From upstairs, Mr. Smith’s voice cut through their thoughts. “Hey, it’s almost eleven o’clock! Aren’t you kids ever going to bed?”
“We’ll be up in a few minutes, Dad,” Mike called.
“Don’t forget the lights!”
“We won’t.”
SEVEN
THE TOCCOS REACTED about as their son Manny expected.
He arrived home from his bout with Blade bloody but unbowed. Maria Tocco made a great fuss over his torn, dirtied, blood-spattered clothes. After she checked to make sure that the blood had not flowed from holes in her baby, her main concern was the condition of his hand, especially the thumb and index fingers. She was unfamiliar with the term canonical digits. All she knew—and that mostly from observation—was that those were the fingers the priest used to hold the communion wafer. Lacking one or more of those fingers … well, God knows; she assumed he would not be allowed to become a priest.
As a child in parochial school, she had listened wide-eyed, as the nuns related the martyrology. Now, she remembered all too vividly the tales of the tortures suffered by the early Jesuit priests and missionaries at the hands of their Native American captors.
Father Jean de Brebeuf—they cut out his heart and ate it while he watched. (A little hyperbole there, but what did the innocent pupils know?) Father Isaac Jogues—they chewed off his fingers and ate them. Brebeuf, of course, died. Jogues escaped and applied to Rome for—and received—permission to offer Mass sans fingers.
Maria took from these accounts two puzzles: How does one go about offering Mass without fingers? And why, though mutilated, would a living martyr need to apply for the Vatican’s permission to offer Mass?
After hearing this nausea-inducing tale, one of Maria’s classmates—the class comedian—had added his own contribution to the Litany of the Saints: “From the nuns who teach us precisely what the Indians did to the Jesuit missionaries, Good Lord deliver us.”
Manny had come through his violent altercation in one piece. The blood had to have come from the bully. And all fingers were present and accounted for.
His mother breathed a sigh of relief, then imposed penance: Manny must confess his misdeed to his father. And so, when ’Fredo arrived home from work he was met by a still-steaming wife and a browbeaten son.
Typically, Tocco wanted to know whether either Manny or his friend Michael had been injured. Then, having ascertained that neither Manny nor Mike had started the fight, the big question was had his son triumphed over the bully, or had he come out second best?
And, finally, the damage. A shirt beyond repair, pants torn but mendable. ’Fredo mentally shrugged; the clothes were Maria’s bailiwick. She would mend what was repairable; what was not would be replaced.
There followed a halfhearted lecture on the necessity of trying just about everything else before fighting might become inevitable.
’Fredo’s pride in his son was only thinly disguised. Manny had fought the good fight. There was laid up for him an extra dessert.
That was then. This was now.
Manny had gotten some drastic news from the horse’s mouth: Brother Vincent—or, as the boys invariably referred to him, Bro. V. Brother Vincent was principal of Holy Redeemer High, boys’ division.
The Brothers were—in the parlance of war—bugging out.
It was all but a done deal. The battle had been waged over several years. Essentially, the school office argued that the peculiarly segregated situation at Redeemer was no way to run a parochial educational facility. After all, why have a coed school when there’s complete separation of boys and girls? Either you have boys and girls sharing classes and rooms or you have a school for just boys and a school for just girls.
The Brothers, hitherto happy with the status quo, were now willing to fight to preserve their educational philosophy. And so they did. However, as one archdiocesan office after another climbed aboard the bandwagon, the Brothers’ ship of state began to sink. The result was, in a word, inevitable.
Their decision to leave only weeks before school was scheduled to open bordered on the vindictive. It was a bombshell.
Nevertheless, the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and the archdiocesan school office rose to the challenge. The Brothers got their marching orders and began to break camp.
The final decision was supposed to be kept tightly under wraps. Here and there some leaks occurred, but by and large the secret was kept.
Bro. V told Manny Tocco because the two had grown close in the past year. Vincent knew that the Tocco family would face challenging decisions as to Manny’s scholastic future.
Privately, Vincent did not think that Emanuel Tocco was up to the intellectual demands of the seminary. Not Sacred Heart Seminary. It was questionable as to whether he could pass the entrance test. But even if he did, he might well be overwhelmed by the exigencies of an intensive liberal arts program with a strong emphasis on English and Latin.
Moreover, considering Manny’s already significant muscle power, if his physical growth continued as could be expected, he might well enjoy an impressive athletic career elsewhere.
Redeemer was a Class A school. Regularly its football team played other large parochial school teams. Not infrequently Redeemer played in the post-season Soup Bowl, competing against the top public high school team for the city championship.
The point was it was possible—probable—that Manny Tocco could be a big fish in a fairly large pond.
Yes, one could realistically project a career in sports for Manny. Who knew; he could even enter the pro ranks.
But not from the seminary.
The seminary did have some excellent athletes. But sports in the seminary were intramural. There were no headlines, no media coverage, no visits from scouts.
Originally, Bro. V. had had plans for his protégé. In Manny’s last year before high school, Brother Vincent would make sure that Manny understood what he was passing up by not attending Redeemer High. The choice, of course, would be Manny’s. But Vincent would exercise his considerable influence to try to convince Manny to stay where he was—on the Redeemer path, where fate had directed him.
