I was drawn to the tall, ornate silver chalice, the top of which had been removed and placed beside it on the mission table; the handle was an empty crucifix. We had a similar line-up of sterling silver at home on the buffet table in our dining room: candelabras, goblets, coffee and teapots with creamers of the same family. This chalice, however, had a majestic presence. If only humble St. Anthony had the same confident attitude, he might get more followers. The chalice stood alone with a certain kind of bravery, like an oversized toy soldier or a statue that could breathe and walk away.
The spell it cast forced me to walk right up to it for a peek inside. I had had the same feeling once before when looking inside a birds’ nest. Inside the silver chalice, I saw a small mound of hosts, as clean and white as the sponge of Angel’s Food Cake. Each wafer appeared firm and soft like the napkins in Dominga’s “finished pile.”
I hadn’t received my first Holy Communion yet. I had one year to go. When St. John’s Grammar School attended Mass, the younger grades watched the older ones receive. Even the most rotten kids in the school could go up and get the wafer and look holy with heads bent, hands folded in front of their hearts.
It was so hard to wait for the taste. The flavor was a mystery I couldn’t get out of my head, more compelling than the Trinity. Once I asked Mom to describe the flavor, and she said, “It’s like nothing else I ever had.”
During our first Friday Mass of the school year, I had watched the faces of the kids on the way back to their seats, with hosts in their mouths, their eyes practically closed for a fine performance. Chuckie Sutton, with the straight, straight hair that swung back and forth when he walked, was always scraping it from the roof of his mouth like a wad of gum. I bet my life that it was Chuckie who spat the host out on the floor and never owned up to it. I had stared at it, too, that day, on the dirty floor under the pew. It was consecrated, it had life in it. I had expected it to quiver with movement the way Mexican jumping beans did when they were left in the sun.
Carmine had found the host on the floor while he was cleaning, and the entire school was called into the gym over the PA system by Father Sweeney. Later, at recess, Chuckie told me he saw Carmine carrying the host like a hot potato, running, his hand swaddled in the chalice napkin.
During the reprimanding, the rosaries that hung from Father’s belt made a clinking tempo, a light-hearted backbeat to his speech. The purple-blackish circles under his eyes proved he was the talking dead, and, he belched in the middle of his thoughts. “One of you—and God knows who you are—took the very body of Jesus Christ—our very nourishment,” he bowed then, thumping his chest with his fist. “The privilege of being a Catholic, and cast it down to the dirty soles of your very own feet.”
“God knows me, too, I guess,” I said out loud, leaving the Priests’ Dressing Quarters. But, does He know what I’m thinking?
I began to imagine myself as a Holy Helper with a lace veil, an image God would easily pick up while he scanned brains throughout the world. I was on the lookout for holy water, so I, too, could dip my finger in and make the sign-of-the-cross over my forehead and chest at one fell swoop the way Mom did. I managed to keep a tablespoon of it in the palm of my hand, in case I ran into cripples. This picture in my mind—a girl driven by good deeds—was overtaken by the image of the silver chalice.
It was dark in the church, but certainly lighter than the hallway where I had come from on a mission. The faint smell of incense hung in the church during the Easter season, a smell that reminded me of the Hare Krishnas in New York City.
I saw Carmine down by the statue of St. Frances, the saint who was forever surrounded by birds and babies without diapers. Carmine stood there with one hand in his side pocket the way President Kennedy did on TV before he got shot, which gave him a relaxed look. He was talking in his hushed voice to Mrs. Fanning, another Auxiliary member, who stood with her retarded daughter, Maddy. They came every Saturday afternoon to help Mom prepare the church. It was too late to turn around and escape Maddy, who was twice my size and width.
Maddy was as strong as a man and clamped my head between her short arm and ribcage. She rubbed my face and head with the palms of her hands, the way the bowlers in the league shined their bowling balls on Friday nights. Her fingers smelled like Silly Putty.
