The Gathering (21 page)

Silence. The small radio droned on.

“Boy,” Dick said “do I remember that wedding of yours!” He shook his head. “I know the bride gets to shed a few tears. But part of the time Lil was acting as if it was the happiest day of her life—and the rest of the time it was like she was being taken to the electric chair.”

“That’s cause she was kissing her Church good-bye.”

“So, what happened? We go to Mass with you and all of a sudden you’ve got more Christmas spirit than any ten guys I know.” Dick turned slightly to face George. “And I’ve never seen Lil so happy … so really happy!

“C’mon now, what happened?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Silence. Dick frowned. “What do you mean you can’t tell me? Am I your friend or not? Especially if it’s good news—and from what I can see, this is plenty of good news.”

George looked pained. “Dick, we—Lil and I—well, we’re sworn to secrecy.

“But I can tell you this much: This pastor we’ve got over at Guadaloop—he’s a miracle worker … a real miracle worker.”

“You mean all it took was one guy to straighten this out?”

“Yup. He fixed everything. But, listen, Dick: If it gets out that he did this for us, it would—what was the word he used?—it would
compromise
him.”

“‘Compromise him’? What in hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know what the hell that means. All I know is Lil is back in her Church, our kid can go be a priest if he wants, and—you’re not gonna believe this—I’m going to be a Catholic.”

“No!”

“Yes! It’s the least I could do for what Father Simpson did for us. Lil can be a complete Catholic. My boy can at least try to get to be a priest. And that makes him happier than a pig in sunshine. And that makes the old man”—George patted his paunch—“very happy too.”

George peered around the corner. He could see about a third of the kitchen. But no activity. “And not only does it make the old man happy,” George said, “it also makes him hungry. I wonder when they’re gonna put some food on the table.”

“Go easy on the girls,” Dick said. “They’re having fun.”

The two men tried to interest themselves in the radio broadcast. The game being over, the program consisted of Christmas carols.

“Nice music,” George said, “but by this time I’m a little tired of it.”

“Want me to turn it off?”

George considered. “Nah; leave it on. It adds to the spirit of the day.”

The three young people were now quietly playing Monopoly. They knew enough to keep the noise down. Otherwise their elders would shush them.

Judy and Jiggs Trent were aware that their aunt Lily was unusually joyful, much more so than even the season might have engendered. But they didn’t know why. Stanley, of course, did know.

Judy shook the dice, counted the spaces, and moved her piece along the board. Try as she might, she just couldn’t concentrate. “Are you excited?” she asked, beaming at her cousin.

“You mean about going to the seminary?” Stan had expected that next year’s schooling would be a popular topic of conversation today. “Sure,” he replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “But it’s still a long way off. First I’ve got to get through the eighth grade, and then pass the entrance exam. And I don’t even know how important the interview is.

“So, as I said, it’s a long way off.”

“You’ll do just great!” As far as interpersonal relations went, Judy knew two truths: She greatly admired her cousin, and she abhorred her brother.

“Yeah, you’ll do great all right,” Jiggs said. “You’ll stay at home while us guys protect you.”

“Jiggs”—Judy’s voice cut the otherwise quiet atmosphere—“don’t be such a jerk.”

Stan blushed. He had come to realize that almost no one was without a strong opinion about ordination to the priesthood and the seminary training that preceded it.

As for Jiggs, there was no possible doubt about his allusion: The war and enlistment.

Stan felt a strong urge to reach across the table and belt his cousin. The more restrained response had much more going for it. It kept things relatively quiet. It was the Christlike thing to do. And it saved Stan from a bloody nose. Say what you will about Jiggs, he was built for combat.

“It’s okay,” Stan reassured Judy.

He turned back to his cousin. “That was not nice of you, Jiggs. The government sets up the rules; we just follow them. I know that if I’m accepted into the seminary, I’ll be classified 4-D. But I didn’t have anything to say about it.”

Jiggs snorted. “Four-D! One rank above the guys who are deaf, blind, and crippled.”

“I said,” Stan repeated, “I didn’t have anything to do with getting that classification.”

“Why don’t you leave him alone, Jiggsy?” Judy knew her brother hated being addressed as “Jiggsy.” “It’s your turn anyway.”

Smirking, Jiggs threw the dice. He landed in Jail. “That’s okay, little cousin. I’ll keep the place warm for you. That’s in case you don’t get into your sissy school and you have to become a draft dodger.”

Stan did not respond.

“Oh—!” Judy was at a loss for words.

The game continued virtually without speech.

The United States had not been officially involved until Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. So the war effort had now been underway for barely more than a year.

In the months immediately following Pearl Harbor, Stan had not given much thought to his being drafted. After all, he was only in the seventh grade. But if the war continued for another few years—and it looked as if it might—the possibility of his being drafted was a lurking reality.

It became clear that Jiggs was going to worry this topic as a dog would worry a bone.

Several turns went by. Without any particular effort, Stan was winning big.

Jiggs was not amused. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“Drop dead, I hope,” Judy said through clenched teeth.

“Shut up, twerp, or I’ll poke you in the arm!”

There were times when Judy had thought she might end up with a paralyzed arm from one of Jiggs’s jabs. After that episode at the Stratford when she had threatened to reveal what a coward he was, Jiggs had backed off. But lately, he’d shown signs of reverting to his former abusive self. However, as long as he didn’t follow through physically, she would keep quiet … at least for now.

It was Christmas Day.

The game continued.

In the blissful silence of concentration on avenues, railroads, utilities, and Jail, Stan relaxed a bit. He rested his chin in the palms of his hands and reflected on recent events.

