Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  A fourth cartoon and then a quick farewell. Harry swinging the lantern, Casey with a microphone in one hand, the other held high waving gently back and forth like a signal to the caboose-man indicating that the cars were coupled, it was time to get underway. And from behind Casey and Harry the once-stoic, camera-shy, but now sugar-fueled kids, waved like frenzied chimpanzees.

  It was all good fun.

  Casey the Engineers cartoon show captivated Corky’s attention more than anything else on television. And it was the best time for play. Not with the wooden blocks, not with the marbles or even his scant few plastic cars. When it came to play, this was the best time for Corky, the very best time of all. Because this was the time that Corky played ‘church.’

  2

  The early formative years are designed for exploration, adventure and discovery. In Corky’s case, his formative years were constrained; walled in by the long harsh Minnesota winters, isolated by the lack of any meaningful parental guidance, brainwashed by his infatuation with TV. However there was one connection with the real outside world (as he knew it) that occurred on a weekly basis. The Sunday visit to church.

  Both mommy and daddy had been raised as fiercely devout Catholics. Five minutes of listening to mommy utter her monologue to coffee pots, lunch buckets and Saint Francis would convince even a casual observer of her affinity for the holy trinity. While daddy’s commitment to the cross was just as strong it was just not as vocally evident. But for both parents, and that meant Corky too, the arrival of Sunday brought catholic mass at Saint Mark’s. No exceptions. To miss church would be a sin. To eat a morsel of food or take a sip of water Sunday morning before accepting the holy Eucharist on their tongues would be blasphemous. Even arriving at church a few minutes late would be grounds for a few extra hours sitting on a hot bed of coals in purgatory.

  So Corky went to church.

  The five minute car ride to St. Mark’s was an adventure in itself. Corky would climb into the aging Dodge Rambler and stand on the back seat. The days of passenger restraints, airbags and laws mandating child safety seats were still far off in the future. So Corky stood, his arms braced in the rear window well for support, and took in the world around him. He knew the route, at least most of it. Down Valley street to the stop sign. Then a turn ‘that way,’ across the railroad tracks and up the big hill. Here the large cross at the top of St. Mark’s bell tower would be waiting to shift his attention from the adventure of the drive to the anticipation of the destination.

  “What if we have a flat tire and can’t get…heavenly father pray for us…I shouldn’t have brushed my teeth I may have swallowed a drop of water…creator of heaven and earth…there’s always a train I know we should have left…full of grace the lord is with thee.” Mommy’s non-stop litany of pending doom and penance was almost always without merit. But there had been one Sunday which she had been prophetic. Once there was a train. Not an idle line of boxcars blocking the crossing but a bellowing Union Pacific approaching the crossing at full tilt boogie. “We’ll be late! Forgive us our trespasses! We have to beat it.” Daddy didn’t verbalize his agreement; he demonstrated it. He stomped on the gas pedal and the lumbering Rambler lurched forward in protest. Corky was pressed hard into the fabric of the seatback, then nearly tumbled forward as the initial shock of the G force released him.

  Whoonk! Whoonk! The engineer made his obligatory double blasts of the air horn as the train approached the crossing. “…as we forgive those who trespass…” The 20 year Union Pacific employee didn’t realize it at the moment but today he would be exceeding the number of warning blasts as required by the Transportation Safety Bureau while concurrently risking the limit of the local noise ordinance. Whoooonk! Whonk! Whonk! Whoooooooonk! “…he was conceived by the holy spirit…”

  Daddy glanced at the speeding train. He measured the distance to the crossing in his mind. He weighed those factors against the penance for being late for church and the promise of several weeks worth of lamentations from his oratorical wife. He up-shifted and floored it.

  Corky liked trains. He was seeing one up close right now. It reminded him of Casey the engineer and his cartoon show. Maybe Casey was driving this train! And Casey was whonking his air horn and coming up fast and close just for Corky! Had he not been standing sideways with both arms in the rear window well, just to remain upright, Corky might even have raised a small hand with a tentative wave. But things were far from stable at the moment in the straining Dodge. “…the father, son and holy ghost...” And he needed to keep his hands planted so he could get an even better look as the train raced toward him.