Carmine freed me, reminding me again of how his janitor job was just a cover-up for his godly ways. “Madeline,” he called in the loudest whisper possible without offending the near silence he lived in. Carmine took the long wooden stick used for lighting votives, held it in front of Maddy’s eyes, and then tipped it back to his own eyes like a metronome, hypnotizing her. Maddy’s eyes darted from Carmine, then down to my head (still rubbing and mashing), then back to Carmine. Maddy’s eyes were never quite still. Her gaze was set on the open space in front of her, as if she were watching a little show, a theatrical performance just for her. Then she clapped her hands heartily, finally dropped me, and gave in to Carmine’s power.
I looked, too, from the floor to see what he had in his eyes. More theatre, maybe, but whatever it was, the tornado in Maddy swirled to a halt.
At this point, while watching all this, Mrs. Fanning’s shoulders fell. She was the only one in the whole place who reminded me of a saint. Mom referred to her as “Poor Deirdre Fanning with the Mongoloid.” Carmine referred to the girl as “The Chosen One.” Although I think Mrs. Fanning would have preferred to be in Mom’s shoes, because she treated Mom with a reverence you could serve a queen with.
Mrs. Fanning, seeing her daughter settled and safe, “working” with Carmine, left us there to start her own duties. Any time away from Maddy must have been a relief for her, even if it meant polishing brass in St. John’s.
“Take these from the carton underneath the grotto and put them in here,” Carmine instructed us. He held the votive candles one by one like doves in the palms of his hands and then placed each one gently in the jars to demonstrate. My neck throbbed. Maddy rocked herself, staring into the flames. I was the only one following instructions.
“Good job,” Carmine said to Maddy.
Carmine got up from his knees, although you could barely tell there was a difference between him kneeling and standing.
“Oh, come on, Carmine, please. You promised,” I begged, afraid he would leave me alone with this girl. She’d get me under her arm again and mash a lit votive in my face, scarring me for life. Maybe this was part of Mom’s punishment for me.
The church was cold, even in the month of May, and there were two sparrows flitting up near the basilica-style ceiling, the way they get caught in the supermarket sometimes.
Carmine stayed and now I was getting the fixed look from him. I continued to work, and he knelt down next to me. I felt pressure pass through my chest, slowly, the way they say a soul passes through you if you are next to a loved one when they die. Carmine put his hand on my shoulder. I felt too humble to look up at him. Closing my eyes, I let my mind go blank. I didn’t let myself think back to the chalice, filled to the brim with hosts.
Carmine put his head down, his lips moving like those old ladies who sat in the back of the church praying madly with their fist of rosaries over their hearts. He did this, too, while he worked. He was doing it now.
He looked up, and, at first, I thought he spotted the birds. “I have to help Jesus,” he said.
“With what?”
“Gotta help him carry the cross.” He looked down the middle aisle with worry and dread, as if it were the steep hill of Calvary. I looked there and saw no one.
I was surprised by this. I realized Carmine, like me, played pretend games, but he was almost too good at it.
“Louise—you have work to do!” He swiped my nose jokingly and everything was back to normal.
He got up from his knees, made the sign of the cross, and headed down the aisle. I noticed he had changed his outfit to his usual three sweaters, all in
different sizes.
The organist was practicing “Someone’s Crying My Lord” and with all her stopping and starting it sounded like she was playing musical chairs. Maddy was humming her own tune, and I figured it was safe to leave her while she was in a trance.
On my way to the Priests’ Dressing Quarters, I pretended to be a weeping lady of Jerusalem, although I wished I could have turned the lights up.
“Let me help you, dear Jesus.” I took the edge of my cardigan sweater and patted the sweat off Jesus’ brow but it got caught on the crown of thorns. I pulled it away, gently, and let Jesus continue up the hill of Calvary, carrying the huge cross that looked like two wooden beams ripped out of the church’s ceiling.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Jesus. “Carmine will be back to help you lift that thing.”
I took off my sweater and held it up to catch a little bit of light to see if Jesus left the imprint of his face on my sweater, but there was nothing.
