The Mutual Admiration Society(61)
18
DARING
There are times when I step inside our church that I can’t help but fall down to my knees. Not in prayer, of course. I am not impressed with most of the malarkey the nuns and priests try to peddle us. You’d have to be as dumb as Birdie to fall for most of those tall tales the employees of God tell us during catechism class and Sunday sermons.
Take Noah and the Ark. All you have to do is spend an afternoon at the Washington Park Zoo to know how much animals poop and are at each other tooth and nail. Noah and his family would have to jump overboard because they couldn’t stand the smell on that boat for forty days and nights and those wild animals would devour each other the second they had a chance, including the dove that showed up with the olive branch in its beak, it wouldn’t have escaped the snarling jaws of death, either.
FACT: The Almighty could’ve saved Daddy from drowning or bestowed upon me a swimming miracle, so our on-again, off-again relationship spends a lot of time in the off position.
PROOF: I only pray because I need to keep all my bases covered and I only go to church to keep Louise from heckling me. But my soul? I think it must really like the beautiful interior decoration job that was done on St. Kate’s, because like it or not, the place can make me feel like I’m having one of those holy times. Like the ones I have every so often when I’m at the cemetery pond and everything feels right with my world again for a minute or two.
The church smells of incense and floor polish this morning the way it always does, which is nice, but it’s the way the sun is passing through the stained glass that’s my favorite part. Especially the way it’s slanting into the window that belongs to St. Joan of Arc. I admire that she was a fighter, but I can’t help but wonder if being a French slut like Suzie LaPelt is why that kid really got turned into French toast, because I’m 100% positive Louise and the other gals in the parish wouldn’t mind throwing Daddy’s barmaid into a bonfire, either.
The rest of St. Kate’s is also easy on the eyes. Very la-di-da luxurious. The main altar that’s watched over by Jesus hanging on the cross is dripping with gold, there’s a fancy carved wooden stand made out of some kind of special blessed wood where the priests try to scare us into being better Catholics, and the Communion railing is made of real marbles. The main altar is where the Tabernacle sits—the rumpus room for the white wafers the priests pass out that are the “alleged” body of Jesus. (Even though we’re warned not to, I’ve chewed up a Communion wafer and it was boneless.)
On either side of the big altar, there are two much smaller ones that are not as lush but still quite nice. The one on the right belongs to the Virgin Mary. I can see that there’s no mustache above her chipped pink lip anymore so it must’ve got scrubbed off this morning by the gal who is taking our friend and church cleaner, Gracie Carver’s, place while she’s in Mississippi nursing her sister back to health.
On the altar to the left, there’s a statue of Charlie’s and Birdie’s all-time favorite saint. The same way our pal Mr. McGinty is very devoted to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers? That’s how gaga those two go over St. Francis. Charlie adores him for two reasons. Frances was his mother’s name and that saint also liked birds the same way my fiancé does. And, of course, that means my animal-loving sister also goes nuts for that olden-days holy man who has three cute sparrows sitting on his shoulders with little cocked heads like Birdie gets when she’s hearing something nobody else can.
After The Mutual Admiration Society gets done dipping our fingers into the Holy Water font and crossing ourselves—Birdie splashes some on her face, too, she always does—and once my eyes adjust to the dimness inside the church, I easily spot who I’m searching for. Lighthouse-tall Kitten Jablonski towers above all the other kids waiting in the confession line, the ones who always show up at the last minute on Confession Thursday.
Charlie tells me when I complain to him about the stiff penances Father Ted doles out to me, “According to my most recent survey, when Father starts hearing confessions, the largest penance he doles out is three Hail Marys, but once the church bells clang twelve thirty, he switches over to the Stations of the Cross.”
He’s probably right about that, because not only does Charlie keep track of what he observes happening in the neighborhood and in movies and the sports page, etc., another hobby of his is going around the neighborhood with a clipboard and questioning people. He’ll ask what cereal someone ate for breakfast or what television shows they like, their favorite colors, and whatnot. Charlie bugging kids like this is enough to make them say, “Ya writin’ a book or something? Buzz off, Cue Ball.” But to me? This is a lot like sweating the truth out of someone, so it might turn out to be a real plus in our family detecting business.
So, I’m going to consider confessing to Father Ted earlier from now on, because he does go very crabby and very thirsty for his Jameson’s whiskey at half past noon and who can blame him?
I’d be raring to throw back a stiff one, too, if I had to sit around in a box that’s hardly bigger than a coffin for two hours straight while every sweaty and farty kid in the parish files in to tell him their list of sins. Having to listen to what unholy screwups we all are week after week has got to make that priest feel like he’s falling down on the job, which is probably why he drinks so much.