In this endeavor, Vincent enlisted Alfredo Tocco’s cooperation. ’Fredo quickly became firmly convinced that Bro. V. was right. All Mr. Tocco and Bro. V. had to do, besides convincing Manny to see the wisdom of their position—which would not be all that difficult—was to make sure Maria Tocco knew nothing about this.
The two men were convinced theirs was the perfect path for Manny. Both gave full credence to the strong possibility that this was God’s Will.
But now some of the building blocks were coming loose. Bro. V. was not to have his final year before Manny’s enrollment in the seminary. As much as he desired his dream for the boy, Vincent could not delay the termination of the Brothers’ tenure at Redeemer. The prospects of one lad could not be important enough to derail the collective course. Besides, the decision to leave now had been reached by the governing body of the Brothers.
The best Vincent could do at this stage was to clue Manny in. He told the boy this had to remain a secret until it was officially made public.
Manny had two questions: First, could he tell his father?
Of course; Vincent wanted the father informed. The Order’s rules of secrecy on the matter mandated that the parents were not to be advised in advance. Brother Vincent was following that mandate; he had not told ’Fredo. But there was no rule that said that Manny couldn’t tell his father.
Manny’s second question: Could he tell his best friend, Michael Smith?
Considering the closeness between the two boys, it would be cruel to demand silence on the matter. Besides, the story could break at any time. Yes, Manny could tell Mike.
Manny engaged his dad in a game of catch in the back alley. It was early evening. They had just eaten—meatballs and spaghetti again. Maria good-naturedly shooed them out of the house so she could wash the dishes and clean up in the kitchen.
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br /> ’Fredo sported an almost-new catcher’s mitt. He needed the protection for his hand, he admitted—pridefully; his son, though still young, had a stinging fast ball.
Even with the mitt, after some thirty minutes, Mr. Tocco cried uncle.
Father and son sat on the front porch glider, absorbing the peace and tranquillity of a late summer evening. ’Fredo fingered the baseball, then dropped it in what Manny called his glove box. ’Fredo reached into the box and took out what looked like a large marble bag. Out of the bag ’Fredo took another ball, a ball that held fond memories.
It was a major league ball. They’d gotten it some two years back at Briggs Stadium. They couldn’t afford to go to many Tiger games. So when they did go, ’Fredo made sure they had excellent seats.
For this game, their seats were along the third base line just behind the Tiger dugout. In a late inning, Hank Greenberg hit a towering foul ball that just reached the seats. Many fans wanted that ball, but ’Fredo had to get it—for his son. So, although he was not very tall, he had more intense desire working for him. He leaped as high as he could and speared it. He brought it down, clasped it close, plopped into his seat, turned, and carefully handed it to his son.
To Manny, his dad might as well have been Greenberg, Gehringer, Higgins, and all the rest of those superb professional athletes rolled into one. Manny and his dad: two people in a crowded ballpark who took pride in and loved each other.
Words unspoken, Manny knew the next move was his. At game’s end Manny scrambled across the dugout roof and stretched out prone at the spot where Greenberg would pass on his way to the locker room. As Greenberg neared the dugout, in a hurry to shower and leave, Manny waved the ball at him.
There was something in the boy’s eyes. Greenberg couldn’t resist. He stopped, took the ball, and reached for the pen Manny held out to him. The boy always brought a pen to the park—just in case. The lines around Greenberg’s eyes, begrimed with sweat, crinkled. He signed the ball, handed back the pen, then reached out, dropped the ball in the boy’s outstretched hand, and in the same movement, tousled the boy’s hair.
Manny vowed he would never again wash his hair. It was a vow no one in his family would let him keep. But from that day on, anyone who bad-mouthed Hank Greenberg had to answer to an aggressively faithful Manny Tocco.
As for ’Fredo, he would never forget the look on his son’s face, and he would be forever grateful to Hammerin’ Hank.
’Fredo twirled the ball, stopping at the sacred signature. “Remember this?”
“How could I forget?”
“Maybe, someday … well, you never know … I keep thinking that someday you’ll be out on the mound for the Tigers. Or the Yankees or the Red Sox. Some kid will ask for your autograph, and you’ll remember Hank and what he did for you.”
There was a long pause. The glider rocked back and forth.
“Ain’t many priests playin’ in the majors,” Manny said at length.
“It’s an even longer road getting to be a priest than it is getting to play ball in the majors,” ’Fredo commented.
“Nothing personal, Pop, but extra-large is not a measurement that runs in our family. Most of my uncles and my cousins are kinda small. Even you, Pop—no offense intended.”
“That’s okay. But you don’t have to be seven feet to play ball. You’re strong. Just look at how you handled that bully the other day. Ask him if you’re a contender or what.”
Silence.
“And on account of you I had to spring for a new catcher’s mitt. You got some arm, kiddo. And, what are you—thirteen years? Why, you’re just into your teens. You get eighteen or nineteen and as long as you’re serious about building yourself, you’re gonna be somethin’. Ya know that?”
Another pause. Maria had turned on a popular music program. The caressing voice of Bing Crosby could be heard. Smoothly, not noisily.
