(2005) Wrapped in Rain

by Charles Martin

  I parked, slid off my seat, and walked to the back of the truck where Mutt was wondering which side to exit. Judging by the contorted look across his face, the wrinkled look of his suit, the rubber gloves on his hands, the spray bottle hooked in his back pocket, and the roll of paper towels stuffed under his arm, he planned on keeping himself and everybody else clean. According to my count, he had been taking his medication, but doing so seemed to have little effect on the muscles covering his face. Jase had loaded into the truck wearing his boots, hat, and twoholster belt. When he opened the door and began walking toward the church, I whispered, "Hey partner, no guns in church."

  He pulled both six-shooters out of the holster and walked back to the truck where I stood holding the door open. He placed them on the seat, patted both handles, and walked back to Katie. Except for the visually odd appearance of Mutt, we walked through the front door like regulars. Jase even took his hat off and handed it to Katie.

  The faint smell of incense mixed with freshly cut flowers floated at nose level throughout the inside of the sanctuary. Crosses and candles decorated every nook and cranny, and several saints stood enshrined in small cutouts in the church walls. Stained glass windows climb ing to the roofline; chains hanging from the ceiling supporting several hood-sized chandeliers; white marbled floors; ornate, hand-carved wooden pews-the entire place spoke of reverence and permanence.

  Heels shuffled down the hard, cold floors, echoing across the room as parishioners walked down the center aisle, bent their knees, bowed their heads, crossed themselves, and then slid quietly into their seat. Like every church I'd ever been in, no one had assigned seats, but everybody knew where everybody sat. So not wanting to cause a scene, I grabbed Mutt by the coattail and steered him to a pew two-thirds of the way back. He shook his head and pointed down front. We walked, shadowing Mutt, and took our seats nine rows back from the front.

  At a few minutes after six, the organist brought the congregation to their feet with a responsive hymn during which the priests and acolytes proceeded in. The first acolyte carried a large wooden cross, a second swung an incense burner, and the priests sang in unison without having to read the verses from their hymnals.

  Five verses later, Father Bob, a tall, bald, and tanned man with graying sideburns and broad shoulders, welcomed us. His voice was deep and soothing-the kind that made you think that maybe confession wasn't all that bad, and his smile was genuine. Following his welcome, he crossed both himself and us several times and, I am ashamed to admit, in doing so, reminded me of my third base coach.

  Two adjunct priests approached the podium and read from both the Old and New Testaments. They read slowly, with both delight and purpose, the meaning almost palatable. When finished, the congregation rose while Father Bob read the Gospel lesson. The first half he read; the other he recited from memory. Following the Gospel, the congregation knelt and recited the Apostle's Creed. Surprisingly, Mutt knew every word by heart. That completed, they confessed their sins and then prayed for everything from their church to parishioners who were ill or had died to the country's leaders. Jase and Katie knelt on one side of me, while Mutt knelt on the other. All three heads were bowed, hands clasped and eyes shut. I knelt, clutching the back of the pew in front of me, and scanned the congregation to see who else was praying with their eyes open.

  Jase tugged on my shirtsleeve and whispered, "Unca Tuck, who is that man with the hat?"

  "He's the rector."

  "What's that?"

  "He's in charge. Kind of like the coach."

  "Well, why's he wear that hat?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know, buddy."

  The lady in front of us looked over her shoulder, put her finger to her lips, and wrinkled her forehead. Jase looked up again. "You think he wears that hat all the time?"

  The lady gave us the "Shhh" sign again, so I put my hands to my lips and said, "Probably just in here."

  We finished the prayers and sat back, so I picked him up and put him on my lap. After a minute or two, Katie scooted a few inches closer to me and snugged her shoulder next to mine. Due to the stone and marble, the sanctuary was cold, but her shoulder and his back warmed me.

  I inched forward, pressed the tip of my nose against the back of Jase's head, and breathed a slow, deep, and silent breath. The feel of his soft hair on my top lip and nose reminded me of Miss Ella's warm, gentle lips on my cheek. When she got older, they grew prickly with fuzz and quivered when she reached up to kiss me. I never shied away from that. Not ever. Prickly or not, I wanted that woman's lips on my face.

