Fruit

by Brian Francis

  “Rosa borrowed a pasta maker from old Mrs. Travatti, her next-door neighbour,” she whispered. “And she never returned it.”

  I stopped and waited for Daniela to finish the rest of the story. But instead, she blew her nose into her mitten.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “Someone killed your cousin over a pasta maker?”

  “Hey!” Daniela pointed her snotty mitten at me. “Don’t fuck with wops. If you borrow something, you better fuckin’ return it.”

  I sighed. I never know when Daniela is telling the truth or when she’s lying. Maybe she doesn’t even know herself.

  “Isn’t the church closed?” I asked, looking at my watch. It was only two o’clock.

  But Daniela said St. Michael’s is open all the time, like the 7-11. That way, people can go in and light candles or ask forgiveness any day of the week.

  I told Daniela that I’d wait for her, but to hurry up because it was freezing.

  “Why don’t you just come with me?” she asked.

  “I’m United,” I said.

  “So? You can still come inside. Just don’t touch anything. And be fuckin’ respectful.”

  I didn’t think Daniela had any business telling me to be respectful when she’s the one that swears like a hooligan, but I didn’t say anything.

  I’d never been inside St. Michael’s before, so I was a bit nervous. When Daniela told me I had to cross myself with holy water before stepping inside, I got all confused and mixed up the order.

  “Just remember: Forehead, chest, tit, tit,” Daniela whispered. “It’s easy to remember that way.”

  “Does it matter which tit I touch first?” I asked. My nipples might be jealous if I picked one before the other.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Daniela said and started walking down the centre aisle. I followed right behind her, figuring that so long as I stayed close to her, no one would discover that I was a United Church spy.

  The church was empty, except for a couple of old ladies who were kneeling in the pews. I thought one of them was dead because her lips weren’t moving and her head was tilted off to her shoulder. Pretty soon, the priests would start to smell something funny and the terrible discovery would be made.

  Then the old lady snorted and her head flopped to the other side.

  St. Michael’s was very beautiful inside, just like God would want. Along the walls, there were stained-glass windows of important Jesus scenes: a dead Jesus on the cross, a baby Jesus in the manger, and a sad Jesus with his heart on the outside of his robe. They were very dramatic.

  At the front of the church, a huge crucifix hung down from the ceiling with an actual Jesus on it. At St. Paul’s, there’s only a plain wooden cross at the front that looks like someone made it in shop class. It jiggles when the ceiling fans are on, so I’m always nervous it’s going to fall and kill Mr. Archill, the organist.

  “I bet Christine and Nancy wouldn’t have any problem going to this church,” I thought.

  Daniela led me over to a red glass lantern that was hanging from the ceiling.

  “When the candle is lit, it means that God is here,” she whispered and crossed herself.

  “Who lights it?” I asked her and crossed myself.

  “No one,” she said. “It just goes on by itself. That’s the miracle of God.”

  “The miracle of God,” I whispered.

  Then Daniela pointed to three sets of wooden doors.

  “That’s where it all comes down,” she said.

  People made confessions on the other side of the doors. They told the priests all the bad things they’d done and the priests gave them punishments. Daniela told me that she has to go to confession at least once a week.

  “What do you tell the priest?” I asked her.

  “Everything,” she said. “If you don’t, God will get you when you die.”

  I wondered if Daniela told the priest that she wets the bed, but I’m not sure if that’s a sin, really. If I had to confess, I know I’d be in there with the priest for a long time. I’d have to tell him about hanging up on John DeLouza and how I discovered I can make sperm using the show-erhead and how I think about Mr. Hanlan in a red Speedo, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  “And you wonder why your nipples look like the tops of badminton birdies?” the priest would ask. “Please.”

  “Does the priest ever get angry at you or tell your parents?” I asked Daniela.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Daniela said. “He’s there to forgive you. It’s his job. Whatever you tell him is a secret between you and him.”

  That made me feel a little better.

