Читать книгу Hail Mary Corner - Brian Payton - Страница 7

The day began, as did every day, with a bell at 6:00 a.m. The student body stumbled into the communal washrooms bleary-eyed and cowlicked. It splashed water in its face, tied its tie, pulled a brush through its hair, and herded downstairs, past the classrooms, the dining halls, and the guesthouse, then through a dark, submarinelike passageway into the dimly lit cavern of the new abbey church. There it knelt and battled with unconsciousness as the monks trickled in.

The monks were in their choir stalls in the apse behind the altar, each in his own cubbyhole on two opposing sides. We called it the Rack. The abbot was always among the first to take his place. He was a misshapened little man with an island of hair in the middle of a mostly bald head, a curved spine that forced him to walk with his waist jutting ahead of his shoulders, and a cross around his neck that was two times too big for his body. Despite his diminutive stature, the other monks shrank in his presence. We liked this. Sometimes during Mass he’d yawn loudly, and occasionally he’d even snore. This morning, however, he filled the silence with the click of his fingernail clipper, which echoed through the church.

About five minutes prior to Mass one of the priests came off the Rack and passed in front of the abbot, genuflected before the central altar, and disappeared into the confessional at the far end of the church. To receive Communion with the stain of mortal sin on one’s soul wasn’t done. Venial, or minor sins, were forgiven in a prayer before one received the sacrament; peace with God was made on the spot. But a mortal sin separated man from God and man from the church. Confession was the only remedy. Heady stuff, these mortal sins. Murder, rape, and adultery were all there, but so was jerking off. Thankfully a quick Confession could right any wrong of the previous night. The road to forgiveness wasn’t long in terms of natural distance, yet it was a parade past every student, brother, and priest on the hill. It was a considerable journey. One could wait until Sunday Confession to get rid of all the other stuff, but this sin, this mortal sin, had to be snuffed out right there and then.

Michael Ashbury slid off the wooden kneeler and onto the pew, made the sign of the cross, then rose and started the long walk past us. The clap of his shoes reverberated off the tiles and up to the domed ceiling, then ricocheted around the church. He genuflected as he passed the altar and bowed his way into the shadowy recesses of the confessional. From two pews behind me someone whispered, “Looks like Mikey had a date with the Palm Sisters.”

I covered my mouth to hold the laughter in, then looked over at Eric kneeling next to me to see if he’d heard it, too. But he was staring straight ahead. Eventually he stood, waited for us to make way, then slipped out. He followed Michael Ashbury and they were forgiven.

Halfway through Mass the frog—silent for a week—decided to join in again. We all turned our attention to the back of the church, and a few people began snickering. Brother Thomas swooped down from the Rack, pulled a swift genuflection in front of the altar, and scurried to the back of the church. Frantically he searched the little fountain and pool. Then he spotted it. He flipped his scapular around his back, tucked it into his belt, rolled up his sleeve, and knelt.

A few seconds later there was a splash and then Brother Thomas straightened with a handful of dripping frog. He took the intruder to the main doors and pushed the handle down. It was locked. He marched to the side entrance and found that door locked, too. We all stared, waiting to see what he’d do next. Red-faced and fuming, Brother Thomas marched the frog past us, bowed abruptly to the altar, then continued out of the back of the church and down the hall in search of an unlocked door to the natural world.

I waited beside our table as everyone else took their places. Even after Mass finally ended, we weren’t allowed to speak. I made the mistake of talking before breakfast my very first morning at Saint John the Divine, and my greetings were met with blank stares. Finally one of the seminarians shushed loudly, index finger to lips. It was later explained to me that the Morning Calm was not to be disturbed until Father Gregory, seated alone at the head table, tinkled his little bell.

“What h-happened last n-n-night in the Cave?” Connor asked, reaching his arm past my face for four slices of toast.

“None of your business.”

“What’s s-s-stuck up your b-butt, William?”

“Nothing. I already told you everything. The Calling, my behaviour, the usual.”

Connor slurped his three-sugared coffee and stuck a piece of toast into his mouth. “You seen the p-p-picture yet?”

“What picture?”

“Show him.”

Jon slid a Polaroid across the table facedown. Father Gregory glanced up from his mush and morning paper, and Connor subtly moved a napkin over the photo. When Father Gregory looked back down and ruffled his paper, I pulled out the photo and flipped it over. It looked like an out-of-focus finger sticking straight into the air. It was too close to the camera, and the flash had turned it yellow-white. What was in focus and recognizable was Father Gregory’s high-backed chair and desk. You could even make out some of the books. It was definitely the Cave—that much was certain. I looked at Connor. “What the hell’s this?”