  When I got too old and too big to spank, which was about thirteen, Miss Ella began painting me with coal. If I lied about my homework, or didn't take the trash out, or didn't make my bed, or didn't do something I knew I should have, Miss Ella would sit me down, pull a piece of coal from her apron, touch it to my tongue, and then wipe it across the entirety of my lips-the consequence of my disobedience. Then she'd touch the tip of my tongue again and draw a large "t" on my forehead. I wasn't allowed to wash for an entire day. School or no school. "Tucker," she'd say as she put the coal back in her apron, "I'm not going to quit saying it simply because you get tired of hearing it. That ash is a reminder that willful defiance must willfully be defied."

  "Why?"

  "Because it leads to the grave, child. The grave."

  I looked in the mirror, pointed to my head, and asked, "Then why the cross?"

  "Because, child, you got to die before you can live."

  Father Bob stepped to the pulpit, looked at his notes, and then decided he'd rather talk from down front. He closed his notebook, descended the stairs to our level, genuflected, leaned on his cane, and began telling us the story of his four years in the Vatican, how and why he became a priest some thirty-five years ago, and how the work of the church isn't something "reserved for the men in white robes and funny hats; it's something all of us do."

  While he preached, which was less of a sermon and more of a conversation, Jase jammed his right index finger two knuckles deep into his left nostril. Thirty seconds later, he extracted his shiny finger and held it up to the light. Not a pretty sight. Then he shook his hand toward the floor, trying to flick it off. Problem was, he missed the floor. It arced off his finger, flipped a few times in the air, and landed square on the back of the lady in front of us. It was big, green, and stuck to her cream-colored coat like a caterpillar crawling across a bedsheet. Katie turned white, her eyes as big around as silver dollars. She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and attempted to pick it off, but that only made matters worse.

  Having come to a pause in his story, Father Bob wiped his brow with a white handkerchief and seemed to tremble a bit, but his voice never slowed and he never skipped a beat. I looked at the other priests, and the closest to Father Bob seemed poised to jump if Father Bob fell. Father Bob noticed the consternation painted across the faces of those closest to him and said, "Oh, don't look so worried. Yes, the chemo has made me weak, but it won't kill me." He turned and looked at the cross hanging above the altar. "I don't think He's finished with me just yet." He turned, folded his handkerchief, and spoke to all of us. "My dear brothers are worried that I'm too weak to preach. That this cancer, which the doctors say is eating me up, is winning. That preaching today might further weaken my already crippled immune system and just kill me on the spot." He smiled, looked at them, then back at us, and finally at the cross. "But my, my, my! What a way to go."

  The congregation laughed, and the other priests sat back in their chairs and relaxed. Mutt was sitting erect, face forward, hands gripping the pew in front of him. He too was poised to spring.

  "Which brings me to my conclusion." Father Bob smiled and walked in between the first two pews and then pointed back to the cross above the altar with his cane. "Many times in our lives, we act like He's still dead. But sev eral times today, we've testified that He's not. So which is it? Why say one thing with your mouth and yet live another with your life? If He's alive, act like it
. He either is or He isn't. You can't be half-alive."

  He paused for a moment and gathered himself. "I have been to Jerusalem, walked the garden of Gethsemane, the Temple Mount, even walked into the tomb where most scholars think our Lord was buried. Now, I'm not saying that particular place was His tomb-or that it wasn't. I don't know. It's really not important. But I do know this." Father Bob paused, and Mutt moved farther forward on his seat, his hands trembling. "He wasn't there." He smiled and stared out the stained glass high above him. "That rock casket made an impression on me. Why?" He paused and then whispered, "Because, like Him, I walked out."