  Daniela went to light her candle. There were three rows of candles in small glass holders. Some of them were already lit. Daniela put fifty cents in a small tin box. I guess it was like a vending machine. While Daniela was lighting Rosa’s candle, I looked up and saw a Virgin Mary statue, staring down at me. She was standing behind the rows of candles. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her before. Mary was wearing a white dress with a blue robe and matching veil. Her hair was brown and the expression on her face was sad. Maybe she felt sorry for all the lit candles. I was standing there, looking up at her when I felt something inside of me. I can’t really explain it, but it was almost like the Virgin wanted to tell me something. A secret that she wanted to share only with me and no one else. I looked closely at her mouth and eyes to see if they moved at all.

  “What is it?” I asked through a mental telepathy message. “You can tell me.”

  “C’mon,” Daniela said and grabbed my arm, “let’s get out of here.”

  I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay there, in the church, until Mary told me what she wanted to say. But Daniela was yanking on my sleeve, saying she had to get home or else her mom was going to kill her, so I mouthed the words “sorry” to Mary.

  “You’re very lucky to be Catholic,” I said to Daniela as we walked home. I was still thinking about the beautiful stained-glass windows and the red lantern and the sad face of the Virgin Mary. “Being United is very boring.”

  “If that’s what you think,” Daniela said.

  Just before we turned onto our street, Daniela told me that her mom once went to Peterborough because the Virgin Mary had been spotted there.

  “Where?” I asked her. “Like at the grocery store or something?”

  “No, stupid,” she said. “The Virgin appeared in a field outside of the city. As soon as my Aunt Francesca told my ma about it, she packed up her rosary beads and was out the door like a fuckin’ bullet.”

  “Did she see her?”

  “No,” Daniela said. “She sat in the field for six hours. She said a bird flew by and shit on her hand, but that was about it.”

  Daniela said that the Virgin can appear anywhere, at any time. Sometimes, her face can appear in a window or a rock. Daniela told me that her grandmother even saw the Virgin in a pot of tomato sauce.

  “Staring right at her, right in the sauce,” Daniela said. “My Nona could see her eyes and nose and ears and everything. Just goes to show you. The Virgin is one tricky lady. You never know when or where she’s gonna show up next. So be on your fuckin’ guard at all times.”

  I went home and didn’t think too much about it after that. Like I said, it’s hard to know when Daniela is telling the truth. But all that changed at 7:02 p.m.

  I know the exact time because I had just looked at the clock. I was sitting on my bed, trying to figure out some stupid math problem that Mr. Mitchell has assigned that day.

  “The students who answer the question correctly will receive their very own scripture pocket book!” Mr. Mitchell said, like it was a million dollar prize. “You can take this scripture book with you wherever you go. Read it while you’re walking to school. Or on family trips. Or how about before you go to bed at night?”

  Arlene Marple put up her hand. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble handing those out? You got in trouble when you gave us those Bible bookmarks.”

&nbs
p; “Arlene, I’m sorry that some parents don’t see the relevance of God in their child’s life. But what do you want me to do? Fiddle while Rome burns to the ground?”

  Arlene was twirling a pen inside her ear. She shrugged.

  “Does everyone else understand that?” Mr. Mitchell asked, looking around at all of us. No one said anything. I was surprised that Mr. Mitchell knew how to play the fiddle. Then Jackie Myner put up her hand. I could tell that Mr. Mitchell wanted to pretend like he didn’t see her, but there was no way out.

  “You had something brief to add, Jackie?”

  “Mr. M-M-M-Mitchell, c-c-c-can you tell me if g-g-g-guinea p-p-p-pigs go to h-heaven?”

  Mr. Mitchell looked up at the ceiling, as if he were checking.

  “Why yes, Jackie. I’m sure guinea pigs go to heaven. If they’ve been good, that is.”

  “M-m-m-my g-g-g-guinea p-pig died. One time, he ch-ch-chewed through the phone c-c-c-cord so that we c-c-c-couldn’t use it anymore. D-d-d-does this mean he was b-bad?”

