by John Fante
Then I got a swell idea. I would ask for Father Joseph. He did not know about the migs, so he would not be hard on me. It was sure a good idea, because now I could go to Confession, and the fountain-pens would not scare me. I mean I would not be scared. Fountain-pens are nothing. It is nuts to be scared of them. I went back to the church. I ran all the way.
I asked the maid for Father Joseph, and he came down. Father Joseph has a great big belly and a double chin. He likes me. He says I am a keen pitcher. He knows a pitcher on the St. Louis Browns. He says I am the born image of this pitcher. I like Father Joseph very, very much.
I said: “Father, I want to go to Confession.”
He said: “Why not? So does everybody.”
We went into church, and Father got in the confessional.
I told him what I did. I did not snitch on Bill. I just said I was in bad company a little while ago, and I swiped a fountain-pen. I am not a snitch baby.
Father said I had to return the pen or what it was worth or he would not forgive me. I said I would. He gave me absolution. I went out to the altar and said my penance, which was five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys in honor of the Blessed Virgin. Father Joseph is sure a keen guy. He did not make me feel cheap at all. He hardly said anything.
I got outside and started for home. I felt just grand. I started whistling hymns like I always do after Confession. I had it all figured out about the five-dollar pen. I would keep it. I would tell my mother I found it. It was a lie, but a lie is only a venial sin. You do not go to Hell if you have a venial sin on your soul. You go to Purgatory. Then you go to Heaven. Some day I will pay old Drake for it. I will do it when I get bigger. I bet Bill Shafer never pays for his.
IV
Bill Shafer used to chew gum before Communion. He sure thought he was tough. He sure thought he was smart. When you go to Communion you cannot eat or drink anything that is food or drink after midnight. You must fast. Bill used to come around to us guys before Communion and pop gum in our ears. He sure thought he was smart.
Sister caught him doing it, and she made him spit it out. It sure was keen, the way she told him to spit. He spit, and all of us guys laughed right out loud. We were in church too, only we were in the vestibule. Bill sure thought he was tough. We did not laugh like it was real funny. We laughed different, so Bill would sort of feel cheap.
We laughed like this: “He he he he.”
Bill said: “Hey, Sister, how come? Gum is not food or drink.”
Sister said: “Gum has sugar in it.”
We sure got a big kick out of it. Bill sure thought he was smart. He sure felt cheap.
The next day he did it again before Communion. I mean he popped his gum. He sure thought he was tough.
One of the guys snitched on him. I know who it was, but I am not going to snitch on him just because he snitched on Bill. I am not a snitch baby.
Sister pretty near ran to where Bill was standing. He was standing there popping. She got a hold of his hair and jerked him around and said: “Spit it out! Spit it out!”
Bill said: “Hey, Sister! No sugar in this gum. This is old gum. I been saving it.”
Sister said: “Say, young man, I have had enough of this. You must not dare go to Holy Communion this morning. The very idea! Young man, I want you to see Father Andrew right after Mass.”
In the afternoon, in Catechism class, Sister sat right up in front of Bill and told him right out, right in front of us guys. She said what she thought of a boy who chewed gum before Communion. Gosh, she sure sailed in! Old Bill was sure sore. Sister said a guy who will do that must come from a funny home. I guess Sister is right, because I saw Bill’s mother chew gum a lot. She is sure keen-looking. I mean Bill’s mother. Not Sister. Sister is goofy-looking.
Then Sister told us a whole gob of stories about smart guys like Bill. She told us how they tried to be smart aleck with our Lord, and how He fixed them. He sure got even good and proper.
Sister said there was once another smart aleck like Bill who used to go to Communion every day. He went so many times that he got used to it, and pretty soon he started to be disrespectful. One morning he thought he would do something. Oh, yes, he thought he was smart. He was going to do something real swell. He was going to take the Sacred Host out of his mouth after he received, and then take it home. So he went to Communion.
He did what he said he was going to do. When he came back from the altar, he put the Sacred Host in a dirty handkerchief. It was awful. I can hardly think about a guy who would do any such thing. But our Lord sure fixed him good and proper.
