by Jim Shepard
They sat down.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Now more than ever he wanted to be in tune with the mechanism of the Mass, to see and appreciate all that had during the year for one reason or another cruised effortlessly by him while he stood oblivious in the pews. But even as they spoke the opening prayer together, he could see that the magic did not extend to all aspects of the Mass; that only the songs and the night itself would be different and so then memorable, and that would be enough. Alone, either was a great deal more magic than he had bargained for. In a vague way he wondered if it might be capable of producing some sort of change in him, and he wondered if that was what he had been hoping for all along.
Laura glanced back at him from the front row, and he smiled. They stood and sat and knelt as a group, and recited the prayers crisply without the usual murmuring and trailing off at the end, and Mass continued to glide by seamlessly.
“Be seated,” Father said. “A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Luke.”
“Glory to you, O Lord.”
He shifted at the podium, and began.
“Now it came to pass in those days that a decree went forth from Caesar Augustus that a census of the whole world be taken. This first census took place while Cyrinus was governor of Syria. And all were going, each to his own town, to register. And Joseph also went from Galilee out of the town of Nazareth into Judea to the town of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, to register, together with Mary his espoused wife, who was with child.
“And it came to pass while they were there that the days for her to be delivered were fulfilled. And she brought forth her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them at the inn.
“And there were shepherds in the same district living in the fields and keeping watch over their flocks by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the glory of God shone round them, and they were much afraid.
“And the angel said unto them: ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be unto all people, for today in the town of David a saviour has been born to you, who is Christ the Lord.’…
“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will.’”
Father closed the book with a quiet slap. “This is the Word of the Lord.”
Biddy sat transfixed, murmuring with the rest, “Thanks be to God.”
The Homily went by unnoticed, an uneven drift of words in the distance. His mind stayed out with the flocks in the darkness under the ancient night sky, with the shepherds and stars and angel who spoke so beautifully that to his complete surprise the Gospel, of all things, had provided something as vivid as the Orioles or the Vikings and a rough hillside thousands of miles and years away had become as familiar and comforting as Three Rivers Stadium or the Oriole dugout.
It was not a moment to rush through. He stood for the Profession of Faith a second later than the others, the first moment he was aware of when the choir was not in complete synchronization.
And as he recited, he did believe: in one God, the Father, Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen. In Jesus, in his crucifixion, in the rest of the prayer, which grew progressively harder to keep concrete, to keep meaningful, until, as always, he felt even in his faith a lack of faith, a nagging conviction that he didn’t believe hard enough.
Father had begun the Liturgy of the Eucharist and was preparing the host: “The day before he suffered, he took bread in his sacred hands, and looking up to heaven to you, his Almighty Father, he gave you thanks and praise. He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said: ‘Take this, all of you, and eat it: this is my body which will be given up for you.’” Biddy knelt without moving, lost in thought, and found himself mouthing along: “When the supper was ended, he took the cup. Again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples, and said: ‘Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.’”
He sat back, wishing he could understand, as Father rang the prayer to a close. Upon the final lines the choir stood together, relieved and moved, bored and distracted, to sing the answering Amen.
The Our Father followed. They gave each other the Sign of Peace. Down the bench Teddy farted, trying to muffle it. Father said, “This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,” and Biddy, hoping somehow that it would help and knowing that he was wholeheartedly sincere in at least this prayer, said, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”
They sang “Silent Night” while the congregation received Communion. When the song was finished and the choir filed out of the pews to receive as well, the congregation, unsure of its new singing responsibilities with the addition of a choir, began haltingly to start a new verse before petering out and leaving only the shifting sounds in the pews to accompany the quiet dialogue between celebrant and communicant, not quite lost in the hush: “ … The Body of Christ. … Amen.” His mouth full of the dry tasteless wafer, he sat down, his eyes closed until the saliva could break it down.
There were more prayers, and suddenly they were all standing for the concluding blessing. Father said, “The Lord be with you,” and the response was the most wholehearted, the most enthusiastic of the Mass, as it always was: “And also with you.” “The Mass is ended. Go in Peace.” “Thanks be to God.” And Sister looked at them over her shoulder from the organ and nodded as her hands began “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.”
Biddy sang. He sang as he never had before and perhaps never would again, realizing the song had always been his favorite, realizing it to be the perfect song with its power and joy to appear here to end the ceremony, to send them out into the snow and Christmas: “Joyful, all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies, with the angelic host proclaim, ‘Christ is born in Bethlehem!’ Hark! the herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn King!’”
There was another chorus but the congregation thundered into the aisles, leaving only the choir and Sister to appreciate it. And with small knots of parents remaining, clustered at the main doors, they sang the final notes and turned to one another in exhilaration, grinning and clapping congratulatory hands on shoulders.
Sister stood away from the organ and said, “You were just wonderful. Merry Christmas to you all. I’m proud of you.”
