure whether I am or not. My
contract comes up for review in October.
Later.
Kay is distraught. She wants to fly out with me—for moral
support. (“ Moral” as in “ morality,” I think.) But Kay can’t
really take a vacation from the library. And, of course, it’d be
improper for her to follow me unchaperoned. People might get
the wrong idea. New York, as all Nebraskans know, is Sodom
by the Sound.
Then she said, “ You’re not coming back, are you?” I said,
“ Nonsense.” She said, “ But he could be missing forever—
where will you look?” But I don’t intend to look—where would
I begin? I just want to help Ethel. In this case my moral position
is unassailable.
I thought last night—Tony’s the curator of my life, and I ’m
the curator of his. Who else can give evidence about Mom and
Dad. Or about Uncle Ceece, who brought us up after they died.
Or that dog we had, Maybe? What other family had a dog named
Maybe? There are times when I hardly believe my own recollection. And then I think, But Tony was there, I ’m not crazy.
Oh, Lord—I hope he’s just missing, not gone. I truly love
him: more than anyone else in my life. He was my foster parent,
my mediator and advocate. And, you know, when I looked at
him, I saw a variation of myself. A more successful variation.
In Tony I saw my own possibilities.
But there’s no use dodging the truth. Tony was never happy.
He was reaching for something. And he was a lot braver than I
am. Just brave enough to get himself into a piss-pot full of trouble.
Jesus, protect my brother. Don’t let Tony end up in an empty
lot somewhere. Let him not float to shore. Pro
tect him and his
little ones.
I never knew Tony. I was too busy asking him for things.
12
D. Keith Mano
TUESDAY, JUNE 21
Catching a 2 p.m. flight out of Omaha tomorrow. Tim Baxter
offered to drive me. Shantzy made strange, portentous faces all
day. (He’s been uncomfortable with me, come to think of it,
since I caught him in the garage with his bridgework out.) Then,
half an hour ago, he came upstairs. Which he hasn’t done once
until this moment. He has a strong sense of hierarchy: he doesn’t
stand when a woman enters the room.
“ Are you sure you wanna do this?” he said. He considers
my trip to New York a personal betrayal. All those classes he’ll
have to teach, and the patio only half poured.
I said, “ Well, Tony is my only relative.”
“ Has this happened before?”
“ What?”
“ Has your brother gone missing before? New York is a big
place.”
“ No, sir. This is his first tim e.”
“ Have you ever thought—m aybe he doesn’t want t ’be
found?”
Can you imagine? The gall. Then he said:
“ I think this is a big mistake, Michael. You’re at a delicate
stage. You’re champing at the bit. You need t’confront yourself,
discipline yourself. You’re just ripe for mischief. This isn’t the
time t ’go.”
I got a little short with him. I think I was polite enough, but
the man has a nerve. Worse, I suppose, he’s right. I am challenging God. To be my own man again for a couple of weeks.
In a place where there is no end of temptation. My city. I ’m
running to it. Maybe I want to “ go m issing,” too.
And in a few minutes, I ’ve got to see Kay.
She wanted to know whether I was afraid. Not for Tony—she
didn’t mean that. For myself. Going to that place. I ’m at fault
there—I ’ve been like Othello, telling her so many (slightly exaggerated) stories about New York. Street gangs and muggers and con men and the life of the senses. Kay must think it’s
Aladdin’s Baghdad, but a lot more expensive. And then she said,
“ I only look good in Nebraska. You wouldn’t even have noticed me in New York. ’ ’
Probably true. Then Kay said, “ I ’m going t’lose you. I never
had you, and now I ’m going t’lose you.”
TOPLESS
13
Is she right? I hope not: I hope I ’m not that predictable. Kay
is the woman for me. In time. But, now, yes, I wouldn’t mind
a little temptation.
Remember that last temptation, Miko? Cost you plenty.
Then she gave me a new Timex watch. Something to remember her by. A quarter to Kay, twenty minutes after Kay, Kay time.
Everyone else has been aces. Guess they want their money
back someday. Gladys came up and told me about her brother
who died in Vietnam. Mrs. LeFleur baked me brownies for the
trip. And I had a fingerpainting from little Julia Serow: big
airplane, me riding it like a horse—and a child’s impressionist
rendering of New York, which made it resemble a slag heap. In
Lekachman that’s how they imagine the Apple.
I ’m scared and excited and already Nebraska is in another
time zone. My past.
But, most of all, these 48 hours have taught me how little I
know about my own brother. There was—I remember this—
something precarious, rash about him. Something on the edge.
Tony was driving us home one night—in the station wagon,
me seated way in back. I was thirteen at most. He must’ve been
eighteen then. And there were three other guys. One of them
bet Tony he couldn’t get us home before some song on the radio
ended.
I guess we were thirty blocks or so away. Tony hit 80 mph,
going through those quiet suburban streets. No regard for STOP
signs. I was frozen with fear. Antfone of the other kids started
to scream. I watched Tony’s face—utter, fearless concentration.