“Tom is the K-King. If you can b-believe that’s his d-dink.”

The dare had stood unchallenged since last year. Some of the freshmen, now sophomores, had dreamed it up. It involved unauthorized entry into the chamber, an erection, and photographic evidence. I had heard of the dare but was unaware anyone would be stupid enough to attempt it. Studying the photo again, I could tell what it was now. Then I looked over at Tom Wolosovic. He was slouched in his chair, a big, dumb grin smeared across his face. The kid would do just about anything for attention.

“And now we have to call him King for the rest of the year?” I asked Connor.

“Yep. He also made thirty bucks in s-side bets.”

“I’m not calling anyone King,” Eric said. “Especially for something as disgusting as that.”

Jon took another look, then passed the photo to the next table. They passed it back to Tom. Connor eyeballed him and said, “The K-King.” Tom smiled big, as if this were the finest moment of his life.

“I don’t think I can eat anything now,” Eric said.

Father Gregory peered over his paper again and unleashed one of his all-purpose cease-and-desist frowns. We looked down at our plates.

“The food is worse than last year,” Jon said, chasing the mush around his bowl with the back of his spoon. “They didn’t seem to get the message. Maybe it’s time to reorganize SNAC.”

SNAC, the Student Nourishment Advocacy Coalition, consisted of eleven disgruntled seminarians: the four of us, three other juniors, a smattering of sophomores, and our newest member, Michael Ashbury. SNAC was concerned about “the quality and quantity of food available at this and similar institutions.” Father Gregory had dismissed our complaints, and our parents weren’t much more sympathetic. They wouldn’t sign the SNAC manifesto. “I couldn’t feed you for what they charge for room, board, and tuition,” my father had exclaimed. “Besides, you’re going for free. You’ll shut your trap and like it!”

SNAC mostly organized smuggling runs to town or the corner store for supplements: chocolate, potato chips, gum, candy. Recently, however, SNAC had become more political again. Eric had taken it upon himself to write a letter to the B.C. Ministry of Education. He was given a surprisingly polite “Thanks for your concern, but we know what we’re doing” reply.

“I’m thinking of sending samples,” Eric announced.

“Of what?” I asked.

“I thought you knew. We’re sending samples of food for nutritional analysis to the person in charge of school food programs. I’ve worked out the calories, you know.”

People started bringing their cups and plates back to the cart—new kids and keeners eager to be first sitting up straight in class. I got up and filled our empty pot of coffee, then noticed Todd Fowler setting a course for our table.

Todd’s uniform didn’t fit him properly. Although he had been tall for as long as I could remember, he hadn’t gotten around to letting out the hem of his pants or moving up a jacket size or two. It wasn’t that he was bulking up or growing a gut; it was only that his hands and legs poked down three or four inches more than normal. I always thought that made him look as if he had just landed after jumping feet first out of an airplane. He once told me that blazers with short arms were all the rage. He even pushed his sleeves a little farther up to exaggerate the effect. I actually saw this in a magazine and was momentarily impressed. It didn’t, however, explain Todd’s pants.

“This isn’t a coffee house,” Todd finally said, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. “Pinch it off.”

I suppose in any other school, where there was at least the appearance of democratic institutions, a president was elected through a popularity contest. Not at Saint John the Divine. The upperclassman who had been at the school the longest, in this case Todd, was the Senior Senior. Todd had been doing time at Saint John’s since grade nine. So had three other members of the senior class. In a circumstance like that the line of succession became alphabetic. Todd Fowler preceded Tony Morino, Rob Parker, or Francis Tate. Therefore, Todd was Senior Senior. There were only nine seniors at Saint John’s that year and they mostly kept to themselves, with this one notable exception.

“W-w-what’s your p-problem, Todd?”

The fact that Connor was about half a foot shorter than Todd, and a year younger, didn’t matter much. Connor wasn’t afraid of anyone.

“Look, I’m just trying to do my job. Can’t you guys see you’re the last ones in here? These guys’ve got to clean this place up in the next five minutes.” Todd gestured toward Michael Ashbury and another cowering grade niner, one of those little anklebiters I saw nearly every day but whose name I never bothered to remember. You had to earn that. They were holding dishtowels and brooms at the ready. “You guys are holding them up.”

