In this formidable little school, John Xavier Garrity was the star pupil of the eighth grade and therefore cosseted and admired and encouraged by the nuns. His brother, Jason, was the scorn of Sister Mary Margaret, teacher of the ninth grade—which had sixty pupils. He was threatened with expulsion at least twice a month, for falling asleep at his splintered desk out of absolute exhaustion, which he neither complained of nor explained. He did not feel unjustly treated; it was a part of the life he lived. It was something to be endured—for the time being.
On this lamentable morning of his fourteenth birthday, Jason, hardly aware of the smarting particles of half-frozen rain which stung his face and bare hands, stared at his home and for the first time in his life knew an acute and adult depression, heavy as death. There was something about the forlorn scene, the wet wooden walls of all the houses, the livid light on their roofs, their meager feathers of smoke rising from huddled chimneys, the sound of the first vehicles on the, street, the echoing rumble of wheels and the plodding clop of horses’ hooves which added an almost supranormal melancholy to the whole atmosphere. Glancing at the garbage pails at the rear of the houses, Jason felt rather than saw the running furtive rats. Frail yellow lights were now appearing at other backyard windows, intensifying Jason’s somber despair. He was unfamiliar with such an emotion, for he had a brave heart, and its impact, therefore, was intolerable. Behind those thin wet walls, he felt for the first time, were lives as stagnant as old water caught in a leaning barrel, lives immobilized in poverty and misery, never to escape. Were the lives of his family, and himself, as mean and insignificant as these? Their only common denominator was pain and hunger. He felt all the devastating horror which confronted his neighbors, the irremediable suffering, the comfortless dejection.
For the first time in his young life he felt caught up in a common humanity; he experienced empathy, and it ripped up his emotions and assaulted his heart. He wanted to weep not only for himself but also for strangers. He had no words to express his feelings. When the big bell of the church growled its surly note to the cold wet air, indicating the lifting of the Host, it only added to the lonely dusk, the crushing sadness of the surroundings.
Jason, whose black curls and shoulders were already wet—he was shivering—could not move. He raised his eyes again to the doleful sky and the clouds behind which the morning sun was still hidden. He did not know he was crying, not with the tears of a child, but of a man stricken with the pain of his spirit, infused with a universal grief, a loss of something never known but only suspected in some deep oceanic depth of the soul.
A few clouds parted and a pale white sun looked down, silvery pallid, giving very little light, and no brightness, no warmth, no suggestion of a new day. It merely floated, an enormous flat sphere, in the darkness surrounding it.
Suddenly, from that cheerless orb two long colorless but sharply defined paths of misty radiance darted earthward. All at once, Jason’s heart exploded with a huge mystical joy, inexplicable, without form, without boundaries. It was an ecstasy of discernment, of total understanding, of infinite awareness and comprehension, as if he had immediate knowledge of all life, of God himself. All the unknowable was explained, all shown. He was enraptured, stilled with bliss and exultation, caught up within himself, transfigured, powerful, exalted, as though he had glimpsed, for one eternal moment, the Beatific Vision. He had no impulse to kneel, to venerate, to worship, for what he experienced had no name, no frame of reference in piety, no connection with the world of men at all. It transcended time and place and flesh. It was only Itself, revealed utterly, possessing no human awareness. It was Revelation, and its awareness of its revelation was sufficient for it, demanding no acknowledgment.
Then it was gone, and with it the Revelation. Jason stood, trembling, conscious of something too tremendous to understand, though for an instant he had understood it entirely. But he could not remember what he had understood when he had been caught up in that ecstasy. He could only remember some vast and limitless jubilation. He felt as if something had moved irrevocably in him, as a mountain is moved, or a sea diverted, and all the desolation about him was only an illusion. Life had lost, for a time at least, its power to hurt him.
He had heard of the “rapture” of saints. It never occurred to him that he himself, for one endless instant, had experienced rapture. He was not famous for devotion to his religion, or for his earnest practice of it. Yet, as he went toward the house, he was suddenly aware of God in the simplest and purest sense.