“Pop …” Manny said softly, “there’s something I gotta tell you.”
’Fredo had heard this song before. It almost always meant bad news was coming around the corner. He didn’t reply.
“I just heard about it today,” Manny said. “The Brothers are pulling out of Redeemer.”
“What!?”
Maria heard her husband over the radio’s volume. She stirred, but didn’t rise. She’d learn what it was about in due time. For the moment, she’d let father and son work it out. The two were as close as any parent and child she knew of.
“The Brothers are leaving, Pop,” Manny repeated.
“How do you know?”
“Bro. V. He told me today.”
“That can’t be! School starts in just a few weeks! Your mother and I haven’t heard a word. I can’t believe it!”
Actually, he could—and did—believe it. He had to believe it. His son would not lie. If Manny said that Brother Vincent had told him the Brothers were leaving, then the Brother had, indeed, told him so. And the entire group—all those excellent teachers—all of them were leaving without so much as a reasonable notice.
But while ’Fredo, in his inner being, had to believe his son was telling the truth, the father was having trouble absorbing the ramifications of this news. “So, what’s supposed to happen?”
“I guess this has been going on for a long time. The Church officials downtown didn’t think a school should be segregated like Redeemer is. It just came to a boil over this past summer.”
“But … but … who’s gonna teach you in the eighth grade? Who’s gonna teach you if the Brothers are gone?”
“The Sisters.”
“The Sisters—! The Sisters who’re teaching the girls now?”
Manny nodded. “The Sisters. Plus any lay people they need to get the job done.”
“On such short notice …”
“I guess.”
“Some business! They tell us it’s a sin not to send your kids to a Catholic school. And then they pull the rug out from under you.”
For the moment, ’Fredo said no more. Nor did his son.
“I don’t want my kid to be taught by women,” ’Fredo said finally, but without vigor.
“They’re not women. They’re nuns.”
’Fredo looked sharply at his son. They had been over the “birds and the bees” routine. It wasn’t that Manny didn’t realize that nuns were women; he just didn’t look at them in that light.
’Fredo cared that the Brothers were leaving, of course. But much more than that was involved. A conspiracy had been entered into. Together, Brother Vincent and ’Fredo had planned to steer Manny into attending Redeemer throughout his high school years.
From there on the plans were obvious. A starring athletic career, maybe a crack at the big leagues. But now Brother Vincent was leaving—all the Brothers were leaving. And with them would go the plans for Manny’s future.
That was the burning, sinking ship ’Fredo saw in his mind’s eye. “Wait a minute … the seminary has an athletic program, doesn’t it?”
Manny nodded. “A darn good one. I asked Bob Koesler and he asked around.
“They got all the majors: football, basketball, baseball, handball—just about everything. But outside of basketball, everything is in-house. Intramural, they call it. So there isn’t any press coverage. No national attention.”
’Fredo knew, by its absence from every sports page in town, that the seminary was in no competitive league. The outside basketball teams they played probably counted their meetings as practice games! But ’Fredo was not that concerned about basketball; Manny would never be tall enough to make a mark in that sport. No, baseball was the focus.
“So,” ’Fredo said, “do me a favor: Soon as you can, find out whether the seminary lets the kids play in summer leagues.”
“Sure, Pop. First thing.”
Summer leagues in the Detroit area were extremely popular. There wasn’t much going on otherwise. Not infrequently these leagues were covered by the press, and one could find sports reporters and even scouts in attendance.<
br />
This might not be a lost cause after all. As he himself had remarked earlier tonight: “It’s an even longer road getting to be a priest than it is getting to play ball in the majors.”
EIGHT
TWO DAYS LATER AND THE NEWS WAS OUT. Now everyone knew.
The archdiocesan education department had tried to keep the decision under wraps as long as possible. The purpose was to buy time. Every day the transition looked better to them.
There were interminable meetings involving administration people from the archdiocese as well as from Redeemer.
Sister Mary Gracia, IHM, was now principal not only of the segregated boys and girls in the first six grades, as well as the girls from grades seven through high school, but of the boys too. The whole shebang. Grades would be divided not by sex, but in good old alphabetical order.
Sister Mary agreed that the entire school should be integrated. If only she had more time and help to get the job done before school opened in September!
With the announcement of the change picked up by the Detroit press—News, Times, and Free Press, and the neighborhood papers—it was the talk of the town. The corner of Vernor and Junction, the entire southwest side of the city, was buzzing. Seemingly everyone had an opinion.
There was no poll taken. But if there had been, the citizenry would have been split roughly fifty-fifty. Most of the argumentation was philosophical. Segregation (long before it became a racial consideration) or integration: Which was the better means of education?
The principals in this movement had little time for debate. For them, it was full speed ahead.
Now that they had had their way in making the announcement, the Brothers could take their own sweet time moving. Those in the archdiocesan administration who had no luxury time and were not frantically involved in the logistics of nitty-gritty busied themselves in trying to light a fire under the Brothers. Their presence had become awkward. They, as far as Redeemer and Detroit were concerned, were the past. The IHM nuns were the present and the future.
The Gathering Page 6
