Pride Page 4

Sister Anastasia grabs me by the hair and yanks me to my feet. She’s dragging me out of the room and I’m too scared to listen to what she’s saying except she’s taking me down to Father Lanshee because I’ve committed a sacrilege, spitting at the crucifix and spitting at a nun. I guess she believes that’s what happened. I try not to yell, not to cry, but she’s twisting my hair in her hands so it hurts and she’s pulling hair out.

  We need to go outside the school to get to the rectory and she stands at the door, rings the bell. We don’t talk at all while we wait for the housekeeper to open it.

  Father Lanshee finally comes himself and tells Sister to let go of my hair. Father Lanshee is young and short with tight curly hair. He’s the one you go see when it’s even more important than going to see Mother Superior. Sister Anastasia tells him what happened, that is, from the way she sees it.

  Father Lanshee looks at me.

  “And what do you have to say for yourself? Why have you done a thing like this, one of our youngest and finest altar boys?”

  Father Lanshee is from Ireland and has an accent. He’s the one who taught me to be an altar boy when I was in fourth grade. I learned the Latin fast enough so during the summer I was the only fourth grader to serve mass.

  “I didn’t mean it, Father. It was only the metal on my lips.”

  “Are you trying to tell me Sister Anastasia is lying to me or maybe she’s seeing things? She says you spit on the crucifix and at her. Is that true?”

  It’s in his voice. He believes her and he’s mad.

  “I only spit on the floor, Father, I didn’t mean it.”

  He looks over at Sister Anastasia. Then I look over at her, too. She’s standing with her arms folded across her fat stomach so the bib is pushed up almost like a table under her face. Father hits me hard on the side of my head with the back of his hand. It feels as if my ear is burning off and I know this is only the beginning.

  “There must be a devil in you to do a thing like that, Kettleson, spit on the crucifix and spit at a nun!”

  He has his face down next to mine and it’s getting red. He’s red all the way up into his curly hair. I can’t turn my mind off from seeing things like that even when I’m probably about to be killed.

  He grabs me by the other ear with his finger and thumb. He starts dragging me with him through the rectory and out the back door, the one that opens into the church. I’m learning not to say anything; there’s nothing to say anyway.

  He takes me into the church, leads me down the aisle, opens the gate in the altar rail and pushes me down to my knees again at the foot of the steps to the altar. Sister Anastasia isn’t with us. I peek back under my arm and she’s kneeling at the altar rail with her hands praying and her eyes watching me behind those shiny glasses, through the silver circles.

  Father Lanshee, with his arms folded, is standing between me and the tabernacle. “You stay there and pray to God for your immortal soul. Sister Anastasia, you pray for him, too. I think he must be possessed.”

  He goes into the sacristy and comes out with the censer, filling it with incense. He also has the round gold thing with a handle they use to sprinkle holy water. I’m scared and I’m crying but I’m trying to pray. Father Lanshee puts his stole around his neck. This makes him a priest, officially. He kisses it before he slips it over his head. I look up at the altar with the Gospel on one side and the Missal on the other. I almost didn’t get to be an altar boy because I couldn’t reach up and lift that Gospel high enough to move it to the other side without scraping and making the altar cloth crooked. I needed to strain up on my tiptoes to do it. Then, carrying it down the steps and genuflecting when you can’t see past it is another hard thing; and that Gospel’s heavy. Besides, you have on a surplice so you can easily trip. I practiced moving the Gospel a lot before I got good enough to say a mass; it’s much harder than learning the Latin, by a long shot. Father Lanshee must be reading my mind.

  “There’s got to be a devil in you, boy. That’s what really did it and we’re going to pull him right on out. What have you been doing lately which could let a devil take hold of you?”

  He’s waiting for me to answer. I think of all the things I’ve done that might be devil’s work but the only thing that comes out is about Mr. Harding.

  “Father, this summer there was a dead man, a dead man who killed himself in his garage. I was the one who found him. I was thinking about that when I was supposed to be studying my Catechism.”