When this rotten guy got home, he took out his handkerchief, and for gosh sakes, was he scared! His handkerchief was all bloody. Our Lord’s blood was all in it!
When the guy saw this, he fell on his knees and asked God to forgive him, for God’s sake. Then he got up and went away and became a priest. He was so holy they made him a bishop. He is one now. He is back east some place.
Old Bill kept saying: “Bull! bull! bull!” He sure thought he was smart. He took out his handkerchief and played like he was looking for blood. He sure thought he was a wise guy.
After school, Bill said to me and Allie Saler: “Hey, I bet she made up that story about the bishop.”
Allie said: “I bet she did not.”
Bill said: “Hey, what you want to bet I can do it without getting my handkerchief all bloody?”
I said: “I bet you a million dollars.”
Bill said: “Shake!”
We shook. I did not mean a real million dollars. I only have two dollars in my bank.
The next morning after Mass, Bill ran after me and Allie.
We were going home to breakfast. We go to Communion every morning in May.
He said: “Hey, you guys, come on! I want to show you.”
We went to the washroom in the basement. There were some fourth-grade punks standing around.
Bill said: “Hey, you little kids, beat it.”
We went into a washroom and locked the door. Bill took out his handkerchief. There was a Sacred Host in it. It was wrinkled and melty. You could see he took it out of his mouth.
I said: “Oh, my God!”
Allie made the sign of the cross. I thought it was a good thing to do, so I did too. Bill, he just laughed.
He said: “Hey, where is the blood?”
There was not a drop on it.
Allie said: “Come on, Jim. I have to go.”
Bill said: “Hey, where is the blood?”
I said: “Bill, God will sure get even with you for this.”
Bill said: “Hey, if you guys ever snitch, I sure will get even with you.”
We said we would not snitch.
When we got outside the washroom, we heard the water running. I bet Bill threw the Host in. That is a sacrilege, and a big one, I bet. Bill will get his. Our Lord will punish him. He sure thinks he is tough. He sure thinks he is smart.
V
My favorite saint is Saint James. He is the one I was named after. Saint Joseph used to be my favorite, but since writing letters to him never has done much good, I have changed back to Saint James, and Saint Joseph is not like he used to be. It is a funny thing to think, but every time I pray to Saint Joseph I think about Joe Kraut. I mean every time I pray to him and I am not in front of his statue, which is supposed to look like him, I think about Joe Kraut, and Joe Kraut is not so swell to think about. Joe is only eleven, and he has three or four whiskers on his chin already, and he has a squashy chin, and he is fat. I guess maybe that is why Saint Joseph is so hard to pray to, on account of I think of Joe Kraut, and that is not such a keen thought. But I like Joe Kraut. He always has a nickel or so, so we go to the bakery after school and buy day-old pies.
In a way, I think Saint Joseph played me kind of dirty, after all the letters I sent to him. We write to him every year on his feast day. I mean all the guys and girls have to write down on a little note what they want most, and they also write how many prayers they will
say to get it, and then Sister Agnes gets all the notes together in a bunch and she burns them, with the stove-lid off, so Saint Joseph will read them in the smoke. Anyhow, that is what Sister says, but I do not think much of it any more, or maybe Saint Joseph never read my notes, or if he did, he does not like me very much.
His feast day comes once every year, and on that day for three straight times I asked for a bicycle. I asked for one of those swell Ranger bikes, brown frame, nickel-plated spokes, and vacuum-cup tires. I never did get what I wanted.
After I did not get my bike the first two times, I went to Sister Agnes and asked her how come. She said, well, seeing as how a saint only knows what is good for us, maybe he felt like a bike would do me hurt. I might get run over and get killed. And that is the reason he did not send any. She also said maybe I asked for too much, but a saint is a saint, and a bike is not too much for him to get for me, and, besides, I would not get run over, because I can ride a bike better than anybody. After he reads your note, Saint Joseph goes to God and tells Him what is what, and God cannot refuse very well, because Saint Joseph was the foster father of the Infant Jesus when He was down here.
