Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

Corky watched this with mild fascination. Whatever Walter Cronkite was reporting was pretty important to make her act so strangely.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Racing around the kitchen like a bulldozer on roller skates. Opening and closing cupboards, turning the faucet on and off, off and on. The phone, the light switch, the coffee pot, everything within reach was being handled again and again to no visible useful purpose.

  It went on for about twenty minutes. News flashes from CBS and manic outbursts from the kitchen. And when Walter Cronkite declared the President as dead, mommy fell to her knees. She crossed herself and launched into the apostles creed, already counting and recounting the prayer beads with her fingers.

  Corky watched her for a few more minutes. But when it became apparent that mommy was going to stay on her knees and keep saying her prayers, he turned his attention back to the television. It was still Walter Cronkite. He tried the other channel, but that was no good, it too was just N.E.W.S. about the President. So he decided to just play with his toys and wait until he heard the glorious announcement: “We now return to our regularly scheduled program.”

  The wait would be much longer than anticipated.

  2

  The Presidents death couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Gus had spent the morning putting his room back in order. A task that was both accusatory and exonerating. He felt culpable as he righted the stool and re-set the telescope, then the slightest sense of calm when they were back in their proper places. He scowled and self-admonished as he swept up the colored glass and ceramics, but allowed himself a gentle glimmer of hope with each deposit of the dustpan into the garbage.

  Perhaps denial and reality could coexist.

  Thanks to his pounding head the work was slow and methodical. And more than once Gus fell into a trance-like state. Opposite forces wrestling for control of his mind. He jerked awake from these episodes, his brain a little further away from what had occurred and a little closer to what still could be. It gave him hope. But hope would be pretty useless unless he got this shit hole cleaned up.

  He set back to work.

  It was not hard work, but it was hard to finish. The mind-numbing duties he was performing provided a catharsis. But finishing the task would mean moving on to the cerebral (accusatory!) duties of the rest of the world. With everything back in order Gus sat on the bed and scanned the room in hopes of finding some small detail that he had missed.

  No luck. He would have to leave his sanctuary and do – do what? Drive down to the police station and turn himself in? Write out his letter of resignation? Buy a gun and blow his brains out? Oddly the last option had the most appeal. But as good as it felt Gus was beginning to believe (with a little help from his old friend denial) that he still might get out of this mess. Plus there was something else he was feeling but he couldn’t quite put a finger to it. It was an uncomfortable but not unpleasant sensation coming from his midsection. Something so familiar, yet so foreign due to (what happened) due to the wine.

  And then it struck him. He was hungry! He had slept well beyond breakfast, had cleaned through lunch and now his stomach was telling him what his brain could not. Food. It would be a good start.

  It was twenty paces at most. He felt both relief as the room (the scene of the crime) was left behind, and trepidation as the kitchen (home to many a church council meeting at the large oak table) came into view.

  It was empty of course. The rectory was his and his alone. The only time that others were in the rectory was at times of his biding. Or when they came barging in unannounced.

  “Stupid clodhopper” he hissed.

  But no one would come barging in today. Even the police would have the courtesy to--. “Stop it. Just fucking stop it.”

  With determination Gus yanked on the refrigerator latch and let the heavy door swing free. It banged on the sink counter and got halfway back home before Gus stopped its retreat with his knee.

  Food.

  Eggs were an easy choice. Milk. Butter for the toast. Bacon or sausage were too much work today. A leftover dish of cling peaches had a strange appeal so he added that as well.

  Like so many others who had preceded him; in the ages old practice of recovering from brown bottle flu, Gus prepared the meal for his eyes and not his stomach. He cracked six eggs into a mixing bowl and it just didn’t look like enough. He added the rest of the dozen, poured in milk without measuring, and scrambled the mess together.

  The eggs screamed in protest when he poured them into the red hot pan. He yanked it off the burner, adjusted the setting, and when the coil had tempered, returned the eggs to their fate. The mixture bubbled reasonably. He browned toast, slathered on too much butter, and considered the coffee pot.

  ‘Twelve cups.’ The water he could gauge by the lines of the percolator, the amount of coffee would be by pure chance – although the stronger the better. Later he would dump out most of it, but for now it was what he needed.

  The coffee would have to catch up with the rest of his meal, but he had plenty to start with. He arranged two slices of toast on a plate and dumped half of the scrambled eggs on top. The rest of the eggs went back on the stove to warm and a fresh pair of bread slices were dropped in the toaster.

  The percolator was just beginning to share the sounds that had given it its name as Gus started on his food.

  The meal ended up being both a good idea and a bad idea.