Their ranks broke with a whoop, and he wished them all Merry Christmas—Sarah Alice, Teddy, Janet—trying to catch them before they disappeared into the chaos. Laura hugged him. She wished him a Merry Christmas and swept down the central aisle to her parents, leaning forward with their arms out at the main doors.
They found him still at his seat: his mother, Rose, Sandy, and Michael. The altar boys were moving swiftly back and forth extinguishing candles, anxious to get home. “You were wonderful,” his mother said. “Did you see us over on the left?” He hadn’t. Everyone agreed the choir had been marvelous. Rose kissed his cheek, a glancing blow, and it occurred to him she was happy her talk had turned him around. His mother asked what they were waiting for.
“I’ll be right there,” he said. “I just want to do something.”
She offered to wait but he said he wanted to talk to Father. They said they’d go on ahead in that case, and left, wrapping coats and mufflers around themselves and hunching forward as they passed through the main doors. Michael brought the car around for Rose. Biddy could see the snow coming down beyond. A noise from the sacristy intruded, and he turned and slipped into the second choir pew. He lay back along the bench seat gazing up at the ceiling beams brightly lit from below. He could hear odd metallic and wooden noises, as well as the rustle of Father
’s chasuble as he bustled around the church preparing to leave. When the noise grew very close, he knew Father was taking a last look in the chapel, and suddenly the lights went out, leaving only the glow from the sacristy coming over the horizon of pews like a yellow sunset. When the door shut, the light disappeared, leaving him in darkness. He imagined he could hear the snow piling up outside. An outer door swung shut with a much heavier sound, and he sat up.
It was already Christmas. Probably near one-thirty. He couldn’t see his watch. There was a faint light coming in the rose window at the end of the nave. He could smell the smoke of the candles. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the lines of pews, silent in the dark. He started to sing.
It was very quiet at first: “Hark! the herald angels sing,” and then his voice grew louder and he sang it all the way through, once, and fell silent, listening to the church.
“Merry Christmas,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, the sound taking flight in the darkness.
He woke with Stupid on the bed and Kristi pulling at his mouth. “Come on,” she said unnecessarily. “It’s Christmas.”
He got a tent. An EMS Explorer, extremely light and compact, rolling up to the size of a football. A mess kit. A big flashlight. A ground cloth. A compass. He had to be reminded he had other presents to unwrap.
When they were finished, his father returned to the kitchen and started cracking eggs into a big bowl. He stacked the shells inside each other and they looked like a fat necklace or smooth caterpillar.
“Thanks for the hot-lather machine,” he said when Biddy came up to the counter next to him. “Did you expect so much camping stuff?”
Biddy lifted the line of shells delicately, from both ends. “No.”
“Well, in the summer you can take advantage of them. Get some use out of them.”
The phone rang. Teddy said, “What’d you get?” when he picked it up. They each listed the highlights.
“Teddy got Atari,” he said when he hung up. His father was swirling eggs around the pan with a plastic spatula.
“Good for Teddy. Just what a kid needs—something to keep him in front of a television,” he said. “Come and eat something. Then you can play for a while, but we’re going over the Lirianos’ at noon.”
What was there to do? He didn’t want to see Cindy again. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized this would pop up in the middle of his Christmas, like a horrible bug found under his pillow. He sat in a living-room chair gazing past the tree to the snow outside, and his father appeared before him, half his face covered with lather.
“You stare out more windows than I don’t know who,” he said. “Are you going to get dressed?”
Upstairs he chose the same clothes he’d worn the night before. He couldn’t refuse to visit the Lirianos. And he realized as he pulled his pants on that he didn’t want to, for the same reason he’d found himself listening with special care to his parents’ conversations around the house the last few days: he still hadn’t completely deciphered what had happened, and he wanted to know.
He hesitated before entering their living room, causing Dom to inquire whether he had passed away in the hall. He came in and found sanctuary on the sofa, concentrating on their tree. It was smaller, decorated more carelessly. Presents were jumbled around it, Mickey’s strewn in an arc across the room.
Gifts were exchanged. Only Louis was present. Mickey was already at a friend’s house. “Someone got Atari,” Dom said. “And the kid found out. We don’t expect him back until Tuesday.”
“Where’s Cindy?” his father said.
“She’s upstairs. Cindy!” he called. “She’ll be right down.”
They unwrapped gifts, thanked each other, and held them up for all to see. Biddy opened his and pulled out a Viking jersey.
“See the number?” Dom said. “Fifty-nine.”
“What’s fifty-nine?” his mother said.
“Who’s fifty-nine, Biddy?” Dom asked.
Biddy folded it up. “Matt Blair,” he said.
The Lirianos received a knife block. “Great,” Dom said, hefting it. “We don’t have to cut our hands to ribbons in the knife drawer anymore.”
Cindy still hadn’t appeared. “Cindy!” Biddy’s mother called. “C’mon. You got two presents to open this year.”
His eyes widened in horror. His parents had gotten their own present.
“Where’s Ronnie, anyway?” his mother said.
“Don’t ask,” Ginnie said.