As Senior Senior, Todd operated as housemaster and ensured everything was cleaned on time and put in proper order before the first bell rang. Being Senior Senior was his lot in life. Granted, having to make sure washrooms, dorms, hallways, and classrooms were up to scratch wasn’t the most sought-after career. Because there was no cleaning staff at Saint John’s, we all had a part in the daily upkeep of the place.

Todd turned and stuck his finger in Michael Ashbury’s face. “Make sure these guys clean up after themselves, or I’m taking it out on you. Ass-berry.” He poked him hard in the chest.

Then the unthinkable occurred. Michael took a swing at Todd’s finger, but missed. Todd quickly retaliated with a sharp slap across the back of Michael’s head. We all jumped out of our chairs in unison, Jon’s tumbling backward and crashing on the floor. No one moved. There were no monks, no other witnesses The power structure had crumbled in less than a second.

“He’s with us,” Jon said. “Leave the kid alone.”

Todd glared back with an expression that was supposed to make us think he was barely in control of his superhuman rage. His reign had barely begun and already his bluff had been called. Michael’s breathing was fast and audible. I sat down and took a sip of my coffee to signal the end of the standoff. Todd shoved past Michael, then stomped down the hall to spread sunshine someplace else.

The first bell rang loud and long as I sauntered along the hall. Freshmen intensified their scurrying, grabbing forgotten books, checking and rechecking the numbers on classroom doors. I knew all too well where I was going. I also knew that after the first bell there would be five minutes until the second. I decided to spend them all on Mary.

The phone booth in the foyer provided the only real measure of privacy in the entire seminary. The heavy wooden door closed tight. It was quiet in there below the one naked bulb, which illuminated a tiny wooden shelf, a well-used phone book, and a telephone from the Middle Ages—heavy and black with a cloth-covered cord.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver. “Is your sister home? Well, isn’t she supposed to be going to school in an hour? Okay, I’ll wait.” The seconds ticked by. Finally I heard Mary slide across the linoleum in her slippers. “I was just about to head to class and I was thinking about you,” I said. “I can’t wait to see you. Will you be here Sunday? Actually it’s 7:58. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that when I’m lying in bed tonight, just before I fall asleep, I’ll be thinking about you. If you think about me at the same time, it’ll almost be like we’re in bed together.”

The second bell rang as I approached the classroom door. I turned the handle and bounded in when the ringing stopped. Father Gregory looked up from his notebook, then back down again. “Our first class together and you’ve already used up your one and only favour. Take your seat, William, then you can tell us your thoughts on transubstantiation.”

“Transubstantiation,” I said, en route to my desk, “is...a...central tenet of our faith.”

“Sit down.”

“Turning bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ,” I said. “But the appearance of bread and wine remains.”

He flipped through his folder and read something, while we sat at our desks writing the date at the top of blank sheets of notebook paper. The entire junior class was there, staring straight ahead, waiting for the start of what should be the easiest course of the semester.

Usually, if you just took part in class discussions and did the homework, religion was a bankable A. The only problem was that Father Gregory hadn’t taught a course in over five years. He’d been too busy with administrative duties to teach a class. No one knew what to expect.

We waited and waited. Father Gregory was a great lover of the pregnant pause. Eventually he took a deep breath, then snapped into action. “My apologies for starting this class a week late, but as you know we’ve all had to make allowances in Brother Stephen’s absence.”

He grabbed a pile of papers and handed them to Eric, who was sitting in the front row. Eric got up and distributed them around the class, the intoxicating aroma of mimeograph fluid spreading like a billowing cape behind him. When I got my course syllabus, I held it to my nose and inhaled deeply. It was still wet from the machine. I practically inhaled the purple letters right off the page, and I wasn’t alone.

“Stop smelling the syllabus,” Father Gregory ordered. “You men are juniors now. Act like adults.”

The reading list was long and intense. The Council of Trent, Vatican I, and Saint Thomas More were among the highlights. We scanned the coming semester as Father Gregory revelled in our dismay. “Before we discuss the syllabus and the reading list, I want to start off the class with a discussion. I want to talk about Our Blessed Mother.”

Pens clicked in a well-conditioned response.

“No need for notes yet. I only want to talk. Tell me, is Our Blessed Mother the way to heaven?”

That was a heavily loaded question. While we could all see the trap he was setting, Eric was the one to raise his hand.

“No,” he announced. “She is not the way, but she guides us along the way. To her son, Jesus.”

Father Gregory pursed his lips. “Then that leads me to another question: Do we worship Mary?”

