Snow Pictures

by Kevin Deeny

  As he flopped into the bottom of the boat like a limp fish, Marcus was transfixed as he watched Lester laying nearby with a man pumping on his chest. As soon as Marcus was on-board, engines throttled up, and the bow raised out of the water as they raced down-river to the dock. He was only dimly aware of the radio chatter between the pilot and the shore as he continued to watch the fight for Lester’s life.

  Mike and Marcus sat in the waiting room at the hospital after the police officer took their names and addresses and chewed them out for risking their lives in the river. Their father was on the way to pick them up, and they both thought it wasn’t going to be pretty – they assumed they would be grounded, possibly for life. Marcus huddled closer to his brother and whispered, “Mike, something happened to me in the river just before the boat came. Did anything happen to you?”

  “No, but I saw you going under and started shouting at you. I’m just glad the boat came when it did because I couldn’t hold on to Lester much longer.”

  “I thought I was going to die Mike; really, I just gave up, and it was really peaceful. I was OK with it, but something else happened too, and then I heard you calling me.”

  Mike punched him in the arm and laughed, “It’s a good thing you didn’t croak because Dad would kick my ass and I’d have to kick yours; croaked or not.”

  They both laughed and looked up at the same time when they heard someone speaking Spanish. Lester was speaking in low tones with his sister as he walked down the hallway. He looked almost as pale as the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders but otherwise healthy. He came over and hugged Mike and shook Marcus’s hand and kept saying “thank you” in his heavily accented English. They were both embarrassed without quite knowing why and looked down at their bare feet and mumbled: “you’re welcome.”

  While they waited for their father, Marcus confided with Mike about what else he experienced when he decided to give up fighting in the river, and Mike said “That’s just weird little brother. Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “I’m fine, it was just so real, you know. I’ve gotta think about this, so don’t tell Dad, OK?”

  “Ok, but it’s going to cost you; you’ll have to take my turn taking the trash out for the rest of the summer.”

  “Deal.”

  It was a quiet ride home in the car. Their father was unusually silent, and to their surprise, they were not grounded for life. The next day a police officer came to the house to talk to their parents and warn the boys against swimming in the Delaware River again.

  All of the other boys who were there that day retold the story countless times during the remaining two weeks of summer. Surprisingly, Mike and Marcus didn’t discuss it much between themselves. When the subject came up with others, they would look at each other with a half-smile, but were otherwise silent. Lester continued to express his thanks until it was time for him to return to school in Columbia and resume his life as Ernesto.

  Chapter 3

  Tinkering

  I like to build things. I like to do things. – Walter Chrysler

  Marcus was good at figuring out how things worked. At an early age, he rewired receptacles in his bedroom to turn on his lamp and radio from the comfort of his bed and loved to dabble in chemistry experiments attested to by the multi-colored stains in the bathroom sink. Marcus read about anything that caught his interest but always seemed to have trouble finding the books to get them back to the library on time. He tinkered constantly. His parents often retold the story about when they bought him a child’s toolkit when he was around 5 years old. Marcus quickly mastered the use of the screwdriver and removed all of the screws for the interior door knobs in the house. He was exceedingly proud of his accomplishment, but like most 5-year olds his interest eventually waned, and he moved on to other things. The screws to the doorknobs wandered off never to be seen again. For weeks thereafter, the doorknobs came off whenever someone pulled a door open. The family adapted by putting pressure on the knob and holding it while they opened the door. This proved to be a short-term fix because, eventually, the doorknobs too began to disappear as they were stored in various locations when they fell off after closing. It was often necessary to borrow a knob from another door to go to and fro in the house. If the inside knob was missing, one had to bring a knob into the room as they entered to get out again or leave the door ajar. It was not unusual due to lapses in attention for someone to forget and close the door behind them only to remember at the last instant that they couldn’t get out. Rescue pleas were often heard coming from the bathroom. Screwdrivers and butter knives were commandeered to turn the lock mechanisms if a knob couldn’t be found.

  Their father was not unsympathetic about the plight of the family. His initial efforts to find the lost screws by interrogating Marcus were tireless. He was frequently overheard shouting, “God damn it, Marcus, where did you put the screws?” whenever a doorknob came off in his hand. This was later replaced with “God damn it, Marcus, where did you put the doorknob?” whenever he locked himself in the bathroom. In time, his father too reverted to using screwdrivers and butter knives. He never grasped the concept that replacement screws existed, neatly organized on the hardware store shelf. But for the lack of a trip to the hardware store and a few turns of a screwdriver, the family had to make do with whatever implement could be found to turn the locks. The knobs were all missing when they moved from the house.

  As he got older, Marcus was curious about everything and turned his attention to cars. His family could not afford a new car and acquired used vehicles frequently; most were clunkers that didn’t last long. One memorable one was a Jeep station wagon that Marcus thought was cool. Like most vehicles, this station wagon had a few idiosyncrasies and developed a mechanical problem that their father was nearly powerless to deal with. His total lack of proficiency with tools of any kind was legendary. Given his father’s lack of ability to fix a doorknob, his car repair skills were more than questionable.