  Father Lanshee looks at me. He has the censer lit now and it’s smoking. He has the holy-water shaker in his other hand.

  “Yes, I heard about that. He wasn’t Catholic, was he?”

  “No, Father. He was just Mr. Harding; I think he was a Protestant.”

  “There could easily have been devils around a place where a man knew such despair so as to take his own life. That could be it.”

  He comes to the step just over me. I put down my head. The smell of incense makes me sneeze but I’m holding it in.

  “You pray hard, Kettleson. I’m going to chase that devil straight on out of you. You’ll feel better after you’ve been exorcised.”

  He’s praying loud now and swinging the censer over one of my shoulders then the other. He does this while I say eight Our Fathers, three Hail Marys, and make an Act of Contrition. I’m just starting with a “Glory be” when he begins sprinkling me with holy water and praying louder. I’m so scared, black clouds keep coming down over my eyes. I’m expecting a devil to float in smoke out of my mouth or split its way out of my chest or my back the way it is in holy pictures. But nothing happens.

  Father Lanshee stops. He puts the censer and the holy water on the altar. Then he comes down, tucks his hand under my chin and lifts me up.

  “Let’s pray that did it. But first you must apologize to Sister Anastasia.”

  He turns my head with his hand. She’s still kneeling at the altar rail, shining-eyed.

  “Do you think the devil’s been exorcised, Father?”

  “We can’t be sure, Sister. But he should apologize to you first.”

  He leads me back down to the altar rail, where Sister Anastasia’s still kneeling. He pushes me down on my knees. She looks at me, glinting, her lips all pulled together, almost as if she’s trying to keep from smiling.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Kettleson?”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I think it must be the devil himself made you do a thing like that, Kettleson. If I were you I’d stay here in church and pray for the rest of the morning.”

  Father Lanshee is standing slightly behind me.

  “That’s a fine idea, Sister. Also, I don’t think he should serve mass again until we’re certain he’s himself. What do you think of that, boy?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I’m supposed to serve at nine-o’clock mass that next Sunday. It’s the mass all the kids go to; they sit in the center aisles, girls on the left side, boys on the right, with the little kids up front and the eighth grade in back. My parents know I’m serving this mass and will be there. How can I ever tell them that? I don’t know how I can tell them how I’ve been exercised either. The trouble is, I don’t even feel tired; that devil’s got to be in there still.

  Father Lanshee and Sister Anastasia leave me alone in the church all morning. I’m supposed to say five rosaries with all the mysteries, and when I’m finished, keep saying the ejaculation “My Jesus mercy—my Jesus mercy.” Father Lanshee lends me his rosary. It’s small, black, wooden beads, and he kisses the crucifix on it before he gives it to me. When the lunch bell rings, I can go home.

  Sister Anastasia doesn’t tell anybody, at least any of the kids, about my being exercised and I don’t tell anybody either, not even Laurel. She’s too little to understand. I keep hoping God knows I didn’t mean it; that’s all that counts. He must know about how I am with metal in my mouth; the sisters tell us God knows everything,
even some things we don’t know ourselves. After school I give Father Lanshee back his rosary. I hope maybe he’ll let me back in the altar boys, at least let me serve that nine-o’clock mass, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Sunday when I’m supposed to be serving, I sneak off to Mr. Harding’s garage and that’s where I find the kittens.

  There are all kinds of alley cats in our alleys and packs of dogs, too. The kids around our way are awful mean to the cats. They don’t do much against dogs because some of them bite. But the cats mostly only run away. I used to think alley cats had shorter legs than most cats but they only look short because they’re always crouched ready to spring away if you come near. They have little hollow places behind their heads and between the tops of their legs on the back when they’re hunched down like that. When a cat’s all set to spring there’s almost no way you can catch it.

  But Billy O’Connell showed me how you can always catch a cat if you just keep running long enough. They’re fast but they get tired out soon. Maybe they don’t get enough to eat from eating only garbage. Sure enough, though, he’d keep running after a cat in the alley where they had no place to go and he’d run them down finally. Usually, at the end, the cat would run into an empty garage, where Billy’d shut the door and corner them.