  Whoooooooonkkkkk!

  There were no crossing arms, no flashing lights, not even a mechanical bell swinging on a pendulum to signify the crossing. There was no need. The view was unobstructed and the engineers that worked this line were diligent with their air horns. You’d have to be blind, deaf, dumb and stupid to disregard one of these massive diesels, that, or late for church.

  The front wheels of the Rambler thumped on the outer rail, skipped up, and came down just over the second rail. For a moment time stood still - suspended in a mental snapshot: The car astride the tracks, the blunt nose of the train snorting at the passenger side door, even the prayer to St. Jude was caught in a momentary hiccup. Corky too was briefly suspended. He was airborne, his hair brushing against the Rambler’s roof. In that moment he looked directly into the face of the engineer. This was no happy, fun TV personality. This was not an engineer who introduced cartoons and gave out treats to kids in the studio audience. The face that Corky saw was purely horrified. And somewhere behind the horror was something else. It was anger.

  Whooooooonkkkkk!

  Father time decided to start ticking again. The back of the Rambler completed its flight. The tires found purchase on the roadway and scooted the car forward. A second later, certainly no more than two, the Sunday morning UP claimed the intersection. The whonking air horn trailed on uninterrupted, far after the main engine cleared the crossing. It was as if the engineer were sending a message the only way he could: ‘Don’t you ever, ever scare the living shit out of me like that again you godforsaken drunken moron!’ Mommy, daddy, and that meant Corky too, were oblivious to the meaning of the elongated air blast. All that mattered to them was that they would not be late for church. They would not burn in purgatory. Their immortal souls were safe.

  3

  The possibility of subsequent train sightings appealed to Corky but never paid off again. Every Sunday since that brush with death via diesel engine, Corky held out the hope that he would get to see another train (Although he vowed not to look at the engineers face unless it was Casey). Church, on the other hand, was a promise fulfilled weekly without fail.

  Church was Corky’s sole connection to the outside world as he knew it. When they parked; he saw other cars (though he didn’t ride in them). When his family ascended the steps; there were other people (though he didn’t talk to them). But mostly church was an hour during which his daddy would speak a lot more than usual (even if it was just reciting a prayer along with the congregation) and his mommy would speak a lot less (nearly trembling with utter will to keep her yap zipped during the sermon). Even at the age of 4 (almost 5!) Corky could tell that church had an impact on people.

  He knew the routine and was proud of it. You walked into church and dipped your hand into a basin of water and made the sign of the cross. Then you found an open pew (always in the back) genuflected and shuffled to the middle. And just like he had done in the Rambler, Corky always clambered up and stood directly on the seat. Had he been a bit older or if he had become fidgety this act would have earned him the disapproving looks of sour ladies sporting stiff hats with thin black netting hanging from the brim. But Corky did not fidget. From where he stood he had a great view. He could see the backs of hundreds of people which made him feel in control. Massive stained glass windows decorated the sides of the church. Between each window was a plaque designating one of
the stations of the cross. Bisecting the church was a great wide aisle where they would soon hold the parade. And up front were the statues of the saints, the banks of petition candles, the communion rail and the altar. And it was here, at the altar, that most intrigued Corky. Here was this place, this special chamber with its massive table and small cubby’s that held objects of mystical power. There were fantastically ornate little doorways on either side of the altar that led off to places unknown. Tiny bells to be rung by the altar boys during critical moments of the mass were lined and waiting. It was all part of a fantastic show, grander than anything he had ever seen on television. Grander because it was ‘live.’

  Corky watched each service closely. The movements and actions he witnessed were the same ones he would repeat at home with Casey and his cartoon friends. Only at home it was Corky who was the priest, while Casey and Harry served as his altar boys and the kids in the studio audience his captive congregation. The lifting of the chalice, the distribution of holy communion, passing the collection plate among the flock. All of these rituals Corky took in with reverence for later use during his favorite time of play.