  Jackie once brought her guinea pig to school for Show and Tell. She named him Adrian after Adrian Zmed. It was the ugliest guinea pig I’d ever seen. Jackie told us she had given Adrian a haircut the night before, but she didn’t do a very good job. Adrian was bald in some spots. Now Jackie was sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting for Mr. Mitchell to tell her whether her guinea pig was in hell or not. She must’ve been very close to Adrian.

  “Well, Jackie, forgiveness is very important,” Mr. Mitchell said. “Did you forgive your guinea pig for chewing through the phone cord?”

  Jackie nodded. “But m-m-my mom got p-p-p-p-pretty mad. She said I h-h-had to give Adrian away. But I didn’t. I k-k-k-ept him in a T-T-T-Tupperware c-c-container under my b-b-bed. That’s how he d-died.”

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Mitchell said. He looked very uncomfortable. “Well, I would say yes, Jackie. Your guinea pig is just fine and is running around heaven as we speak.”

  “E-even if my m-m-m-m- . . .”

  “Yes, Jackie. Even if your mom never forgave him for chewing through the phone cord. Now, why doesn’t everyone pull out their spelling workbooks and we can start on today’s lesson?”

  Jackie looked pretty relieved after that. I kept wondering what she did with Adrian. I mean, if she was keeping him in a Tupperware container under her bed, maybe he was still there. In a little while, Adrian would start to smell pretty bad. Maybe there would be maggots crawling all over his body. What if Jackie’s mom found the container one day while she was cleaning? She’d be so angry she’d put Jackie in a Tupperware container, too.

  Anyways, there I was at 7:02 p.m., trying to figure out this math problem, even though I didn’t want a scripture pocket book. All of a sudden, I stopped and looked up at my closet door. I don’t know why I did it. I just did. It was almost like a voice said “Look at the door, Peter,” but I don’t remember hearing a voice.

  And there, in the wood, was the image of the Virgin Mary. I could see her head and eyes and the outline of her robe, which I think would be blue, but since my closet door is painted beige, I couldn’t really tell.

  I rubbed my eyes and opened them again, because I thought I was seeing things. But after staring at my door for a few seconds, she appeared again, right in the grain of the wood. I couldn’t believe that I’d lived here all my life and never noticed her before.

  “Ave Maria,” I whispered and made the sign of the cross. I think I screwed up the order, but I didn’t care. I was too excited. I thought about calling the Observer. They’d send a reporter and a photographer out right away.

  “Tell me all about it, kid,” the reporter would say. “Jeez, this is the story of the year!”

  He’d write down everything I had to say on a small pad of paper, shake his head, and whisper “incredible” over and over again.

  “BOY DISCOVERS VIRGIN IN CLOSET DOOR,” the headline would read the next day. There would be a picture of me looking very serious and pointing to the closet. Or maybe they’d prefer if I was on my knees, praying to the door. Or maybe they’d just want to photograph me alone because they thought I had star quality.

  But before I called the Observer, I knew I needed to talk to Daniela first. I ran out of my room and put my winter coat and boots on.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” my mom asked me.

  “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

  When Mrs. Bertoli opened the door, she was wearing a pink jogging suit and her Blue Jays toque. The smell of Lysol hit me like a wall.

  “Isa time for collection?” she asked.

  “No, not today,” I said. I bet Mrs. Bertoli would be very jealous if she found out the Virgin had come to my closet door and not hers. “Is Daniela home?”

  “DANIELA!” Mrs. Bertoli screamed. Then she asked me if I wanted something to eat. I shook my head.

  “What do you want?” Daniela said when she came to the door.

  “Listen,” I said. “You know how you were telling me about the Virgin Mary showing up in Peterborough? If she appears, like say in a field or maybe a door, for example, what does she want?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Virgin Mary. Why did she appear in the field in Peterborough? Was she trying to tell someone something?”

  Daniela chewed the inside of her cheek and thought for a moment.

  “Well, usually, she’s trying to give people a message. Y’know, like they shouldn’t fight or they should pray to Jesus or else they’ll burn in hell. But sometimes, she heals people, too. Like my Nona. She said that before she saw the Virgin Mary in the sauce, she had really bad gas. So bad that she couldn’t even fuckin’ go to Woolco without cutting it right there in the ladies department. After the Virgin appeared in the sauce, she didn’t have the problem no more.”