Since school had started in September, this had been the most difficult period of his young life. The eighth grade became a testing zone for what he understood would be his seminary routine.

In all humility, Stan knew he was intelligent, and that he had an ear for languages. Memorizing the Latin responses for Mass had been a snap; in fact, his Latin was better than Father Simpson’s. Stan’s responses were clear and crisp, Simpson’s mumbled and elided.

As a result of Stan’s efforts not to stand out, his grades had plummeted. Oh, he was passing all his subjects—but in lackluster fashion.

He was doomed, he knew it. He would spend the rest of his academic life suppressing his ability, stifling his talent, and camouflaging himself in a cloak of mediocrity. And all because this crazy pastor for some unfathomable reason was set on Stan’s becoming a priest. And Stan was trapped, with no way out without subjecting his mother to heartbreak.

Every way he turned there was his proud and happy mother beaming at him. He knew he could sail through the seminary entrance exam. All he’d have to do was blow a sufficient number of answers in order to be rejected by professors who wanted intelligent students.

He could outright flunk the test. But there was Mother brought low again.

He could fake an illness. He could bumble the interview. He could do any number of things to make himself unacceptable.

He could even tell the truth: That he had never wanted to be a priest, did not now want to be a priest, and would not ever want to be a priest. More emphatically, he would be willing to do anything as an adult except be a priest.

In a way, he was hoist on his own petard. Hitherto, he had stood no chance of being accepted into the seminary—and thus not into the priesthood either. Secure in that knowledge, he had let his mother believe that he would have aspired to the priesthood had that door been open to him. It seemed to give her some comfort that he had an ambition that was sacred to her.

Before Father Simpson’s heavy foot had entered the picture, Stan could luxuriate in two worlds: He could make it clear that he felt called to the priesthood and was saddened that he was not permitted to respond to that call. Meanwhile, he could be at ease in the knowledge that Church law barred him from pursuing the calling.

In a sense, he had dug his own grave.

Simpson had come up with the panacea. He had convalidated the Bensons’ marriage by means of some sort of Missionaries’ Privilege. Thus taking down the “Keep Out” sign that had happily barred Stan’s entrance upon the path to the priesthood.

Stan was despondent. His emotions, his insides were in turmoil. And yet he was condemned to create the impression—and keep up the pretense—that he couldn’t have been more satisfied, more fulfilled, more happy.

Meanwhile, he would be forced to carry on that mediocre existence. He had never even conceived of anyone purposely pursuing far less than he could easily achieve.

What a mess!

The doorbell rang. Only George and Lily knew who was there: Father Simpson—their miracle worker—had been invited to join them for Christmas dinner.

Simpson had gladly accepted the invitation. While he did not check on Stanley’s every activity, neither would he neglect an opportunity to follow up on his project—his investment.

Simpson stamped the snow off his boots, entered the vestibule, and accepted George’s and Lily’s effusive greetings.

The other guests exchanged wondering glances. Who could this be?

Simpson entered the living room every inch the hail-fellow-well-met. All eyes focused on his clerical collar.

“Who is it?” Jiggs whispered to Stan.

“That’s our pastor.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t really know,” Stanley admitted.

George made the introductions. Following which, Lily announced that dinner was ready and, aided by her sister, brought the food to the table.

The diners gathered. Lily invited Father Simpson to “say the blessing.” He leaned on the traditional, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ Our Lord. Amen.” His articulation, as usual, left much to be desired.

He even messes that up, thought Stan. Simpson had, indeed, mumbled his way through the grace.

Young Judy Trent, eyes popping, was obviously deeply impressed. She had never related to a priest in such a relaxed setting. Her previous contacts had been quite formal. The pastor who ruled over Judy’s parish church and parochial school was far more remote than this priest. She saw her pastor when he handed out report cards, moving from classroom to classroom, obviously taking only superficial interest in the young students.

Then there were Devotions, Mass, thundering sermons, and the like.

Judy was fascinated that a priest could be so … human.

And prove his humanness Father Simpson did. He led the opening table talk down the path of athletics—primarily football. Along the way he tossed off a compliment in Judy’s direction.

He had won her heart forever. Or at least for as long as a young lady’s infatuation would endure.

Father Simpson remarked on how grateful he was for an altar boy like Stanley. Always in attendance whether assigned or not. Always faithful.

It was all Jiggs could do to stifle a sneer; the priest might as well have been talking about a loyal pet beagle!

Unaware, Father Simpson turned his attention to Jiggs. “What a fine, strapping young man you are,” the priest enthused. “What do you plan to do as an adult?”

Jiggs brightened. “I’m going to be a football player.”

Simpson smiled knowingly. “Good idea, lad. You’re built for it. But what about after that? The body can’t take that kind of violence forever.”

Jiggs’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, Father. I’d have to think about that. But,” he brightened again, “I know, before all that, I’m going into the Army. First chance I get. I wanta get me a Kraut or a Jap before they’re all gone!”

His mother and his aunt gasped—but quietly, so unobtrusively that no one noticed.

The men, particularly the priest, smiled at Jiggs.

“Dear Lord,” Simpson half prayed, “it does a person’s heart good to hear such patriotism. So you want to get the enemy and win the war?”

Jiggs’s father and his uncle grinned approval.

“More power to you, son,” Simpson said. He turned to Judy. “And what about you, little lady—what are you going to do when school’s over?”

“Oh, I’m going to work in one of the factories—you know, a war plant. I’m going to put planes and tanks together and help bring the boys home.”

Simpson chuckled. “Until young Jerry here wins the war.”