  During one of their weekly trips, the clutch for the Jeep failed to disengage, and they had to work their way home along the shoulder of the road while never entirely stopping for red lights and stop signs. Their local mechanic, who was a drinking buddy of their father, quickly diagnosed the problem as a broken zee bar – a steel linkage bar that applied leverage to disengage the clutch when the pedal was depressed. After obtaining the part from the dealer, the repairs were quickly made by the mechanic. It broke again a week later. This happened three times before their father decided to attempt the repair himself. He gathered all the available tools from around the house and drafted Marcus into service. Together they shimmied under the car in search of the broken zee bar. His father had stood beneath the car when the mechanic initially pointed out the problem, so he had a general idea where to look. Armed with the new part for comparison, they found the broken zee bar bolted between the frame and the engine block with attached linkage rods to the clutch pedal and clutch fork. The 30-minute replacement job that the mechanic said should be more than sufficient took them 2 and ½ hours. It was the first repair job that Marcus ever saw his dad do – if you don’t count taping up the electric lawn mower cord after running over it several times. The zee bar continued to break regularly, and they got better at fixing it and reduced their repair time to about an hour. Marcus’s vocabulary became a lot more colorful while working under the car with his father, although he was careful not to demonstrate this to his mother.

  Marcus came home late one Saturday afternoon to learn that the zee bar had broken yet again. Before heading off to his bartending job, his father left a message with his mother that he wanted Marcus’s help to fix the car when he got home so that he could deliver the newspapers on time in the morning. He had arranged to get off a little after midnight to allow time to work on the car. “Ah come on Mom,” Marcus said, “Why do I have to fix the car tonight?”

  “Because he has to do the papers in the morning and there’
s no other time to do it,” she replied. “He’ll wake you up when he gets home.”

  “OK, if he can find me, I’ll help.”

  Marcus’s comment wasn’t made without some thought. He had long been known to be able to sleep anywhere; on a bed, under a bed, curled up in a closet, on the front porch, in a car, in the garage, on a train and even on the roof of the house. For this night he chose to sleep on the roof of the house. The night was chilly, but not uncomfortably so. Marcus took two blankets, one to lay over the granular shingles and one for a cover, and climbed out the upstairs window from his sisters’ room and onto the pitched roof above the garage. The pitch of the roof didn’t bother him as long as he slept perpendicular to the angle or else there was a tendency to roll. The stars were out that night, and he could hear the familiar sounds of the neighborhood as he watched the sky and tracked the progression of an occasional plane as its navigational lights hopscotched across the darkness.

  Sometime later after the night air chilled and all grew quiet, he was woken by the sound of his father as he was dropped off at the house. He listened to his father’s footsteps as he came up the drive, across the walk and into the house. Marcus heard doors being opened and closed throughout the house as his dad checked one room after another. After checking Marcus’s bedroom and finding an empty bed, he stood at the top of the stairs and softly called Marcus’s name and received no answer. He swore to himself under his breath and went out to the driveway to start the repair. Marcus’s position on the roof gave him a good vantage point to observe his father at work. He would occasionally creep closer to the peak and peer over to the driveway below to check on his father’s progress. Mostly, he stayed wrapped in his blanket and listened to the clink of a dropped wrench and the not too subtle whack of a ball peen hammer as he visualized his father trying to persuade the broken part out of position.

  After a long pause in a stream of grunts, clinks, and whacks, he heard, “Son of a bitch!” float up into the night air followed by the sounds of the tools dropping to the driveway. A minute later, Marcus’s father stood at the top of the stairs and bellowed “God damn it, Marcus, where are you?” His sisters chimed in from beneath their covers inside the bedroom and said, “Come on Marcus, we’re trying to sleep. Go help Dad.” He reluctantly gathered his blankets, padded across the roof and slid open the window screen to his sisters’ room and smiled at his father standing across the room in the open doorway. His father’s hands and forearms were almost entirely black with grease that also streaked his face where he had swatted at mosquitoes. His father didn’t see the humor in the moment. “Come on smart-ass.” he said, “I need your help with the car.”

  Marcus climbed in through the window and followed him down the stairs and out the front door. He shimmied under the Jeep next to his father, and they set about replacing the zee bar yet again. It remained a clear and quiet night except for the occasional noises emitted from beneath the car. From his former vantage point at the peak of the roof, the sky looked star-filled and endless, while below a faint glow washed out beneath the car and dimly lit two pairs of legs jutting out at odd angles. Occasionally, the deepening stillness of the night was interrupted by “Son of a bitch!” and the tapping of a hammer.

  Chapter 4

  Getting Religion

  The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education. – Albert Einstein

  Like many Catholic kids, Marcus attended Mass with his family, which typically meant his mother was the only parent present. His father seldom went to Mass except on special occasions, but his mother had converted to Catholicism and executed the practice of her adopted faith with zeal and with all of her kids in tow. Marcus attended Mass at a time when it was still said in Latin. He enjoyed the feel of it – the cadence of the half spoken, half sung Latin and the immersion into a congregation of civil people who for a time were focused on a common purpose. In church, he was drawn to the light streaming in from the high set stained glass windows that illuminated the otherwise invisible particles of dust before it painted the people, pews, and alter with its spectrum. He would follow the light into elaborate daydreams. Although he generally enjoyed the experience of going to Mass, except during holidays when it was too crowded, too hot, and smelled too much of incense, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to accomplish during the Mass and was often distracted. He would lose his place in the liturgy and had trouble figuring out in advance when to sit, stand, or kneel.

