by Chris Rush
* * *
DAD WAS MORE of a mystery—a dark planet, exerting only vague astrological influence on his offspring. He walked with a limp, a steel brace on one leg from the car crash of ’64. He was still strong, though, and steady. He could be quite charming, always ready to amuse guests with a story or a joke. But to a child, to a son, he had nothing to say. He seemed unsure around kids, uncomfortable, even guilty. I knew something bad had happened to him, something that couldn’t be talked about.
There was always silence in his wake.
Every Sunday, our family went to church, but Dad went during the week, as well. He went to confession often and took Communion every day. I was intrigued by the idea of his soul—and even more intrigued by the idea of his sin. What could it be?
* * *
WHEN AGAIN I BROUGHT UP the idea of my taking the maid’s quarters, Mother had already moved on. She was on the phone, talking about Dotty Doone, the golf pro who dressed like a man. As she gossiped, I carried my clothes and records downstairs right in front of her.
Once I’d settled in, I asked my mother about décor.
It was the exact right word. Instantly, she came alive. “You know, I always meant to do something down there. Make a statement. I don’t know why the girls we hire don’t make more of an effort. Why live in squalor?”
When I suggested we paint, Mom smiled. “How about a wild yellow? Maybe a marigold—the kind of yellow that wants to be orange.”
“That’s me—I’m a yellow who wants to be orange!”
“Yes, I know that about you.”
Soon we were downtown, looking at swatches—and the next day the basement was reborn. Against black linoleum, marigold was a rocket launch, a flower-power explosion. Inspired by photos of hippie crash pads in Life magazine, I went on to strangle my bookcase with Christmas lights. I taped tinfoil to the ceiling and threw fake fur on the floor. From a ratty record store in town, I’d procured a black light and the necessary posters; now Jimi and Janis flickered on my wall. When Donna came down, she nodded in approval. She gave me incense and a 45 of Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow”—which I played a thousand times.
One night, I took off my clothes and danced naked, wiggling in the mirror, a daub of Day-Glo on my teenie-weenie. Then, from out of nowhere, there was the sound of static and a God-like voice: What is that horrible odor?
I’d forgotten about the intercom, by which Mother sent commands into the maid’s quarters. I pressed the call button. “It’s frankincense and myrrh, Mom.” I reminded her these rare fragrances had been gifts to the Baby Jesus.
“Don’t be smart. It smells worse than Nanny’s underarms. Open your window. And turn down that screeching.”
* * *
AS TIME WENT ON, Mom tended to forget I was in the basement, burning things and growing up. She never visited and only occasionally intruded by intercom. In the fragrant gloom, I was free to become a weirdo. By day I was a Catholic boy in a plaid uniform. By night I was a freak in a fuzzy vest.
Having grown up in a spotless space-age home, I developed an unwholesome desire for all things vine-choked and Victorian. On weekends, I searched yard sales and junk stores for buried treasure. I found mad crystals and silk tassels, tintypes and diaries. I carried home a case of butterflies—each one stabbed through the heart with a pin.
It all belonged in my room.
In a moment of good cheer, Father Dempsey let me have a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary I’d found moldering in the church basement. Delivered by two of Dad’s workers, Mary seemed content as my roommate. Glass-eyed and gilt—I thought she was beautiful. I played records for her, explained that rock music was a kind of prayer.
My search for treasure continued. One Saturday, I walked to Polly’s Bric-a-Brac and Fine Furnishings, a disaster of pointless merchandise in an unheated barn. Cupboards and crutches, Bibles and toilets—it was a kind of perfect chaos. Hoping for gold, I opened an old leather trunk and pulled at a tangle of frilly underwear and faded neckties.
Then it flashed: a cape—a pink satin cape!
I ran to a cracked mirror and tried it on. Draped across my shoulders, the fabric was blinding, the color obscene. The label said Pucci—the lining a riot of rainbow colors. It was a fashion miracle. I gave old Polly a rumpled dollar and ran.