Dominga was gone. The ironing board was pushed over to the side, and the cord was wrapped neatly around the iron. The purple vestment that hung from the top ledge of the door, stuffed with paper, nearly gave me a heart attack. The undergarments, the white gown and sash, were all laid out on a serving board so the priest could dress easily while praying.
“Dominga,” I whispered, to be sure. Clearly, she had left for the bus.
A breeze from the open window skimmed my face. Outside, there was green beading on the trees. I was alone with the chalice that held the hosts that weren’t even blessed.
I figured I better check to see if anyone was around. I walked out of the Priests’ Dressing Quarters and came face to face with a brilliant Lucifer embedded in stained glass, his bushy eyebrows and scowl were identical to Mother Thomas Aquinas’s, our school principal.. His muscular arm was ready to reach out of the window and scoop you from the hallway if you looked his way.
I kept going. The doors to all the rooms were closed except one. It was open, just a crack. The sign on the door said Storage. That’s where Carmine kept the spare kneeling benches, tall screens for the confessional boxes, and cartons of candles and lighting sticks. I often played in there when Mom worked; the stacked cartons made great hiding places.
I heard whispers. I looked through the opening to the Storage Room and saw Mom. The cloud of shame came over me, but then it rose and drifted over to her. She looked like she was having a special private confession, without the screen between her and her priest. In fact, I don’t think a screen would have fit between them. Monsignor Archer was standing straight and tall, his head tilted back toward heaven. Mom was kneeling down in front of him so that her head came to where his belly button would be, if he had one over his robe. The one beam of light in the whole place exposed a simple smile on her face, as if she were on stage. Their hands were in an unusual hold—palm to palm, fingers straight—sharing their interior lives as if they were the only two people in the world. They talked so low and lovingly, I wished I could hear their words.
I could see it was true what Mom said. There was a peacefulness about this Monsignor. Everything seemed to slow down around him. I watched Monsignor Archer gently bring Mom to her feet, and he put her hands over his face. He breathed so hard, his nose between her fingers; I heard him loud and clear.
While their interior lives were mingling, I left and went straight into the Priests’ Dressing Quarters. I could picture Dominga, waiting for the bus with that usual smirk on her face. Now the wooden floors creaked and moaned like an invisible alarm system. I picked up the pile of napkins and started walking in circles around the room in a path that would indicate to anyone entering that I was just doing my job, placing the ironed napkins in the “finished” basket.
The circles I made drove me to the chalice each time. The hosts began to look like hors d’oeuvres. After all, Carmine said, “A host is no different than toast, until the priest changes it into the body of Christ.”
I wondered if Monsignor Archer could change Mom’s body and blood into something else, too. He changed the expression on her face so it looked as if it belonged to a different woman.
I circled by the chalice and then reached over like a batter taking a practice swing. Just then I heard the cheerful voices of Mom and Monsignor coming down the hallway. The church bazaar was coming, and Mom was delegating again, telling the priest that she was making changes after last year’s fiasco (before she was President). The door swung open, and, for the first time all day, Mom stood there looking pleased with me.
“I was just straightening up, Mom. Hello, Monsignor. Were you doing the silver—want me to finish for you? Look, I have the rags right here.” I pulled one out of the bag and shook it.
I expected Mom to walk over to the chalice and slam the top back on, because she always said she had a hunch about me.
“No. We had our meeting down in the Waiting Room with Mrs. Fanning and some of the other ladies on the committee. Our Spring Bazaar is right around the corner.”
I looked at Mom, right in the eyes, the way she did to me when she had me cornered, but she was looking up at the priest. I waited for the cloud of shame to drift in after her. As I stood there, I remembered Dad describing her as a tall glass of water, and, for the first time, I could see what he meant. She really was an imposing sight, standing there with Monsignor Archer. They looked like beautiful giants, their cheeks flushed pink, their brushed-back hair sandy and wavy like brother and sister. Mom said Monsignor was the most handsome father she had ever seen, but I never saw him that way. He was a priest with a brimless hat, and Chuckie Sutton said he kept two mice under it.