  He let his words echo off the back wall. When they had finished, he asked, "How is that?" He took a step between the pews and pointed his cane at all of us. "The stone had been rolled away." He leaned on his cane again, and his eyes scanned the rafters. As if speaking to the ceiling, he said, "That fact alone demands a response from us." His eyes leveled and focused on the packed pews where few backs rested against them. "We can either crown Him with thorns, spit in His face, pierce His side with a spear"-Father Bob sliced the air with his cane-"and decry Him the Lord of lies, or"-Father Bob turned to the altar and limped forward-"we can run with reckless abandon to the foot of that same tree"-Father Bob knelt heavily-"fall on our knees"-he bowed his head and whispered-"and call Him Lord of all."

  Moments passed while Father Bob buried his head in his hands.

  Finally, he whispered as if to himself, `Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up." Another moment. "But He was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed." Father Bob's shoulders rose and fell, his head pressed hard into his hands. "And upon Him was laid the iniquity of us all." He stood and turned to face us, leaning more heavily now, his cane bowing slightly in the middle and a tear cascading off his cheek. He waved his hand across the altar. "Which will it be?"

  Child?

  Yes ma am.

  You ought to hear the chorus up here that's warming up for that man. These folks are planning a party in his honor so you best listen to what he has to say.

  Father Bob climbed the steps, patted the first priest on the shoulder, and sat down as the organist softly led us into the offertory. While the ushers began passing plates, Jase asked me for a quarter and then watched quietly as the plate made its circuitous route to us. When the plate arrived, he dropped it in and then handed it to Mutt. Mutt emptied his pockets and dropped in a wad of onedollar bills and about two handfuls of change. The ushers collected the plates, and the priests blessed the offering and then prepared the altar for the bread and wine.

  When Father Bob had finished praying the blessing over the elements, retold the story of the Last Supper, and prayed a final time, the ushers once again appeared and began leading people forward. The usher signaled our row, and everyone stood up except Katie, Jase, and me. Mutt was focused on the railing and following the leader. His right hand was holding on to the collar of his suit like a parachute cord.

  I pulled on the tail of his coat. "Mutt!"

  He waved me off and kept his eye on the railing.

  I pulled again. "Mutt!"

  He turned and I whispered, "You can't go up there."

  He shrugged. "Why not?"

  "Well"-I looked around-"you have to be Catholic."

  "And?"

  "Well ... it's disrespectful."

  "I know that."

  "Oh," I said and let go.

  The row in front of Mutt had emptied and they were waiting on him. So he brushed me off, straightened his coat, and jogged down the center aisle.

  Katie poked me in the leg and pointed forward. "Don't you think you'd better go with him?"

  I looked at the railing and back at her. "It's not right."

  "That's not what I asked you."

  I shook my head and let my eyes follow Mutt down the aisle.

  She raised her eyebrows. "Don't you think he might need some help?"

  "No"-I shook my head-"I have a feeling he's done this before."

  Child, this is the Lord's House. It wouldn't have hurt you to walk up there with your brother:

  I know, Mama Ella, but maybe I need to deal with a few other things first.

  Like what?

  Your absence.

  And?

  I thought of Rex. Him.

  She paused about five seconds. You finished yet?

  Mutt reached the railing, knelt, and extended both hands like a man who'd been in the desert for days with no water. His eyes were trained on Father Bob. The first priest held out the plate of bread, and Mutt, rubber gloves and all, tore off a chunk large enough for fifty people's communion. He stuffed the whole bite in his mouth, using both index fingers to squeeze it between his cheeks. With more bread than he could possibly chew, Mutt waved the priest on to the next person and started chewing quickly, making every attempt to swallow before the cup came around.

  Swallowing loudly, he waited for Father Bob, who was methodically making his way down the railing. Father Bob approached Mutt, and rather than bend, he knelt opposite Mutt. "Hello, Matthew," he whispered.

  Mutt nodded, and Father Bob offered the cup, which Mutt gently took out of his hands. Mutt locked his fingers about the cup, turned it upright, drank the entire thing in five loud gulps, and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve. Having emptied the cup, he pulled the spray bottle from his back pocket, sprayed the cup and the railing in front of him, wiped both with four paper towels, polished everything with a fifth, and then, with two hands, gave the cup gently to Father Bob. Father Bob smiled, placed his hand on top of Mutt's head, whispered a blessing, and then returned to the altar for more wine.