He ran in to the warmth of the big kitchen, shaking rain off vigorously, like a dog. He saw his mother’s face, her tired eyes; he saw his grandfather eating prunes and stewed figs in absorption; he saw that Joan had come to the table, her glowing black hair neatly combed, her beautiful face as still as snow.
“Why did you stand out there in the rain, Jason?” asked Kate as she put a bowl of porridge in front of him.
“I was thinking,” said Jason, wiping his face with the big family towel at the sink.
“Ugh,” said Bernard. “Bad for a man’s bowels, thinking.”
But Kate was studying Jason with her usual anxious smile. “You were thinking of your birthday, dear? Tonight we’ll have a little celebration.”
Jason sat down at his grandfather’s left and poured the thin blue milk over the oatmeal and was careful not to use more than one spoonful of precious sugar. Bernard did not look at his grandson, but he was sharply conscious that something had happened to Jason. There was nothing in his appearance or his manner to show what it was, though Bernard, with his Irish intuition, knew that in some manner Jason had changed. Was there a more compact outline to the boyo, a more vivid emanation? Well, at fourteen he was no longer a lad; he was a man. Perhaps he had just realized that. “More tea, Katie, please,” Bernard said. The kitchen was quite warm and comfortable, bright with color. Bernard happened to glance at Joan. Was there a deeper malice in those beautiful blue eyes than usual when she stared at Jason, a more focused slyness? Sure, and it’s just my imagination, thought Bernard. The rain was turning to snow; great white flakes were mingling with the drops. The wind increased in rage, and the window shook.
Jason said, “Why isn’t Jack back from Mass? It’s over now.”
“Hah,” said Bernard, “he’s gone into heavenly discourse with the saints, perhaps.”
“Da,” pleaded Kate, pouring more tea into his cup.
“The trouble with you, Katie, is that you’re a grand innocent woman,” said Bernard. “It’s a cold wet morning and his lordship doesn’t feel inclined to do his paper route. Leaving it to Jase. And niver a copper does he leave for his brother, in thanks.”
Joan spoke for the first time, in her high and childishly lovely voice. Kate thought it sounded like the tenderest note of a harp. “Jack has chosen the better part,” she said in a very trenchant tone.
Bernard looked at her without love. “And now it’s you quoting the Holy Bible, is it, then? Get it from Jack and his hypocrisies?” His dark face swelled with a rare anger, for he was almost always gentle with the female sex. Kate was distressed. “Da, Jack is no hypocrite. You’ve never said that before.”
“Better if he was. There’d be some hope for him then,” said Bernard. He rattled his spoon in his cup. “A man can outlive his hypocrisies, but niver those convictions which give him pleasure. Jack’s pious convictions give him the privilege of shirking his duties. What do you say to that, Jason?”
Jason was hurriedly gulping his breakfast. He not only must deliver his mother’s laundry before school, but also John’s papers. It was now a quarter past six by the alarm clock that stood on a shelf near the sink. He said, “One of these days I’m going to kick his …” He looked at his mother and sister and said, “… his teeth down his throat.”
Bernard laughed his loud, abrupt laugh. Joan said, “That sounds just like you, Jase. You don’t understand about Jack, and never will.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Jason, but his voic
e was softer. Joan’s beauty always entranced him. She rarely, as Bernard would remark, had a civil word for her older brother, yet it was obvious that he adored her, and Bernard felt uneasy. Jason was no fool; how was it possible that he could not see that his sister despised him? Bernard had long suspected that Joan felt herself “above” her family, as if she were a damned princess. But then, even the rough brown wool robe she wore at the table gained a certain air and aristocracy on her perfect little body, a certain patrician dignity to which Bernard himself was not immune. Jason, he would reflect, no doubt felt that also. It was a strange thing that beauty effortlessly received love, even if it were possessed by the unworthy, while a noble soul was frequently disdained if it lived in an unprepossessing body. Bernard might have his doubts about the existence of God, but he never doubted the existence of Satan. His presence was only too evident in the world.