Monsignor had a distracted, concerned look on his face, which spread over to Mom’s. “Smoke?” They both said it at the same time, the way my grandparents say the same things at the same time, because they’ve been married so long.
“Stay here, Louise—we’ll be right back.”
I could smell it, too, and my eyes began to sting. But I continued my chores. I circled by the chalice, picked up a host, and placed it in my mouth, without ever stopping in my tracks.
“Amen,” I said promptly and dropped the basket. With my head down and my hands folded in prayer over my heart, I pressed my tongue on the host and braced myself.
Whoever baked them left out the sugar. Even the cookies with the lard had a little taste. Now I knew why Chuckie was always scraping the roof of his mouth—it got so dry I had to use my fingernail to get it out of my teeth. Who could blame him for spitting it out?
Mom appeared, alone now, pulling me by the elbow. “Thank God we’re right by the exit.”
“Fire. A real fire? Mom, I have to find Carmine. And, Maddy. I gotta get her, too.”
In my mind, all I could see was Maddy, sitting by the candles, rocking.
I tore from Mom, but she grabbed the straps of my overalls through my cardigan. The crotch of my pants jerked and tightened. “Mom, what about Carmine? What if—”
“What if, what if. Oh, Louise, don’t you get it? Don’t you ever get it? You’re old enough now. He’s not right. Carmine’s not right in the head.”
I couldn’t move. All I saw was Carmine’s watery eyes when he left me filling the jars.
“We have to help him.”
Mom pushed me through the heavy door under the exit sign and shoved me hard into the cool, fresh air. It smelled like burning leaves, but it was spring.
We stopped near the birdbath by the path to the rectory. It was filled with fake grass and plastic Easter eggs. There was another statue of Mary there, too, and this one had a powder blue cape made of rain slicker material tied around her concrete neck. The wind kicked up, raising her cape up and down in the air, as she looked solemnly over at the eggs.
Thanks to the blaring fire alarm, the few of us who were in the church must have made it out safely. Carmine and Maddy, too, if not from the back door, then one of the others tha
t were studded all around the sides of St. John’s.
Mom steered me further away to the parking lot, where I saw the tail of Mom’s turquoise El Dorado sticking out of her usual spot. We were lucky. There were no flames, just a little smoke. Now, in the relief of safety, it was the perfect time for her to tell me all the things moms tell their daughters.
“Louise.” Mom whispered, looking around to be sure we were alone.
“Yes?”
“I want you to get me a couple of Easter Lilies from the altar and put them in the trunk of the car. The church has too many anyway.”
I was unable to answer, but she wasn’t waiting for my response as she brushed suddenly visible lint from her jacket. Mom looked different out here in the sun. There was something tough about her, a streak that didn’t mesh with her looks. You really had to know her like I did to know you couldn’t cross her. The lipstick she had applied so carefully was smudged and faded to a brownish color.
I studied her more closely and looked for the lie she’d just told me about where she’d been and what she had been doing. That particular lie didn’t seem ordinary at all. I remembered the long double-thick shadow on the wall in the storage room formed by her and her priest.
Now her arms were folded across her chest, and I could tell she was dying for a cigarette. She took the pony skin bag from her shoulder, opened it, and pulled out a plastic bottle of Lourdes water, the one that comes from the Grotto found by Bernadette. Mom quickly opened the bottle, and I was sure she was going to take a quick swig, but all she did was dab a little behind her ear, put the cap back on, and throw it back in her bag. Then I noticed the cardboardy taste in my mouth. It was a piece of God, or would-be God, right there next to a cavity with a silver filling. For a moment I wished I had never stolen the host so I would have something to look forward to. The speck disintegrated in my mouth as we waited for the tall figure of Monsignor Archer, in his long, inflated robes, to come around the church building.
This Side of Water Page 15