* * *
FOR A WEEK, I wandered the neighborhood in my cape, feeling potent and magical, a vampire-saint prowling the earth. In a Transylvanian accent, I asked people: Do you like my Pucci? Neighbor Becky, my partner in poison, refused to answer when I rang her doorbell. My brothers all but disowned me. To other children, my delirious face, emerging from a magenta flame, may have indicated mental illness or clown school. Girls gaped. Boys spit. I carried on.
Until Dad spotted me.
He stopped his new Thunderbird and put down the electric window. “No fucking way. Get it off.”
“Dad, I’m Pope John—the Twenty-Third!”
“You heard me. Get it off. Now.”
The Pucci was banned. Dad wouldn’t explain, but later, during an argument with my mother, I heard him use a new phrase.
“The boy is a goddamn queer, Norma—it’s obvious.”
“Charlie, don’t say that, he just needs a challenge.” Mom suggested piano lessons, or archery. “Why don’t we call Father Dempsey—or one of the younger priests? Maybe they’ll know what to do with him.”
Lying on my bed, I thought: What’s a goddamn queer?
2.
Eviction
MY FATHER’S COMPANY, Charles Rush Construction, built office buildings and town halls, waterworks and missile silos—but Dad was most proud of the churches and schools he built for the Diocese of Trenton. Dad made a fortune serving Our Lord.
To show his gratitude, my father entertained the clergy in style.
On summer Sundays, a gang of priests could always be found sipping cocktails by the pool (they always stayed for dinner). Father Dempsey, our pastor, was considered “family” and regularly joined my parents on vacation. I’m told that besides gambling and golf, Dad sometimes introduced Father Dempsey to the fairer sex. Charles Rush Inc. won all the church contracts.
At St. Ignatius, Father D’s church, my parents were high-profile parishioners, an example for all to see. Charlie and Norma Rush marched up for Holy Communion as if collecting a prize. Dad was strong-jawed and blond, handsome as a movie star, and his wife—the brunette bombshell—swung at his side. Down the fashion runway, my siblings and I followed them—hands folded, eyes down. God watching.
At school, the nuns had explained God to me—heaven and hell, miracles and martyrdom. I loved every juicy bit, both the glory and the terror. Sometimes, I spent lunchtime in the dark church, alone, waiting for God to finally appear. I tried to feel His Holiness, penetrating me like atomic radiation. Closing my eyes, I meditated.
God-rays are entering my soul.
I could feel their warmth inside me.
In church I felt safe. It was the one place where everything moved slowly, and in that slowness there was peace. “Your mind is always racing,” my mother used to say—and it was true. But in church I was better, I was calmer. When the nuns saw my piety, I heard them whisper: Maybe God wants this one for Himself …
My dad, born of Irish immigrants, would have been happy to hand over one of his sons to the Church. But my mother, a convert to Catholicism, was descended from Connecticut Puritans. She was much less inclined to give things away.
* * *
IT WAS SISTER Theresa Ann, a hunchbacked Puerto Rican, who instigated God’s Peculiar Plan for Chris. Sister Theresa was no fan of mine. In her sixth-grade classroom, she found my metaphysical enthusiasms difficult to contain. When she called my house to schedule a private consultation with my parents, it was I who picked up—shocked to learn that nuns used telephones.
“Am I in trouble, Sister?”
“Let me speak to your mother, please.”
A few days later, when my parents returned from
a meeting with the hunchback, they seemed a bit perturbed. I was escorted into the living room for a talk. Dad lit a cigarette.
Mother explained the bad news. “Sister Theresa received your IQ results this week and she’s a little concerned.”
I tried to defend myself, saying how nervous I got during tests.
“Stop,” my mother said, holding up her hand. “Sister Theresa says the numbers are inappropriately high. She thinks you’ll need some sort of special help.” I didn’t understand.
“Sister Theresa says you’re an excellent student, but that you constantly interrupt.”