  The parishioners next to Mutt stood open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and speechless. Mutt nodded, half-knelt, crossed his heart four times, and followed the procession away from the railing. As Mutt returned to his seat, most eyes in the church were trained on him, and the only sound was the spray bottle bouncing up and down on the back of his left leg as he walked.

  With communion completed, the organist started the recessional and brought us all to our feet one last time. As the lady in front of us turned to leave, Mutt quietly picked the caterpillar off her back with a paper towel. She never even knew. He then washed down our section of the pew and walked out carrying two used pairs of rubber gloves and eight or ten used paper towels. At the door, Father Bob stopped Mutt, looked him in the eye, and gave him a bear hug that lasted several seconds. He said, "My friend, it's good to see you. I've missed our conversations."

  Mutt nodded and tried to say something but couldn't net it out, so he mumbled, "Me too." He threw away his trash, hopped in the back of the truck, and lay down. I shook Father Bob's hand and then followed Katie and Jase out to the truck. By the time I got in the cab, Mutt's eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling with a measured and deep rhythm.

  Chapter 32

  IT WAS ELEVEN BEFORE KATIE TURNED OUT THEIR lights. Mutt had climbed into the loft after we returned from church, but I doubted he was asleep. I climbed up after him and poked my head above the floor. His sleeping bag was nowhere to be found. Neither was Mutt. I turned around, dangled my feet above Glue's stall, and watched him balance on three legs with his eyes closed. Glue and I sat in silence for several minutes while moonlight spilled through the holy wall and spotlighted the corners of the barn like a disco ball hung from the rafters.

  I knew I needed to go looking for Mutt, but I was tired. I grabbed a flashlight out of the truck and shined it atop the water tower. Nothing.

  When I got to the quarry, all was quiet. Even under the moonlight, I could see Rex's aluminum boat resting on the bottom beneath forty feet of crystal-clear water. I didn't think he'd be soaking in the scalding pot, but I circled by. The water was cold, as were the coals below. There was only one other place that I might find him, so I backtracked through the pines.

  Mutt was lying
at the foot of the cross, curled up like a kid inside his sleeping bag with his head on a pillow of pine straw. His shoulder was sticking out of the bag, and I could see he was still wearing his suit. His eyes were wide open, and when he saw me, he pulled his sleeping bag high around his neck.

  I turned off the light, lay down in the pine straw opposite him, and looked up through the cathedral of limbs. They were old pines, sixty feet tall and maybe forty years old. I folded my arms behind my head, and for several minutes we sat staring at the beams of the cross, glowing under the moon. The air was cold, and my breath made smoke. Christmas would be cold this year.

  Somewhere after midnight, I stood and fingered the ground for my flashlight. Mutt opened his eyes, saw me shivering, and unzipped his bag. Using the pine straw as a mattress, he spread it like a blanket, buried himself and his nose under one half, and closed his eyes. He was still wearing his shoes and rubber gloves, and the cleaning bottle was still hooked through a belt loop.

  I thought about the house, the dank basement, and the memory of a little black-haired boy being tugged by his earlobe up the steps and thrown through the front door. "This is Matthew Mason ... Apparently, he's my son." I thought about him playing with my toys, the Lego castle, of building intricate machines out of simple components, of sitting in Miss Ella's lap and smiling while vanilla ice cream dripped off his chin and around the knuckles holding the melting cone. I thought of the funeral, of Mutt's appearance, matted hair, forgone hygiene, and of the few weeks that followed. I thought of my frustration, my anger, and my hasty departure to carry him south to Spiraling Oaks. And most of all, I thought about dropping him at Gibby's doorstep and of never looking back. Of writing him off. Mutt was the purest and most innocent human being I had ever known, and yet for most of my adult life, I had treated him the same way Rex had treated me. And there, beneath that old, handpolished tree, I saw it. And it hurt.