  The first few tentative bites were gratefully accepted by his stomach. Feeling somewhat assured he picked up one of the shingles covered with a mound of eggs and crammed a third of it into his mouth. This too avoided gastro rejection. The peaches were a good addition and the milk, a dubious proposition at first, was also accepted as family.

  It would have all been fine and well except for the fact that it left Gus alone with his thoughts. While he had been cleaning up his room and cooking his hangover remedy, his mind had been occupied (at least somewhat) by the task at hand. Now, with no distractions, other than which bite should come next, his mind was free to roam through all of the consequences ahead of him.

  The boy – the dad – the other boys – the church council – the police – They rolled through his brain like an out of control amusement park ride. Each time he resolved (denied) one, there was another manic roller coaster to take its place, careening off the tracks, smashing into his sanity. He should stay. He should go. Would they dare arrest him? Would there be a trial? And would the newspa– Christ the fucking newspaper! He hadn’t thought of this before – his picture would be on the front page of every wire-service subscribing rag in the Midwest! And there was television and radio and fuck oh fuck, this could follow him forever!

  What his stomach had gratefully accepted, his mind now frantically vetoed. His throat constricted to a pencil line, a briny taste rose in his jowls, and his diaphragm heaved. As the food began rising up on its return journey Gus scrambled to his feet and lunged for the sink.

  Perk-a-perk-ah-perk-ah! The coffee maker sang its merry song of golden goodness. Meanwhile, across the way; Gus wretched violently.

  3

  The coffee maker had done its job and Gus had done his, and now the two had come together at the expanse of kitchen table. A large man with a small cup, a cup designed more for a prim meeting of the women’s guild than for chasing off a bad hangover. But warm ups were close at hand, and this he did often (albeit unnecessarily) just for the sake of distraction.

  He had grimly cleaned up the sink and trashed the rest of his meal. On a notion he had also retrieved the wastebasket from his own room and deposited its contents into the dumpster at the back of the building.

  And here he sat. Tortured by the thoughts that tugged at his brain and yet encouraged by the notion that each passing minute brought him closer to –

  The phone rang.

  A small yelp escaped the large man. The man who was once a boy and had yelped in a similar manner while being ravaged by the ogres. He sloshed his coffee and his
index finger became lodged in the too small cup handle. “Damn it!” Anger. Fear. Both.

  A second ring.

  Gus scowled at his own weakness but focused on the god-damned fairy cup. “Fuck!” He caught himself as if the person who was calling could overhear his oath. “Damn thing” he muttered, wrenching the diminutive cup from his hand.

  The phone insisted a third time and Gus rehearsed his story. ‘What’s that? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Yes, the boy was in my room. Yes, I talked to his father, no, no, heavens no! I am a man of the cloth. Bearing false witness is a sin.’

  He reached from where he was seated, took a breath, and picked up on the fourth ring: “Father Milliken.”

  “Father, something awful has happened.” Okay. So this was it.

  The caller had not even identified themselves, probably didn’t want to be identified. But of course, the rumors of what had happened were already spreading around town and this one nosy nitwit needed to hear it direct from the source. Hear it for themselves so that they could be the star attraction at their bowling league, sewing circle or whatever godforsaken gossip-fest they attended.

  Gus did not respond. Could not respond. The caller filled the gap: “You need to turn on the television right away!”

  Gus felt every life-giving molecule swept from his body. His mind became blank as each consequence he had imagined was now flat stark reality. He was busted. Arrested. Tried. Convicted. And branded for life by the media.

  “The President has been shot!”

  It was a good thing that Gus had practiced his story. It was the only thing he could rely on (part of it at least) while he sorted out what was going on in his head. “What’s that? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was just as he had rehearsed although unwittingly a purely honest response.

  “The President, John F. Kennedy, our President, was shot in Dallas today. They don’t know if he’s going to live.”

  It wasn’t the church council, not the police, not even the concerned parent of a congregational child. This was just some anonymous person telling the local priest that the catholic President had been shot. And perhaps hoping that his phone call would earn him a few extra crowns in heaven.

  “The President has been shot.” Gus repeated softly into the hand piece. It was the best news he had ever received.

  4

  The occurrence of major life events, of the magnitude of a presidential assassination (especially of a catholic presidential assassination) prompt people, communities and congregations to either look more closely at their own lives – or – to become oblivious to their small role in the world and be dragged along by the power of a nation.

  The brave look inward. The deniers hide in the fallout.

  Gus had a lot to deny, and with an entire nation affixed to the happenings in Dallas and DC his transgressions hid easily. Besides, he was suddenly busy and in demand. His first phone call of the day was certainly not his last. Several parishioners had requested special services of the rosary and opportunities for confession. Normally he would have loathed such requests. But by god if this wasn’t a wonderful distraction, not only for himself but for the others who could make his life uncomfortable.

