Wrapped in Rain(76)

The faint smell of incense mixed with freshly cut flowers floated at nose level throughout the inside of the sanctuary. Crosses and candles decorated every nook and cranny, and several saints stood enshrined in small cutouts in the church walls. Stained glass windows climb ing to the roofline; chains hanging from the ceiling supporting several hood-sized chandeliers; white marbled floors; ornate, hand-carved wooden pews-the entire place spoke of reverence and permanence.



Heels shuffled down the hard, cold floors, echoing across the room as parishioners walked down the center aisle, bent their knees, bowed their heads, crossed themselves, and then slid quietly into their seat. Like every church I'd ever been in, no one had assigned seats, but everybody knew where everybody sat. So not wanting to cause a scene, I grabbed Mutt by the coattail and steered him to a pew two-thirds of the way back. He shook his head and pointed down front. We walked, shadowing Mutt, and took our seats nine rows back from the front.

At a few minutes after six, the organist brought the congregation to their feet with a responsive hymn during which the priests and acolytes proceeded in. The first acolyte carried a large wooden cross, a second swung an incense burner, and the priests sang in unison without having to read the verses from their hymnals.

Five verses later, Father Bob, a tall, bald, and tanned man with graying sideburns and broad shoulders, welcomed us. His voice was deep and soothing-the kind that made you think that maybe confession wasn't all that bad, and his smile was genuine. Following his welcome, he crossed both himself and us several times and, I am ashamed to admit, in doing so, reminded me of my third base coach.

Two adjunct priests approached the podium and read from both the Old and New Testaments. They read slowly, with both delight and purpose, the meaning almost palatable. When finished, the congregation rose while Father Bob read the Gospel lesson. The first half he read; the other he recited from memory. Following the Gospel, the congregation knelt and recited the Apostle's Creed. Surprisingly, Mutt knew every word by heart. That completed, they confessed their sins and then prayed for everything from their church to parishioners who were ill or had died to the country's leaders. Jase and Katie knelt on one side of me, while Mutt knelt on the other. All three heads were bowed, hands clasped and eyes shut. I knelt, clutching the back of the pew in front of me, and scanned the congregation to see who else was praying with their eyes open.



Jase tugged on my shirtsleeve and whispered, "Unca Tuck, who is that man with the hat?"

"He's the rector."

"What's that?"

"He's in charge. Kind of like the coach."

"Well, why's he wear that hat?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, buddy."

The lady in front of us looked over her shoulder, put her finger to her lips, and wrinkled her forehead. Jase looked up again. "You think he wears that hat all the time?"

The lady gave us the "Shhh" sign again, so I put my hands to my lips and said, "Probably just in here."

We finished the prayers and sat back, so I picked him up and put him on my lap. After a minute or two, Katie scooted a few inches closer to me and snugged her shoulder next to mine. Due to the stone and marble, the sanctuary was cold, but her shoulder and his back warmed me.

I inched forward, pressed the tip of my nose against the back of Jase's head, and breathed a slow, deep, and silent breath. The feel of his soft hair on my top lip and nose reminded me of Miss Ella's warm, gentle lips on my cheek. When she got older, they grew prickly with fuzz and quivered when she reached up to kiss me. I never shied away from that. Not ever. Prickly or not, I wanted that woman's lips on my face.



When I got too old and too big to spank, which was about thirteen, Miss Ella began painting me with coal. If I lied about my homework, or didn't take the trash out, or didn't make my bed, or didn't do something I knew I should have, Miss Ella would sit me down, pull a piece of coal from her apron, touch it to my tongue, and then wipe it across the entirety of my lips-the consequence of my disobedience. Then she'd touch the tip of my tongue again and draw a large "t" on my forehead. I wasn't allowed to wash for an entire day. School or no school. "Tucker," she'd say as she put the coal back in her apron, "I'm not going to quit saying it simply because you get tired of hearing it. That ash is a reminder that willful defiance must willfully be defied."

"Why?"

"Because it leads to the grave, child. The grave."

I looked in the mirror, pointed to my head, and asked, "Then why the cross?"

"Because, child, you got to die before you can live."

Father Bob stepped to the pulpit, looked at his notes, and then decided he'd rather talk from down front. He closed his notebook, descended the stairs to our level, genuflected, leaned on his cane, and began telling us the story of his four years in the Vatican, how and why he became a priest some thirty-five years ago, and how the work of the church isn't something "reserved for the men in white robes and funny hats; it's something all of us do."

While he preached, which was less of a sermon and more of a conversation, Jase jammed his right index finger two knuckles deep into his left nostril. Thirty seconds later, he extracted his shiny finger and held it up to the light. Not a pretty sight. Then he shook his hand toward the floor, trying to flick it off. Problem was, he missed the floor. It arced off his finger, flipped a few times in the air, and landed square on the back of the lady in front of us. It was big, green, and stuck to her cream-colored coat like a caterpillar crawling across a bedsheet. Katie turned white, her eyes as big around as silver dollars. She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and attempted to pick it off, but that only made matters worse.