The other guys did not ask for as much as I did, I guess, but still most of them got what they wanted. Reinhardt asked for a new football and, sure enough, next day his father brought him home a keen Spalding. I think I know how that came off, though. I think Sister Agnes read his note to Saint Joseph, and then she telephoned to Reinhardt’s dad, who got the football right in his store, because he owns a clothing store and sells Spalding stuff right in it.
Right after this last time I wrote to Saint Joseph, I went to Sister Agnes and said: “Sister, this makes the third time I’m asking Saint Joseph for a bike.”
I told her this because I kind of had a hunch she would telephone my old man, and then I would maybe get the bike. All the time, I also kept saying over and over in my head to Saint Joseph, I mean I was praying, like this: “O Saint Joseph, dear, sweet Saint Joseph, if you do not send the bike I will not pray to you again.” When I prayed like that, I thought the bike would come for sure, because if Saint Joseph found out I would quit praying to him if he did not send the bike, then he would send it. He would not want me to quit him.
I wrote to him that I wanted this bike to be on our front porch when I woke up next morning. I thought it would be keen to wake up and find it there. I also thought if Sister telephoned the old man, he would have time to get the bike on the porch by next morning.
I went to bed real early that night, about eight or half after, and I prayed to Saint Joseph until I went to sleep. I also said my night prayers. I wanted to make sure I said enough prayers.
The next morning I piled out and ran to the porch. There was a bike there, all right. But it was not what I wanted. It was the second-hand one that used to be in Benson’s window all the time. It was full of fly specks. The paint was chipped off. It had crazy, old-fashioned handlebars. I fixed it up, anyway, and put on new paint, but I was awfully disappointed, because I wanted a new Ranger.
My mother cried when I told her how bad I felt. But she cries about everything about God. She said the bike got ruined on the way down from Heaven. She must think I am dumb as heck.
Big Leaguer
A LONG TIME AGO, when I was a little second-grader, they were building the new school. At noon hour we used to go to where they were putting up the new building and swipe tar. We chewed it.
It was on account of the tar that Sister Agnes did not like me when I was a little second-grader. But it was not my fault if she got messed up. The desks were so little in the second grade that when she sat down beside me she took up all the room, and I did not know the tar was on the seat.
We were supposed to recite, but I was chewing tar. Sister Agnes saw me. She came down to my desk. When I saw her coming, I got scared. I took out the tar and dropped it. I thought it hit the floor. But it fell on the seat. Heck! I didn’t know that. I didn’t know she would sit down at the little desk with me. But she did.
She shook her finger and said: “How many times must I tell you not to chew that stuff?” She was mad. I did not answer, and she got up. I mean she almost got up. I mean she tried to get up. I mean the tar hung on.
Her dress pulled. I tried to help. The dress started to tear. She got very mad. She told me to take my hands away. She slapped me. It was a hard sock. Then she told a girl to get the scissors. She cut a little hole in her dress.
She said: “You are a dirty boy, and I have a notion to beat you to death.”
I had to stay after school and clean up. Sister Agnes was there too. I had to scrape with a knife. Not all the tar came off. I was awfully sorry, but I did not tell her. I do not like to tell people I am sorry. I was not scared, though. Who ever heard of me being scared of Sisters?
I got the black piece of cloth scraped off, and I tossed it into the waste-basket. Sister Agnes was still mad. She did not even look at me. She knew I was there, but she did not look at me. It was funny to say good-night to her, but you have to say it.
So I said: “Good-night, Sister.”
She said: “Go to the basket and get that piece of cloth.”
The cloth was tarry and sticky. I felt cheap, giving it to her. I felt sorry for her. I thought she was going to sew up the hole with the tarry piece. Tar stuck to her fingers. I got scared. I felt goofy.
She said: “You are a bad boy.”
She said: “You are a very bad boy.”
She said: “You are a very, very bad boy.”
I played as if I did not hear. I looked at the door. I played as if I were rolling tar with my fingers. I was thinking I had better tell her I was sorry. But it would be sissified. I did not.