“How do I—”
“You ask too many goddamned questions,” my father chimed in.
“Calm down, Charlie.” Mother turned to me, bland as the moon. “It’s just that other children need a chance to learn, Chris—not just you.”
I tried to defend myself. “I can’t help it that other kids are dumb.”
“Darling, what did I tell you? No one likes a conceited child.”
“I’m not conceited. I’m just saying—”
“Boy, listen to your mother!”
I bit my lip, trying not to cry. My parents hated crying.
“Chris, this is serious—the test results are really alarming. But your father and I have discussed the problem and we’ve come up with a great idea.”
I felt my stomach turn.
“The idea is…” The fact that my normally direct mother was dragging this out was a bad sign. Her hands fluttered—another indicator of doom. “We’re going to send you away to school.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my father told me to shut it up.
Mother continued: “Sister thinks a Catholic boarding school would be best for you. For your development. And Father Dempsey agrees.”
“But I live here. I don’t want to leave.” I explained that I’d just bought some throw pillows. “I’m redecorating my room. And I’m planning a dance party!” I could hear my voice rising into hysteria.
“Calm yourself.” Father’s face was hard. “It’s time for you to grow up, buster. Your mother has made it too easy for you—lying around, making funny flowers. No more.”
I tried to explain that I was done with the flowers.
Dad turned away. “Norma, finish this.” He disliked parenting even more than Mom. He got up to mix a drink.
Mom grabbed my hand. “Honey, we just want what’s best for you. We’re proud that you’re smart, we really are—but you’re different. I think you know that.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. Why do I have to go?”
“You won’t go until September. You’ll have the whole summer with us. We can still have a party.”
As she leaned in to comfort me, I could smell her perfume—but I pulled away.
* * *
TWO WEEKS LATER, I’m miserable.
We’re driving to St. John’s—a monastery—for my interview. As we pull up the long driveway, I’m thinking I’ll die of sadness. I don’t want to leave home.
Then, at the top of the hill I see it—a castle rising from the fog. Stone walls, dark towers, windows like squinting eyes. It’s pure monster movie. I’m sort of impressed. I take a deep breath—and though I keep some sourness in reserve, I decide not to throw a tantrum—not yet, anyway.
A young crew-cut priest greets us at the castle’s huge wooden doors. Behind him is a long stone staircase, leading to a heaven of stained glass. The priest smiles and quickly removes me from my parents, who are shown to a lounge to meet with the headmaster. I walk down a dark passageway with the handsome priest, and we enter a tiny office—no windows. The door is shut.
“I’m Father Karl,” he says, finally introducing himself. I wonder if he’s an albino, he’s that pale—his crew cut like a bed of white needles. He pulls up a chair for me, and when he speaks it’s very softly. He asks about my family, my grades. He knows about the infamous IQ test. “Impressive.”
Like my mother, I’m easily flattered. I feel the sudden need to shine. When he asks about my hobbies, I tell him I like to sketch. “I can draw anything.”
“What are you working on now?” he asks me.
“Well, I’m doing a series of drawings of paramecia. Do you know what they are?”
He says he does.
“Okay, so I do a whole page with lots of them, and if you color them in, it looks sort of like paisley.”
“Oh, really. And what sports do you like?”
When I tell him I’m not interested in sports, he frowns.
I don’t want to disappoint him.
“I used to sail.”
He studies my face, a concerned adult.
Embarrassed, I look at the stone walls, which seem to be sweating. But the office is actually freezing. My hands are shaking.
“I like God, too,” I blurt. “I mean, I really like Him. I’m just not a hundred percent sure I want to be a priest.”
“Okay, well, that’s not a requirement.”
I’m confused. I’d assumed St. John’s was a kind of Barbizon school for priesting.
“Isn’t this like a—what do you call it—a seminary?” I say it quietly; it sounds like a dirty word.
“Yes, there’s a seminary here for men, but that’s separate. You’d be here in the boys’ school. That is, if you’re accepted.”