  To think that earlier today he believed the people were going to turn on him. But look at things now. The people were turning to him! They needed him and of course would protect him from the lunatic ravings of anyone so upset by the President’s death, that they’re driven mad and make false accusations against a priest.

  Gus began building his defense. He called the two most gossipy members of the woman’s guild and asked them to pass the word that a special rosary would be performed tonight at 6 pm followed by confession until all have been served. He shared the same information with radio station KNEW (we put the KNEW into Elmwood’s music). The receptionist who took his call had clearly been crying. “I’ll pass the information along to the disc jockey. It’s a shame we can’t broadcast the service.” Gus immediately brightened and said: “My wonderful child of God, you put him on the phone right now!” KNEW would undergo a change of format at least for one night.

  Calls were placed to the 5 church council members to let them know that they were being prayed for this time of crisis. And then on a whim, and more for his own benefit than others, Gus also dialed up the sheriff’s office where he got to speak to the man himself. “Thank you for your concern Father, actually things are really quiet now, it’s eerie. Everyone watching the TV I guess. But I’m grateful knowing there’s someone out there looking out for our spiritual needs. Any of the guys I can spare tonight will be at your rosary you betcha.”

  The work was a great distraction. By keeping busy, Father Milliken was able to keep his mind from going renegade.

  He spent the rest of the day making last minute calls to ushers and altar boys, all were eager to offer their assistance in this time of crisis. He panicked for a moment when the task of snow removal entered his mind, and then stood stock still. Why no, that had been taken care of last night by- by the father of the boy. The walks were clear, and now it was- he looked at his watch- it was 5:15! The day had gone by and he had hardly thought about last night’s ugly incident since receiving the call about the President.

  Five-fifteen. If anything were to have happened it would have happened today; during ‘business hours.’ Plus, this was Friday! Suddenly Gus felt exonerated of his demons. “Five-fifteen!” he said triumphantly to the pleasure of his own ears. “Must get ready for church!” And with that he exited the sanctuary of the rectory for the first time that day.

  The air was sharp but still. To the west a corona of colors; red, orange and pink commingled with the cirrus clouds above the setting sun. Gus paused for just a moment to take in the omen while an old verse found its way to his lips: “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” Fair weather; smooth sailing. He smiled at the thought, then caught himself. Best not to let any early arriving parishioners, indeed he could see a thin line of sinners making their way up the steps of St. Marks, catch him in the act of smiling on this grievous occasion. He adjusted his thoughts to the task ahead. ‘Full house.’ He mused. ‘If they’re getting here this early it’s gonna be a sellout.’

  He turned up the walk that led to the side door of the sacristy. The walk was clear. The boy’s father had done a good job.

  5

  The rosary service was a somber smashing success. Every pew filled. People standing on the edges, spilling out the front door, even kneeling in the main aisle. The four deputies from the sheriff’s office were garishly led in via the sacristy door to be seated in the front row. KNEW spliced a microphone to the churches phone line and sent the feed back to the studio and out to the 30 mile radius of their 1,000 watt tower.

  Father Milliken: “Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

  The congregation: “Holy Mary mother of god pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen.”

  And among those many voices in the congregation was a man with no rosary but who instead fumbled two keys, one for the car, and one for the house. And with him a woman who frantically twisted and knotted her rosary. The miniature Jesus on the cross flipping wildly like a circus acrobat. And between them, a boy. A boy of perhaps 4, maybe 5 years old. A boy who used to stand on the pew and take in the sights around him; but who now sat unmoving. Hands at his sides, eyes down, chin on his chest.

  Throughout the 58 prayers of the rosary Father Milliken kept his eyes on this trio. He made eye contact with the man once (who shrunk in repose) with the woman three times (whose eyes darted constantly like Mexican jumping beans) and the boy from whom there was nothing.

  ‘They’re not going to say anything.’ Father Milliken reflected in wonder.

  Father Milliken: “Glory be to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

  The Congregation: “As it was in the beginning, now and ever shall be, amen.”

 
; A packed church, a radio station broadcast, officers in uniform and a family that he had once feared – now stone cold mute. Gus Milliken was feeling more and more like Father Milliken. He was building a strong defense. And while he didn’t believe in reincarnation, the president’s death had given him new life. Damn, why couldn’t a president die every day!

  Part 2

  Georgie

  Chapter 1

  1

  Three days later, (an anguishing three days later because all that was on were shows about the president) was when Georgie got his new name.

  There had been a time when a preschooler named Corky had sat in this same spot, but something bad had happened. Very bad. Something so bad that it makes you forget who you are. So bad that other people forget your name or who you are. Or even worse, they give you a new name.