The Gathering (30 page)

All went swimmingly until the next morning.

The journalism student got her story. It was, as they say, buried on the front page. She had had a camera with her—Lois Lane was always prepared for any contingency—and there, swollen jaw and all, was Manny, just below the fold.

“Here’s a future priest who thinks chivalry is not dead, just ailing.” She thought her lead was pretty grabby. So did the city editor. Thus its appearance in a prized spot in one of the country’s major newspapers. It didn’t hurt her stock in a future at the Freep. And she’d been awarded what many aspiring journalists long for but never attain: Under the headline
KNIGHT IN ROMAN COLLAR
was her own byline.

The rector followed his usual routine: rise and shine, offer Mass, breakfast with the
Free Press.
Immediately
,
a blip in the routine occurred: Emanuel Tocco was summoned to the rector’s office-suite. Manny didn’t have to wait long, though to him the wait seemed sublime torture. He had seen the morning paper and he knew what was coming.

Another student emerged from the inner office. It was obvious that his appearance before the rector had not been a happy one; he resembled an early Christian just granted a temporary reprieve from the lions. As the victim passed, he nodded to Manny, gestured toward the door of the rector’s office as if to say, “It’s all yours.”

Manny rose, summoned his resources, and entered the Colosseum.

The first thing to hit his eye was the morning
Free Press,
page one prominently displayed, on the rector’s desk. Without formal greeting, the rector pointed to the news photo. “What is the meaning of this?” The statement was challenging but, oddly, the tone was more reproachful than reprimanding—almost conciliatory. That puzzled Manny.

“Well, Monsignor … uh, I think it was pretty much the way it says in the paper.”

The Monsignor made no comment, just looked at him. Manny found the silence somewhat unnerving. “I think,” he said, in an attempt at explanation, “that the girl kind of played down her own role.”

“You mean the entire incident was her fault?”

“No, sir. I didn’t mean that, Monsignor. She was a completely innocent bystander. Then those two started getting fresh, acting up, horsing around … uh, making improper advances.” Manny was having trouble trying to come up with a term that might get his point across. He was uncertain how conversant the Monsignor was with the relevant parlance. “She didn’t do anything to provoke them,” he concluded firmly. At least he could get that point across.

“And then
you
entered the picture.”

“I had to, Monsignor. What they were doing to her was wrong. And it was getting worse.”

“She makes mention in this article that this was not your first encounter with these two men.”

Manny shook his head. “My bad luck, Monsignor. When I was in grade school, they tried to bully me and … another boy.” He thought it better not to drag Mike into this. “I couldn’t believe the odds of our paths crossing again.”

“What did you mean that the young woman played down her own role in this thing?”

“She whacked one of them with her shoe.”

“With her shoe!”

Manny nodded. “Darn near knocked him out.”

“With her
shoe
?”

“It was a pretty solid shoe. And … well, she must be a lot stronger than she looks.”

“Mr. Tocco, have you given any thought to what you’ve done?”

“I’ve been over it again and again, Monsignor. I’m sorry, really sorry”—and indeed he sounded it—“that it happened. But I don’t know how I could have done anything differently.”

“Did you think they were going to rape her? In a crowded streetcar?”

“No, sir, I guess not. But what they were doing to her was already bad enough. They were …” Manny tired to choose his words carefully. “They were rubbing up against her. They weren’t subtle. They were embarrassing her. She didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. No woman does. And … well, I waited till I was certain no one else in the car was going to step in.”

Silence. The rector studied the newspaper. Manny studied his shoes.

“Mr. Tocco,” the rector said finally, “what if this incident were to have occurred some eight years in the future, when you were an ordained priest?” Manny looked startled, then thoughtful.

“Picture yourself on that streetcar when some sort of immoral conduct was going on. And there you are in your clerical garb. Would we find you wrestling on the floor? Or would we see you using peaceful means in coming to the aid of a victim?”

Manny did not respond immediately. He did not point out that his initial action was merely verbal, albeit threatening. He
had
invited Blade to leave the car.

He didn’t mention that because, looking back, he was all too aware that his “invitation” had, in effect, been a challenge to duke it out.

Even less would he try to vindicate himself by pointing out that Blade had delivered the first punch. After all, he himself had thrown down the gauntlet by telling the bum to leave. From that moment on, Manny had known that Blade would throw the first punch.

As for the rector’s scenario of a clerically dressed priest rolling around the floor of a streetcar, the point was well taken: Manny could not envision Bing Crosby’s Father O’Malley wrestling with someone as a means of persuasion or to prevail or make a point.

Unexpectedly, the rector’s attitude seemed to change. The change was so abrupt, it took Manny completely by surprise. In a sheer second the Monsignor moved from sternness to downright affability, with—was he imagining it?—undertones of amusement. “You don’t offer much in your own defense, Mr. Tocco.”

Manny shrugged. “I did it. I wish now I hadn’t given that girl an interview. I truly didn’t think it would get published … though she seemed pretty confident. But the fact is, I did it. And you’re right, Monsignor: an ordained priest probably wouldn’t have done what I did. So I’m guilty as charged.”