“No,” Jon said. “We’re supposed to venerate Mary. We worship God alone.” We’d covered this fine distinction last semester. “But let’s talk reality here.”

Father Gregory pushed some papers aside, tossed the back of his scapular out of the way, and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m all for reality.”

“Reality is that people like the Mexicans and the Polish worship Mary. They don’t just ask her to pray for them. They worship the Black Madonna and that other one, Our Lady of Guadeloupe. You can’t say people who can’t even read know the difference between venerate and worship.”

“Wrong.” Eric turned in his seat and confronted the heretic. “Poland and Mexico and Fatima...and Lourdes...and a few other places all have a special relationship with Mary. They know who God is. They know who died on the cross. They’re just giving her the honour she deserves—and people in Poland can read!”

Jon shook his head. “They worship those statues. They say some of those things cry and bleed and stuff like that. They get down and crawl on their knees along roads and up mountains to visit a picture. Sounds like worship to me.”

“I can’t believe you! What’s your problem?” Eric shook his head. “These people are only following her to her Son. You sound like a Jehovah’s Witness or something.”

Father Gregory raised his hand. “Let’s keep away from personal attacks, shall we? Stick to the issues.”

Connor had had his hand up since the battle had begun. Father Gregory pointed to him. “Who w-w-was the only one to stick by Him w-w-when He was on t-the cross? His disciples skipped out. Mary w-was the only one.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Jon, corrected. “So was Mary’s sister, plus Mary Magdalene and that other Mary, the mother of the apostles James Major and John. Besides, what does that have to do with anything?”

I forced my way in. I had no idea why Jon was so agitated, but it seemed as if he needed backup. “What about the fact that we pray the rosary every day? The full rosary is made up of a hundred and fifty Hail Marys and only fifteen Our Fathers. I’m not keeping score, but it seems like she’s ahead ten to one.”

Eric turned his back on us. “You’re sick. You know you’re supposed to be thinking about God when you say the rosary.”

Jon wouldn’t let it go. He was tainted, after all. His dad was born a Lutheran. “Why don’t we just pray straight to God? I mean, is she going to tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Give this kid a break as a favour for your mom?’ Seems kinda weak to me.”

Father Gregory’s arms were folded across his chest. He started picking lint off the front of his black scapular. “Jon, you bring up an interesting question, but I think you’re being confrontational for effect. However, these are the kinds of issues we’ll be discussing this semester. We’re going to get to the bottom of a lot of misconceptions and find the truth.” He looked out the window and paused. “Essentially we have two pillars of our faith. Anyone?”

Jon and Eric raced to spit out, “Scripture and church teaching.”

Father Gregory continued. “Our Christian brothers outside the church have the scriptures, but they’ve turned their backs on the nearly two thousand years of tradition and dogma. We have those teachings as our inheritance.”

“But Father...” Jon threw his pencil onto his desk and folded his arms. “When you pray—I’m not talking about Mass or the rosary—when you pray by yourself, do you just pray to God, or do you cover all your bases and pray to Mary and the saints, too?”

“It’s not a game, Jon. Prayer is prayer. Have a look at those books on your reading list and then look into your heart. You’ll see the truth.”

“You cover your bases.”

Father Gregory hesitated, then stood and straightened his habit. “Yes,” he sighed, “I most certainly do.”

On the way to lunch I saw Father Albert with a tennis bag. He always looked ridiculous strolling through the seminary in his black habit, his big gut, and the bright blue tennis bag, especially since we knew what was really inside.

The monks were against television. In the entire monastery and seminary there were only two TVs. One was kept locked in a closet in the seniors’ classroom—to be turned on by a member of the faculty and only for legitimate educational purposes or for sporting events. The other was small, completely illegal, and constantly on the move from one location to the next.

One day the previous year Father Albert had discovered that a freshman named Harold Redinski was harbouring a portable TV in a tennis bag. Quietly he pulled Harold aside and struck a friendly bargain. In return for his silence Father Albert asked to borrow the bag once a week in order to watch his favourite sitcoms. At a prescribed time Harold would leave it sitting by his desk. Father Albert would walk by, pick it up with comic nonchalance, and calmly transport the contraband to the privacy of his cell. He even went out and played tennis once, just to keep up appearances.

When I saw Father Albert shuffling through the hall that day, toting the bag with the tennis racket zipped to the side, whistling the theme to All in the Family, I asked him about his game. He smiled, told me his backhand needed work, patted me on the head, and continued on his way.