Cindy came downstairs in a royal-blue robe with yellow embroidery on the shoulders. She glanced at Biddy first and smiled and wished everyone a Merry Christmas.
“Merry Christmas,” his father said. “Come get your presents here.”
She moved to the middle of the room and knelt on the rug. Her hair was brushed close to her head and tied back in a tight ponytail. Biddy wanted nothing more than to be out of the room.
“Two,” she said, raising an eyebrow politely. “How’d I get two?” She was very quiet.
“Biddy bought you one all by himself,” his mother said. “The small one.”
She looked at him, and he had to look away. “Well, let’s see what we have here,” she said. She opened the large package first, a blouse, and lifted it gently from its wrapping. “It’s beautiful. Isn’t it?” Her parents agreed.
“Now open Biddy’s,” someone said.
She tore off the paper, the dark red box showing through. She gazed at it silently before opening it and pulling out the bottle. She screwed off the cap and sniffed.
“Mmm. Very nice. Smell.” She dabbed her wrist and held it up to her mother, looking at Biddy intently. “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward until their faces were almost touching, and, smiling hesitantly, she kissed him.
He started to cry.
“Now isn’t that the goddamnedest thing you ever saw?” his father said. “What’s wrong now?”
They waited, stunned, until he stopped sniffling. He said something about having to watch TV, and left the room.
His father followed, alone, and sat opposite him. “What was that all about?” he finally asked.
He didn’t know. His father squinted at him. “Are you all right?” He nodded vigorously and his father stood up, half satisfied. “I don’t know about you, guy,” he said at the doorway. “Sometimes I’m not sure you have both oars in the water.”
At eleven-thirty Christmas night his parents shut their bedroom door, telling him to get to bed soon, and at ten after, he went to the back porch and climbed into his boots, coat, scarf, and mittens. Stupid followed, and after a moment’s indecision Biddy got his leash and took him along.
It was very cold outside, with no wind. Stupid led him down the driveway, weaving from snowbank to snowbank, his breath showing silver in the streetlight.
They walked toward the beach quietly, Biddy silent and the dog’s sniffing muffled. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots on the snow and the jingling of the dog’s license. He could smell the salt water, which surprised him. They passed Father Rubino’s house on the corner facing the bluffs and he noticed a light on in the living room. He crossed over to it through the yard, the dog loping along in chest-deep snow to keep up. He crept along the bushes and peered over the sill.
Father was alone, his back to the window, playing the piano. On a small table nearby was a glass of wine. There were a few sprigs of holly about, and a red candle over the fireplace. The rest of the house was dark and empty. The whole image seemed melancholy and sad, and Biddy pulled away from the window, turning his back to it.
At the edge of the bluffs the beach spread out below him, dark and noisy, the waves glistening in long lines. Stupid strained to go down, his breath hoarse and visible, and after Biddy tested the steps for slipperiness, they did, the sand poking through the snow in great coarse patches after they’d reached the bottom and walked up the rise to the water.
There was a suggestion of wind. At close range the waves made a sibilan
t sound slapping under the ice at the water’s edge. It was salt-water ice, less smooth, greenish. It crumbled easily in his hand, as if made of countless tiny pellets, and lay tumbled about in slabs like translucent pavement that had been torn up. A piece of driftwood rose from it nearby and he maneuvered over it and sat down. The dog, after wandering the length of the leash, sat next to him. The horizon was invisible, the stars simply fading away at a certain point.
“I used to take Lady down here,” he said, but Stupid gave no sign of understanding. A wave advanced a little farther than usual, collapsing some slabs in front of him.
“I could sing,” he said. “Want me to sing?”
The dog sniffed the air, as if to guess his mood.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. He rubbed his thighs, bunched his mittens into fists. “It was a good Christmas. I was the one who had to make it a good Christmas, and it was a good Christmas. I’m the one who has to help me.”
His rear felt wet, cold. There was ice on the log. “I wonder what Ronnie’s doing,” he said. He broke off a piece of ice and offered it to the dog, who sniffed it and turned away. He tossed it into the water. For a second it stayed opaque, bobbing, but then the dark sea color poured into it and it disappeared completely except for the faintest trace of an outline.
“I keep thinking I’m going to figure out something down here,” he said. “What to do, how to make things better. What’s wrong, even.” He stood, wiping the seat of his pants. “And I never do.”
You’re a very fortunate boy, Sister had told him once. Jesus loves you, your parents love you, you’re healthy and bright, you live in the best country in the world. Imagine if you lived in Pakistan or a place like that. What do you have to be so unhappy about? He shook his head, starting for the bluffs with Stupid. There was a piece of salt ice on his mitten, and he touched it to his tongue, wincing at the familiar saline taste. He labored up the stairs behind the dog, surprised by his fatigue. The wind was picking up behind them. It had been a good Christmas and the beach at night was beautiful. Stupid was a good dog. He would get some sleep. Things would get better. At the top of the stairs, with the new wind across his face as he turned for one last glimpse of the beach in the moonlight, that was what he decided: things would get better.