She said: “Are you listening to me?”
I was thinking about sissies.
I said: “What?”
You are not supposed to say “What?” to Sisters. You are supposed to say: “What did you say, Sister?” So I did wrong again. I was in for it again.
I knew it was coming, but I did not duck. I did pretty well for a little second-grader. It did not hurt at all. It would have hurt some other guy, but I was tough.
She said: “That’s all. Go home.”
I should have said: “I am sorry,” then. I should have said it, but I didn’t.
After that, Sister Agnes did not like me. Once she hollered in front of the whole room that my hands were dirty. I had to go out and wash them. Once I spilled ink, and I did not have a blotter.
Sister Agnes came down the aisle.
“Hurry!” she said. “Blot it up! Hurry!”
You are supposed to have blotters. I did not have any. I borrowed one from a girl.
In front of everybody, Sister Agnes hollered: “After this, bring your own. Good heavens, they only cost a penny!” I felt cheap. The kids thought I was poor.
II
Sister Agnes was not the second-grade teacher when we came back the next year to start the third grade. The second-graders had another teacher. I went to her and asked about Sister Agnes. She said Sister Agnes was in Philadelphia, which is where the great ball players come from.
That year I was only a third-grader, but I was the best ball player in school. I pitched. I struck out forty men. I banged out twenty homers. Sister Agnes should have been here. She should have seen the game I pitched against Whitman. She should have seen me hit home runs when I was a fourth-grader. She should have seen me bust out sixty-nine homers and eighty-seven triples when I was a fifth-grader. She should have been here last year to see me strike them out, one…two…three. And every game, too! I am sure great.
Last September, who do you think was teaching the second-graders again? Sister Agnes! I met her in the hall. Gee! When she came toward me, I felt just like the time she came down the aisle and sat on the tar. She did not talk about the tar, though. She said she had heard all about my great pitching. And that goes to show that when you are great, you are just great, and even when you do something bad, you ar
e still great.
I liked her more and more every day. She helped me whenever I had to stay after school. That goofy Sister Justine, the principal, made me stay in. If the team had me pitching, we would have won the Emerson game. Now the Emerson kids think the Catholics are no good. That shows you. Do you think that goofy Sister Justine cared if the Emerson kids called us “red necks” and “popes”? Heck, no!
She said: “He has to be punished. I am going to show this boy that he can’t do as he pleases around here.” Blah, blah, blah.
But Sister Agnes was nice. She came into the room after school and rooted for me by telling me to work faster. Nearly every day I had to write five hundred times: “I must not laugh during prayers.” It took a long time to write that. The game was half over before I got done with “laugh.”
I would look up, and Sister Agnes would be in front of me, watching me write. Oh, she was keen! Her hair was red, just red as bricks. And you could barely see tiny freckles on her face. Ho! Ho! That was funny. It made me laugh, because Sister Agnes used to say: “Hello, you red-headed, freckled-faced Italian scamp.” Pretty good! What about her red hair? What about her freckles?
She would lean over and say: “Faster, faster, faster. Think of those homers! Think of those triples!”
I sure did think of them! I sure did! I wrote to beat the band. She counted every word. I thought I never would finish. When I did, I gave the pages to that goofy Sister Justine. Then I ran all the way up to Emerson. But all the guys were gone. I was late. Nobody was on the ball field, and the janitor told me how badly St. Catherine’s was beaten. The team always gets the hell beaten out of them when I do not play.
Sister Agnes always asked about my house. She always said she was coming to my house to find out if I was mean to my mother. I am glad she did not come. My house is not a very good one. It is not really my house. I mean it belongs to my father. It is not so hot. The front window is busted open. My brother did it with a horseshoe. The hole makes the house look like poor people’s. Our front porch used to be white, but when we play ball we keep score on the walls and posts. Now the porch looks crazy. Sister Agnes would think we were awfully poor if she saw it. In the front yard, where we have first base, second base, third base, shortstop, pitcher’s box, and home plate, all the grass is worn off. Sister would see how poor we are if she saw it. I am glad she did not come.