He was—no, he is—some heck of an athlete. We got home before the last chorus started.
And that street fight, I ’ll never forget that. Tony had been
talking to a Hispanic kid’s woman. This José was 6'2", 200.
Tony is 5'10" at most. And José—thud—sucker-punched Tony
in the nose. Blood came dripping out. Tony didn’t notice it. He
just went after the kid. So José hit him again. He had fast hands.
In the nose, again and again, at will. But Tony kept coming. It
really scared José, because he was doing lots of damage, but
Tony kept coming—and the kid is thinking, this guy is crazy,
this guy I don’t wanna deal with any more. He got so scared
of Tony he started to run. His hands were faster, but not his
feet. Tony chased him down. I can still remember José’s screams.
14
D. Keith Mono
Tony picked him up and dropped him on a fire hydrant. Picked
him up and dropped him. He broke ribs.
Then we walked home, and Tony bought me an ice cream on
the way. All that nose blood, and still he bought me an ice
cream.
I never asked him if he was happy.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22
Let me try to get all this down—in order. So many impressions
have bounced off me today. The velocity of change from Le-
kachman to New York—even Queens, New York—is unbelievable. A constant acceleration. As I sit here on a bed five feet long, covered with Barbie dolls and their expensive, chic wardrobe.
The drive to Omaha was perplexing. I wanted to be alone
with my thoughts—I was already out of the pastoral mode. Like,
THE PRIEST isn’t IN , thank you. And, at that moment, Tim
Baxter chooses to make the confession of his life. Trapped.
Not that it wasn’t interesting.
First he brown-rings me—what a breath of fresh air I ’ve been.
How he could never confide in Schantz, what a nervous wreck
he’s been—and how (pause for emphasis) Tim reckons he’s
queer.
Starts to cry at the wheel. Car is weaving through his teardrops.
No, I say. You’re not queer.
Yes, he is.
No, I say. You’re gay. Update your terminology at least.
Tbrns out Tim wants to join me in New York so he can come
out of the closet. Just what I need. A novice gay.
Stay in the closet, I tell him. Being gay in New York is one
thing. Being an unemployed hayseed in New York is another.
It was farcical on the one hand. (He’s terrified of AIDS, publicity, Lois, Schantz and the Kiwanis.) Pathetic on the other (he was really reaching out—it was a brave moment, for all die
farce). And you think—NEBRASKA—places like Nebraska exist so you don’t have to think about being gay, having AIDS.
They’re supposed to be geographical parentheses—where serious problems cannot penetrate.
* * *
TOPLESS
15
Then, as my plane leaves Omaha, we hit this big-shouldered
thunderstorm. Lightning actually knocked a wing-light off. And
we kept flopping into air shafts. Sudden elevator, whoops, going
down. Stomachs turn inside/out. For me it’s a thrill—after Le-
kachman, even near-death experiences are refreshing.
<
br /> But the lady beside me is blitzed with fear. She asks if I ’ll
send up a prayer for us all.
I say, “ Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
“ Pray, damn it,” she says.
“ God is watching us. We’re okay. If you want forgiveness,
pray yourself. ”
“ I don’t believe in religion.”
Whoomp, big drop. Someone screams.
“ You don’t believe, but you want me t’pray? That doesn’t
make sense.”
“ You believe, you pray.”
“ I believe—and I don’t believe in bothering God with my
problems. If he wants me t’die, there’s a darned good reason. ”
“ There may be a darned good reason for you t’die, but not
form e.”
“ Lord,” I said. “ Forgive this woman her anger, and her
mean-spiritedness—and if it be Your will t’take her to Thy bosom
this day, be gentle and cleanse her harrow soul.”
“ Narrow soul” really got to her. She screamed.
“ He’s praying against me. He’s praying against m e.”
How do I get into these things? I mean to be a humble, self-
effacing servant of Him Who made me. Instead I turn into
Scrooge Me Vicar. I ’m tempted to say that no one is less worthy
than I am to be a priest. I ’m tempted. But I ’d be committing a
sin of pride.
Yes, I apologized, sort of. And anyway, the stewardess told
me that she’d flown with this lady before and she was, “ A real
cunt, sorry, Father.”
The stewardess was maybe 35 and she called me Father.
But then the plane made my favorite approach—up the full
length of Manhattan Island at twilight, bank just over Baker
Field, then circle around Queens for a landing at LaGuardia.
The lights on the boulevards—Astoria and Queens and Northern—went on at the same time, as if bright necklaces had been draped on a beautiful woman.
Three years at Nashotah House and four up in New Paltz and
now two almost in Lekachman. In nine years I ’ve been back to
16
D. Keith Mono
New York maybe three weeks total. And it’s as if I ’d never been
away. My pulse and the city’s pulse are in wild harmony. I feel
no fear: it’s as if adrenaline had been shot into my veins. This
is the center of the universe. Is that bad? As a Christian, am I
expected to avoid the central, the active, and maroon myself in