Manny stood, shoulders drooping, before the rector’s oversize desk, awaiting his sentence.

However, instead of passing judgment, the rector smiled. “I like your willingness to accept responsibility. That speaks well of you. Of course, I cannot condone your handling of the situation. But I can understand the courage it took for you to get involved.

“Had you been wearing clericals, you might have handled the situation differently. And be assured our formation program will eventually smooth out your rough edges.

“Besides, this publicity”—he gestured toward the newspaper—“is not all bad for the seminary and its students. The public can and will, by and large, understand that you are only in your first year in college. You have a natural immaturity that will disappear in time. But your willingness to step forward in a difficult situation is commendable … and should be nurtured.”

The rector’s affability disappeared as quickly as it had emerged. “However,” he said, “we were speaking of formation. And as part of that formation, punishment must be meted out. I am, of course, waiving expulsion. Though that is the penalty for fighting, there are extenuating circumstances.

“So, Mr. Tocco, you will be jugged every Saturday afternoon for the coming two months.” There was a pause, then: “That will be all, Mr. Tocco.”

Manny was bewildered by the entire incident. From the appearance and conduct of Switch and Blade to the penance imposed by the rector. As he left the office, he encountered Koesler, Mike, and Stan.

“Did he throw you out?” Mike, of the three, was most concerned, since he had been witness to both battles—and a short-term combatant in the earlier one.

Manny shook his head.

“Did he give you any penalty?” Koesler asked.

“I’m jugged Saturdays for two months.”

Mike was relieved. “That’s just a slap, when you consider he could have expelled you.”

“Come on,” Stanley urged, “if we don’t get to class, we’re all going to be jugged.”

Mike couldn’t tear himself away. “Don’t feel so bad. All you have to do is spend Saturday afternoons in study hall. You can do that standing on your head.”

“You guys go on,” Manny said, without looking at any of them. “I’ve got some thinking to do.”

“You’re not worried about the jug, are you?”

“No. No. It’s not that. I just gotta think,”

Wordlessly, the three left, each, in a sign of support, patting Manny’s shoulder as they passed by.

Slowly Manny made his way to the impressive Gothic chapel. All was quiet save for echo-like sounds. He was the sole occupant.

He made his way to St. Joseph’s side altar and shrine. It was the Italian in him, he thought. Catholics of Italian descent seemed to have a special devotion to the husband of Mary. For Italians, March 29, the Feast of St. Joseph, was as important as March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, is to the Irish—without the parade.

Getting down to the least common denominator, what had he learned from these two pivotal incidents?

He had a temper. An explosive temper. The temper now under his microscope was only a distant kissing cousin to the juice that flowed through him during contact sports. To react violently when provoked during football or hockey or the like was, he thought, natural. It resulted in no more than some penalty in yardage or playing time.

But being attacked by someone who was bent on seriously injuring him or another innocent party evidently brought out the beast in Manny.

Look, he admonished himself, you’ve been in a serious fight only twice in your life—both times with the same jerk.

But both times he had turned into someone he didn’t recognize—sort of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. What would have happened had somebody not been there to pull him off? And each time, as he cooled down, Manny had realized he
could
kill.

How’s that for your black suit and roman collar, Father O’Malley?

Manny had to program what he was discovering about himself into a future that was as yet unclear. Was the rector correct in projecting that the training he had yet to complete would smooth out his rough edges? Or was this tendency of his to go beyond the limit an uncontrollable element of his nature?

Now that the question was raised, would the mere fact that he wore clericals block him from a fight to the finish? Manny definitely didn’t think so. It didn’t seem to matter whether the provocation involved only himself. His first fight had started in self-defense, until he’d realized that Blade would not be satisfied by a Mexican standoff.

His second fight had had nothing to do with self-defense. Blade—and Switch as well—were harassing an innocent party. Once again, Manny had gotten involved. Once again, he had become so ferocious he might well have killed had others not restrained him.

And while he was at it, there had been a third—almost—encounter: The Vike. Once again, it was not self-defense: The Vike was harassing Rose. Once again, Manny had put his body on the line.

And if Jorgenson had responded to the challenge and he and the Vike had gotten into it, what then? Could he picture a Viking who would cry uncle?

Yes, he could. Strip the braggadocio from a pampered bully like Jorgenson and you have a coward.

Could he imagine
himself
giving up? Pleading for mercy?

Not by a long shot!

If the rector was correct in supposing that the next eight years of seminary training would curb his violent inclination, then how explain some of the priests he had encountered?

There were priests who had been heartless, cruel, insensitive, ruthless, rude, and the like.

Not that many, and not that often. But the ones who were sometimes brutal as priests must have exhibited signs of that disposition when they were seminarians. Did they hang in, keeping those tendencies under wraps until they were ordained? Were they ever homicidal? Did any priests ever kill? If they did, the secret was well kept.

As far as Manny could gauge his present state of self-knowledge, temper was his Achilles’ heel. In all honesty, it could cost him his vocation.

   
TWENTY-TWO