There’s a long pause, which feels like a test—maybe to see if silence freaked me out. I fold my hands on my lap and close my eyes halfway, like a saint on a mass card.
“Are you sleepy, Chris?”
“No, I was just—” Blushing, I tell him that, actually, I haven’t slept well for a few days. “I’m kind of a nervous person. And sometimes I have bad dreams.”
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”
I nod, knowing he’s quoting scripture, but part of me wishes Father Karl were really asking what scared me. About a trillion things, I would have told him.
When he stands and offers me his white hand, I shake it firmly like my older brother had taught me. “Like you’re packing a snowball,” was how he explained it—but Father Karl’s hand is warm as could be.
Outside the building, my parents are waiting. My mother kisses my cheek. “Good job.”
“Who knows?” I say.
“We know. We heard the whole thing.”
“Through the walls?” I say sarcastically.
“No, silly. Through an intercom. Quite a setup.”
“What?” I’m aghast, worried about what I said.
“Paisley?” My father rolls his eyes. “Really?”
When I look at him, he laughs—and it doesn’t seem like he’s making fun of me, because my mother laughs, too. They’re holding hands, pine trees and stone towers rising behind them. They look beautiful, like a postcard. So I laugh, as well—and miracle of miracles, my father pats me on the back. “We’ll stop at that steakhouse,” he says. “The one we saw on the way up.”
My mother says she could go for a petite sirloin.
To have my parents to myself was a triumph.
* * *
ON THE INTERCOM: my mother’s voice.
“Chris, come to the table. Father Dempsey is waiting.”
Sunday dinner—always a performance. Table set, candles lit, silverware shining like new money. Rushes ran from all directions, assembling behind our assigned seats, ready to play our part.
To my right, Dad stood with our honored guest, waiting for the signal. When Mother made her entrance, she took her throne and nodded. Then we all sat, grabbing our napkins and bowing our bony heads. On cue, Father Dempsey recited grace like a radio jingle.
“Bless us O Lord and these Thy gifts we are about to receive …
“Amen,” he said, but then held up his hand, signaling he had more to say. “Charlie, Norma, I have some good news. Headmaster O’Conner informs me that your son has been accepted at St. John’s.” Lifting his whis
key, Father Dempsey winked at me. “Congratulations, my boy. One day, I hope you’ll go on to take your holy vows.” He downed his drink in a single swig.
Mother, representing the clan, responded judiciously. “Thank you, Father. But let’s not rush ahead to the vows. The boy is still very young.”
Dad said nothing, but my brothers turned to me, confused. Michael seemed slightly hostile. “You’re going to a new school?”
Donna patted my arm. “Very clever.”
I looked down at my meal. Everything was white: filet of sole, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and a big glass of milk. It was as if my mother were making an appeal to heaven, to purity—to creamy perfection.
* * *
WHEN I TOLD MOM I was nervous about going away, I meant nervous about leaving her. Maybe she knew. Instead of a hug or a pep talk, she offered to take me clothes shopping—a full day together at the Short Hills Mall. She understood exactly how to seduce me. For hours, I posed in department store mirrors, multiplying myself, trying to find the future me, the right look for St. John’s. I tried on jackets and ties, sweaters and suits.
Watching all this activity, Mother became a bit wistful. “Eleven years old and already a little man.”
“I’m a size-ten shoe.”
“You know, I might miss you, Chris.” She batted her eyes, as if it were a game. “I haven’t decided.”
It was too late to risk sadness. I changed the subject.
“So, can I have both sweaters, the mint and the blue?”
Mom regained her poise. “Boys do not wear mint.”
* * *
UNLIKE MY MOTHER, Donna was very emotional, saying twice a day how much she’d miss me. “Who will I talk to in this house once you’re gone?”
Being in my sister’s room was thrilling, especially when she locked the door. The room smelled like Doublemint. Green garlands made from gum wrappers hung from her canopy bed.