  I was getting so dizzy that I felt like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl. If what Daniela said was true, then maybe the Virgin had come to heal my nipples.

  “But you have to build a shrine to her before she’ll do anything,” Daniela said. “The Virgin doesn’t like giving up anything for free. She’s not gonna just hand miracles over. You gotta earn them. Now fuck off. It’s freezing.”

  Then Daniela shut the door.

  I couldn’t get to sleep that night. Every couple of minutes, I’d turn my nightlight on to look at the Virgin. It was kind of weird having someone else in the room with me. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone about the Virgin in my closet door. No one would believe me. After all, no one believed the women who said that Jesus wasn’t in the tomb anymore. And even if I showed them the door and pointed her out, they still may not see.

  “Blind are the eyes of the unfaithful,” I whispered. I surprised myself with that one. It just came out of my mouth. Maybe the Virgin was using me to spread the Bible’s word. I got out of bed, turned on my lamp, and wrote the line down in my school notebook.

  Before I left for school the next morning, I kneeled and crossed myself in front of the closet to pay my respects to Mary and to ask her for guidance.

  “May I continue to be thy tool, Virgin,” I said.

  That morning, Mr. Mitchell started off the day by reading us a story from his Christian Tales for Modern Youth book. I listened very carefully to a story about a teenage girl who stays at a sock hop past her curfew and makes her mother cry. When he finished, Mr. Mitchell asked what the moral of the story was. My hand shot up like a bullet.

  “Yes, Peter?” Mr. Mitchell looked pretty shocked. I don’t put my hand up very often.

  “Blind are the eyes of the unfaithful, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Someone behind me snickered. It was probably Brian Cinder, but I didn’t care. I had the Virgin on my side now. “Devil worshipper,” I said to him through a mental telepathy message.

  “That’s a very valid point,” Mr. Mitchell said. “I’m not sure if it’s exactly the moral of this particular story, but in general, yes, that’s very true. Um, anyone else?”

  I worried all day about what Danie
la had said; that I had to build a shrine to the Virgin to make her happy. Then she’d cure my nipples. Maybe she’d even help me lose weight and get a boy friend! But what kind of shrine should I make? Like Daniela said, the Virgin was pretty tricky and something told me she had very high expectations.

  Later that night, the answer hit me over the head like a hammer. I was looking through the Observer and saw an ad for a do-it-yourself nativity scene. The kit included life-size illustrations of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. All you had to do was glue the figures onto a sheet of plywood and cut them out along the dotted line.

  “So simple to do,” the ad said. “Makes a lovely addition to any yard. And just in time for the Holiday Season! What a perfect way to remind your neighbours that Jesus is the Reason for the Season!”

  I told my parents about the ad and asked if we could order it.

  “I think it’s a perfect way to remind our neighbours that Jesus is the Reason for the Season,” I said.

  “You’re being a little strange about this,” my mom said. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t see why not,” my dad said. “How much is it?”

  Every night before I went to bed, I crossed myself in front of the Virgin and told her to be patient.

  “Have faith in me, Mary,” I whispered to her. “Your shrine should be arriving in the mail any day now.”

  A week later, a big cardboard tube showed up at our door and my dad and I went downstairs to get started. I could tell he was excited because we had to use his power tools. He was probably happy that we were finally doing something that fathers and sons are supposed to do. I was happy, too.

  “This is like our very own shop class,” I thought to myself.

  My dad even went upstairs to make himself a coffee, which he doesn’t usually drink, and came back down with a plate of Cinnamon Swirl cookies and a hot chocolate for me. It was good to be around him and actually have something to talk about.

  “Now take a damp cloth, Peter,” he said. “And wipe down where you’ve glued so you don’t get bubbles. That’s it. Gently ease into the wood with the saw. Peter, pay attention. Peter, look at what you’re doing. For god’s sake, Peter! Follow the dotted line! You’re as blind as your mother!”