  After church the sinners, now redeemed, would file out the back, each pausing to shake hands with the priest, chat with a few other parishioners and then head out into the world to resume their sinning. Corky's parents always positioned themselves to be at the head of this evacuation. It wasn’t because of vanity or the chance to be first in line to tell the priest how much they enjoyed his arid oration. Anything but. These were people who had endured a lifetime of being social outcasts. An hour spent being part of society (even in church!) left them draped with a sackcloth of insecurity. To greet the priest with a simple ‘Good morning’ was as socially enjoyable as an act of contrition. And heaven forbid should one of the other parishioners try to engage them in conversation. The few times this did occur mommy had handled it with all the grace of a manic ventriloquist: “…oh! Good morning… mother of god…I left the coffee pot on the burner…your name we pray…where did we park?...benevolent Virgin Mary…” These ‘conversations’ would inevitably cease as mommy then performed the most disgusting of acts (but to her perfectly natural). Right hand flayed wide, she would cram a finger deep inside a nostril and corkscrew her arm back and forth. This was no demure dabbing at the nose; this was picking a booger from the back of your brain. She finished only when she was satisfied that she had captured something of interest. Any treasured trinket retrieved was then examined (to and fro) for quality assurance, and stuffed under a fingernail for safekeeping. Seeing this, the well-meaning and suddenly pale parishioner, their appetite for Sunday brunch fully abated, would offer a brief word of hasty retreat; wisely choosing a farewell wave in lieu of a prim handshake.

  Daddy’s contributions to these exchanges were null. He would merely stand there; stupidly examining his key ring (which held all of two keys) making it appear as though he was engrossed in the momentous task of trying to determine which was the car key to get them home and which was the key to get them in once they got there.

  Indeed, getting out of church fast was paramount. But there was one time when it didn’t happen. And because of that one time Corky experienced the biggest thrill of his young years; yet inherited a nightmarish horror that would last him the rest of his life.

  4

  On that notable Sunday, at the end of the service, mommy simply could not find her purse. The neighboring pews had thinned considerably and even the wide aisle down the center was down to a trickle. Mommy and daddy both poked under the pews and lifted and raised the kneelers in their futile search. Eventually an astute usher who had undoubtedly dealt with such matters asked rhetorically: “Are you missing something?” The question, as transparently obvious as any question can be, was directed at daddy. After taking a moment to process the query he came up with the verbose response: “Purse.” Later that night daddy would reflect on the conversation and actually take a bit of pride in knowing that his contribution helped to resolve the matter.

  The purse was discovered. A breathless woman working her way against the remaining flow of traffic in the main aisle, held out the purse sheepishly and said she had taken it by mistake. Mommy thanked her for her honesty by extending a hand with a pair of fresh trinkets, each under its own nail. Daddy looked stupidly at his keys and the usher drifted off to the parish rectory to skim his weekly 2 percent of ‘the loose stuff’ from the collection plates.

  Being the last in the church, they joined the lingerers: Those people who are warmly greeted yet silently loathed by priests and pastors alike who, every week, every god damn week, have to stay long after the service so the lingerers can talk about every god damn thing under the sun. You just couldn’t plan on a 12:30 tee time with the lingerers around.

  But today Father Milliken saw a new group at the back of the pack. Yes, he recognized the family; they were part of the ‘fast exit’ crowd. What the devil were they doing back here? He scowled to himself and then played the old game in his mind… were they in need of a quick confession? (5 minutes) Infidelity counseling? (schedule for later…besides, don’t look the type) Relative in the hospital? (Christ, let’s hope not…two fucking hours) Death in the family? (he hated planting corpses in the winter and these rubes wouldn’t even have the savvy to offer him an honorarium).