Jason swallowed tea so hot it burned his mouth. He jumped to his feet, went to the wall where coats hung, and put on his grandfather’s warm dark tweed coat which Bernard had brought from Ireland. It was hideous and too long, but it shed rain like glass. Jason wore it, by permission, only on stormy days. He hastily kissed his mother, patted Joan’s averted head, struck a heavy affectionate blow on his grandfather’s shoulder, and ran out. Bernard watched him go. Yes, there definitely was a change in Jason today. It could not be defined, but it surely was there, almost palpable.
Jason ran briskly down the desolate wet street; the cobblestones glistened with dirty moisture even in this dun early light. He had pulled a woolen cap over his head; his boots splashed through puddles of black water. The tiny lawns before the old beaten houses were but trampled mud, for there were too many children in the harsh neighborhood. Some housewives were not too careful about their outdoor privies and the smell of human offal was pervasive. Jason reached the small corner shop of Joseph Maggiotti and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled wanly. Old Mr. Maggiotti appeared, holding a buttered crust of his own bread, peering gnomelike in the unlighted gloom of his shop. He was very old, very emaciated, and absolutely bald. His small face was but a dark wedge of pain and patience, but his black eyes were as vivacious as a youth’s and brilliant with intelligence. He grinned at Jason, and his bright white teeth shone even in that murky light.
“Again? For the papers?” he said. “Jack’s with the angels, si?”
“Si,” said Jason. “I’m going to kick his ass off one of these days.”
“Good,” said Joe, nodding vigorously. “And one for me, eh, too?”
“Si.” The newspaper wagon was waiting. It was already heaped with papers. Mr. Maggiotti covered the papers with a length of cracked brown oilcloth. “You’re a good boy, Jase,” he said. “And a successful man you’ll be.” He tapped his forehead. “I know it, here.”
“I hope so,” said Jason, tucking the oilcloth around the papers.
Mr. Maggiotti looked at him shyly with affection. He reached into the pocket of his long striped apron and brought out a small object wrapped in brown paper. “For you. For the birthday,” he said. Jason took the object, unwrapped the paper. There was a new silver dollar in it.
“I can’t take all that money, Mr. Maggi,” he protested.
“You take it. Saved for a long time. Went to the bank for it.” Mr. Maggiotti shone with delight.
“A whole dollar!”
“Pretty, no? A silver dollar.” Mr. Maggiotti preened. “Saved for a long time. For you, Jase.”
Jason almost cried. He wanted to drop the coin on the aged wood counter and refuse it, but he saw the shining eyes of the old man, the pride, the pleasure. He said in a rough voice, “Thanks, Mr. Maggi. I’ve never had one before. I’ll keep it all my life. I’ll never spend it.”
The old Sicilian nodded. “A dollar saved, it is good.” He lit the gas jet near the till. The yellow light spewed out and lit up every spotless corner of the minute shop, showing the jars of cheap penny candles, the packages of Bull Durham, the rolls of poor gay cloth, the burnished pots and pans, the barrels of pickles neatly covered by white napkins, the glass case filled with black cotton mittens, pins, needles, thread of various colors, shoelaces, buttons, scissors, secondhand shoes of all sizes brightly polished and mended by the old man himself, and a meat counter containing thick Italian sausages, pungent cheese, homemade bread, small buckets of butter, a few cans of sardines, and various other sundries. There were drawers behind the counter where pressed glass dishes waited for purchasers, and rosaries and cutlery and knives. On the distempered wall hung a sign, “In God we trust. All others, cash.” It was a wise motto which Mr. Maggiotti often forgot when confronted by a child or woman who was hungry or a man who had just lost his poor job. He was usually repaid, sooner or later. Very seldom was he cheated. After all, a man must eat, and so must a child. He knew that if he was not repaid, payment was impossible, so he forgot.
“I’ve got something for the Mama, too,” he said, and he gave Jason a very oily brown package which smelled exceptionally appetizing. “Not every day we have a son with a birthday, no?”