  For kids attending public school, which included Marcus, catechism classes were held after school or on Saturday mornings for religious education. Attendance was mandatory in preparation for receiving the Sacraments. Although Marcus attended catechism classes when he was in elementary school, he didn’t seem to retain much about what was going on in the Mass or about the questions he was later to ask. He learned that he wasn’t supposed to chew the Host when he received Communion and that sins put dark spots on his soul that Penance was required to remove.

  Most of the instruction was focused on memorizing the answers to questions posed by the Baltimore Catechism such as “Who made us?” To which the reply was “God made us.” Or “Why did God make us?” – “God made us to know Him, to love Him and to serve Him.” It was essential to know the answers to these questions if the Bishop were to call on you when you received your First Holy Communion or Confirmation, but they seemed of little practical use for Marcus outside the walls of the church. His lasting memory of catechism classes actually had nothing to do with the memorized questions and answers.

  During good weather, his brother Mike, sisters, Aileen and Brigid and he would walk to the church on Saturday morning for catechism class. As was usually the case, Marcus had stayed up late reading on Friday night, woke late Saturday morning, dressed quickly and ran out the door to catch up with his brother and sisters. It was already hot, and he didn’t have time to eat breakfast. The church was about a mile and a half away, and they walked mostly through the neighborhood to get there – led by Aileen.

  Classes were held in the multi-purpose room in the basement of the church and taught by two nuns, one who did most of the instruction and one who played the piano during hymns. The few fans that were placed near the front of the class did little to cool the room, and Marcus wondered how the nuns could stand being wrapped up in their blue cocoons on such a hot day. Beads of sweat were clearly visible on their foreheads and upper lips.

  At the beginning of class as they all stood to say the Our Father to be followed by the Apostles Creed, Marcus slowly laid down on the bench seat and dimly heard the nun shouting from the front of the class “You there! Stand up, stand up!” as he lost consciousness. His rest was pleasant except for the constant badgering voice somewhere off in the distance. With great effort, he pushed aside his dream and opened his eyes to the sweat beaded face of the nun close up.

  After a glass of water and a trip to the convent for a glass of ice milk and Saltine crackers, he rejoined the class and afterward walked home with his brother and sisters. They all wanted to know what the inside of the convent looked like. As he thought back on this experience, he realized that he remembered little of the religious instruction. What he remembered most was the calm and comfortable feeling he experienced when he lost consciousness that day.

  Religious experience was intended to prepare kids to receive the church sacraments. Baptism was initiated by their parents when they were babies, but the rest required active participation as they got older. Penance, (now called Reconciliation), Holy Communion and Confirmation were usually received as children or young adults while Marriage, Priesthood, and Last Rites were attained as adults. Of these, Marcus liked Penance the best; he thought it was a good deal, particularly for kids who got in trouble a lot. The deal was that if you were really sorry for your sins, told all of them to the priest during confession, and made a good Act of Contrition, the priest, in turn, would absolve you of your sins and all of those dark spots on your
soul that you learned about in catechism class would be cleaned. Marcus seemed to accumulate a lot of dark spots and needed to be cleaned as often as possible.

  Absolution didn’t come free – that’s where Penance came in. One was required to do penance for your sins that often amounted to praying many “Our Fathers” or “Hail Marys” with attached requirements to do something nice for your parents or sisters. As Marcus got older, there also seemed to be frequent admonitions to “avoid the near occasions of sin” added on. Marcus also learned that there were some unwritten rules about Penance and Confession that could help to ease the usual near panic that would overtake him when the time drew near.

  First, you had to select the right priest for the appropriate list of sins. St. Andrews parish was populated by three priests, an elderly priest – Father MacDowell, who was partially retired and known to be cantankerous, hard of hearing, and loud-spoken, a middle-aged priest named Father Connolly who was less irritable, but strict and Father Mike who had recently entered the priesthood and was on his first assignment.

  A confessional is a dark closet which can be a scary place for a young kid. On entry, you kneel down and wait for the little slide window to open. The priest sits on the other side in his own dark closet and listens to what you have to confess. The problem is that with the outer door closed, you have no idea which priest is inside. Marcus thought that this is vital information to have. One of the advantages of being in a large family is that you can compare notes after Confession and generally get a good idea about who gives what penance for what sins. As a general rule, the youngest priests seem to require the least penance, and that meant that Father Mike was at the top of the list. The problem was that everybody else had this figured out too and there was generally a long line in front of Father Mike’s confessional on Saturday night. If the line was too long, you could take your chances with Father Connolly, but unless you had a death wish, you avoided Father MacDowell at all costs.