  But on the flip side there were two reasons that he welcomed their appearance: One, he could brush off the regular lingerers by indiscreetly suggesting that the ‘family in the back’ needed to talk to him, and second, there was this handsome little boy. A tousle-haired blond boy of perhaps 4, maybe five years old. You could almost characterize him has a nice young man. He stood stoic, unspeaking. When the line moved, he moved. A little boy who did what he was told. A little boy who would not tell what he did. Ha! Father Milliken suddenly found a whole new interest in hearing the story about why this fast exit family was at the back of the line. He brusquely unloaded Mr. and Mrs. Sutz. Mrs. Sutz was still explaining to him the injustice of her head cheese not selling at last month’s bazaar. ‘Christ lady, let me squirt a little cheese on your head…let it go;’ he mused. “Yes, yes…perhaps next year’s bazaar. Hello mister Fitzgivens—goodbye.” “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Have to talk to a family. Goodbye.” And then they were there.

  Mommy and daddy had already had enough for one day, an hour’s worth of church and then, then having to find the purse! And interacting with people! And standing in line! Every ounce of social aptitude had been expended. So when they finally got to Father Milliken it was first with relief, and then great dismay when he deferred from his patented one-pump handshake reserved for the fast exit crowd and began to engage them in conversation.

  Father Milliken had no trouble keeping up his end of the conversation. After all, that’s what priests do; carry on soliloquies for the better part of an hour. “Was there something you folks wanted to visit about?” He asked with kindness in his voice and trepidation in his heart. “Oh no!...my purse I lost…thank you saint Anthony!...the woman, she returned it…decets of the rosary, blessed Virgin Mary.”

  Daddy looked at his keys.

  “Oh, a lost purse!” Father Milliken laughed with great sincerity. He had swept out the lingerers, and his concern that these rubes would need his ear or his services was completely unfounded. Besides, there was still this handsome little boy.

  Corky had been watching in awe. The priest was the most remarkable person he had ever seen. Even more important than Casey the engineer! This person…more than a person…had been up in front, at the altar, before all of those hundreds of people. Never before had Corky experienced more than a quick glimpse of the priest the many times they had hurriedly vacated the sacristy. But now, this more-than-man stood squarely before him. His robe brushed lightly just above the floor. Thick ivory colored ropes cinched his waist and dangled to garish tasseled ends. A large crucifix, suspended by a thin silver chain, lay upon his chest. To Corky, the priest was the tallest, most important person in th
e world. And then, for the first time ever in his young life, Corky was delivered an unfathomable shock.

  Father Milliken bent low, looked Corky directly in the face, smiled warmly and asked: “Who do we have here?” Corky was absolutely speechless. He had never been acknowledged as a person ever before. Yes, he knew about smiles from TV but acknowledgement? Him as a person? No way, no how. This was a first.

  Accustom to the impact his appearance could have on little children, Father Milliken then turned to the parents for validation. Daddy, struggling with forces intellectual and social, searched deep inside himself, found the word, and provided the enlightenment: “Boy.” There was dead air for a few seconds before he amended his statement. “Our boy.” ‘Christ in a sidecar driving backwards during a hailstorm. If birdshit were brains these people’s cages would be clean!’ The good father ruminated. Audibly he chuckled a different sentiment “Why yes, yes indeed! Your boy!” And what a fine young boy he is!”

  “He likes to play church…holy Jesus be with us…wants to be a priest…it’s time for coffee…a priest-like you…blessed cherubim.” Hidden only by the girth of his generous robe, the statement made Father Milliken visibly quiver. It wasn’t the segmented prayer mumbo jumbo; oh no, that he dismissed in a heartbeat. It was those other words: ‘A little boy…who likes to play church…who wants to be a priest…like you.’ He wrestled with internal forces for a moment and then succumbed. He cleared his throat importantly and then made his best pitch: “You know, I’m wondering if we could help each other out. Occasionally we need someone to clear snow off the sidewalks in the evening.” He looked at daddy. “If you’d like to come by oh, say maybe once a week to clear the snow and bring your boy along, I’d be happy to have him in my room and talk with him about being a priest.” ‘After all,’ he turned now toward mommy. ‘We all need to do our fair share in supporting the church, whether it’s time, talents or money.’ He nodded at the purse.