Jason carefully put the package in the big pocket of his grandfather’s coat. The shop was deathly cold. The little iron pot stove was never lit until almost Christmas. Mr. Maggiotti, in consequence, had a frightening cough all winter. He coughed now. But he smiled glowingly at Jason. Without speaking again, Jason tugged the paper-filled wagon outside. He could feel the old Sicilian’s eyes watching him, and he was afraid to look back. Near the entrance was nailed a small wooden cross. Jason looked at it with a dark, closed face and said, “Nobody should be as poor as this, nobody. It isn’t right.” He felt the silver dollar in his pocket and he wanted to cry. But this would mean two dollars this week instead of the one Mr. Maggiotti paid him every Saturday.
He tried to whistle as he bent his head against the rain and the wind. But it was a dolorous sound. He had forgotten what he had experienced that morning. Somewhere in the back of his mind it lingered, waiting. He went down the street, turned into Tunbridge Avenue, a grandiose name for a street meaner than the Garrity street. Deftly he rolled the newspapers tightly and tossed them on broken porches or against paintless doors. It was quite light now, but there was no sun, only the shriek of the wind. At the end of Tunbridge Avenue he was hailed loudly, and saw his best—and only—friend, Lionel Nolan.
Lionel was a merry soul, blithe, mischievous, shrewd, intelligent, and cynical even at his age, which was thirteen. He was the “bad fate” of the nuns, who loved him just the same for his jolly nature, his wit, his willingness to run errands for the harried women, his exuberant healthfulness, a rare thing in this section, and even for his “naughty tricks.” When he entered the classroom, invariably late, he brought an excitement with him, an ebullience, which made the sourest old nun smile unwillingly and cuff him in affection. Ancient Sister Agatha, the principal, who was called some very unpleasant names by the pupils in private, would smirk on Lionel after administering the proper severe punishment. She would say, “You’re a rare bad spalpeen, and that you are, my lad,” and send him off with a heavy bang on his back. “And mind you don’t come back for more too soon.”
He was an altar boy, very severe of face and perfect in manner when serving, but his parodies of Father Sweeney had a touch of lewdness about them, which delighted the more unregenerate of his companions. Father Sweeney was certain Lionel had a vocation, which made Lionel risible among his many friends, and many friends he had. He could outbox, outrun, outwrestle any other boy his age, some even older, and it was done with no overt malice or arrogance. He was also generous when he had a penny or two to spend, and no one, not even Jason, suspected that this was to buy approval, friendship, and a following. He was famous for his “tall tales,” which no one ever thought to call outright lies, for the tales were so amusing, so obviously extravagant, that to most people it appeared that Lionel did not intend them to be believed, but only to be enjoyed. He could also sing like an angel, and there was no game with which he was not
familiar. He was as active as a monkey.
Lionel was “red Irish,” in contrast with Jason’s “black Irishness.” He was shorter and more muscular than Jason, and of a sturdy build in spite of poor food and the adversity in which he lived. He had a plump, wide face with a very impertinent nose and a big laughing mouth and jumping yellowish eyes always mirthful and very observing. His hair was violently red, and he had two deep dimples in his face, one on each side of his mouth, plus a dimpled chin. He was considered very handsome and fascinating, except to his father, whom he called “Gloomy Gus.” Mr. Colin Nolan possessed a certain Irish puritanism and inflexibility which did not endear him to his one son. He had been known as the “heaviest hand in County Mayo.” Certainly Lionel felt it frequently, which did not seriously disrupt his enjoyment of life. The Nolan household was the grimmest in the neighborhood. Mrs. Nolan, a tall flat woman, had never been known to smile. Not even beer was permitted under that dark roof, and Mr. Nolan never went to the local saloon.
Jason loved Lionel, for Lionel literally lit up the atmosphere whenever he appeared, making the most somber day an expectation of pleasure and amusement. He was much attached to Jason, though he rallied him frequently and made good-natured fun of him before others. He thought Jason too serious, in spite of Jason’s cheerful smile, which he guessed too often concealed anxiety and worry. But Jason forgot his worries when he was with his friend. Lionel made him laugh. Jason was not of a naturally confiding disposition, but he confided in Lionel, and it never occurred to him that Lionel, though he would listen sympathetically, never confided in him at all. He believed that Lionel was “light,” and refused to accept trouble, which was a relief to Jason, who often felt his own troubles were unbearable.
Answer as a Man Page 3