  What Billy O’Connell likes to do with cats is climb up on somebody’s porch, one of the old ones with the steps still on them, and throw the cat through the air. He throws them any which way, and they spin right around and land with their legs spread out, then run off. He tells me he threw one out his bedroom window and it was the same thing. He wants to throw one from a roof someday. O’Connell has the idea cats can practically fly. He’d like to throw one out from an airplane sometime to see what happens.

  You have to be careful with these cats because they all have fleas. It’s the fleas Mom worries about more than the cats, it’s the same with frogs and warts.

  Sometimes the kids’d catch two cats and tie them together by the tails. Those cats would swing around in circles yowling, pulling against each other. I never did anything like that myself but I’ve watched. There are some mean kids around our way, all right, but probably they’re the same everywhere.

  One of the worst things they do is pour gasoline on a cat’s tail and then light it. A kid up on Radbourne Road was doing that and burned himself so bad he had to go to the hospital; he almost died and now he has shiny wrinkled scars on his arm so he can’t open his elbow all the way.

  When you light a cat’s tail, it screams even worse than they do at night when they’re fighting and making babies, only there’s no purring or cat baby-crying mixed in, it’s all just yowling and screaming. Most times the cat dies and somebody will find it in the back corner of a garage or under a porch when it starts to stink. But I’ve seen a few live. Gradually the black burnt bones that are left fall off a piece at a time until there’s only a tiny stump of a tail left. Usually fur grows over this part so those cats look like a cross between a cat and a rabbit.

  That Sunday, I go off as if I’m going to church. I’d been awake practically all night, trying to get up nerve to tell my folks I’ve been thrown off the altar boys. But I couldn’t do it. So instead I go over to Mr. Harding’s garage. They’d moved all his furniture from his house and his wife drove his car away but they didn’t clean out the garage. There are boxes filled with old clothes and old blankets. Burlap bags, moldy cloths, and clothes are strewn around. I don’t know why I went back. I’d only been back once since I found him; that was when Zigenfus told me the car had been taken out by Mrs. Harding, and I wanted to check for sure.

  When I walk into the garage, the first thing besides car-grease smell is the smell of molding rags. One of the garage windows has been broken already. Unless somebody else moves into the house soon, it won’t be long before they’ll all be broken. Kids, even some grownups, like breaking windows. There are some houses on our block with more broken windows than ones with glass in them. That’s one reason Mr. Marsden let us stay in our house even when we couldn’t pay the rent; at least we keep it clean and painted; the windows aren’t all broken out.

  Once I threw a stone and broke one of Mr. Coughlin’s windows. He caught me and dragged me home. I was only about seven then. My dad told Mr. Coughlin we’d get it fixed. He was mad but he didn’t holler or anything. But that Saturday he made me go over with a folding measure and write down the measurements of Mr. Coughlin’s window. Then we walked to the hardware store, where they cut a piece of glass just that size. The glass and putty and some little nails cost thirty-two cents. Then we went over to Mr. Coughlin’s house and fitted in that piece of glass. Dad didn’t say anything all this time but showed me how to do it, and after he nailed in the little nails, he made me put in all the putty. It’s really hard to do right. It took me two hours, doing it over and over again until I got it all smooth and even. When I was finished I was crying. Dad put the tools away, and took me by the hand and led me home.

  “Dickie, I just wanted you to know something. Any fool can break a window but very few people can put one back in.”

  The second thing I smell is the smell of that gas Mr. Harding killed himself with. That’s a smell that doesn’t go away fast. The door’s open so I let myself just inside. I’m afraid to go all the way into this garage. I don’t believe in ghosts, but Father Lanshee might be right about devils.

  I’m standing there, thinking how Mr. Harding looked and trying not to think about Mom and Dad looking for me on the altar, when I see something move in the back corner of the garage in the middle of a bunch of old clothes. I step sideways to get a better view and lean forward a few steps. There’s a green-eyed cat, eyes almost green as my mom’s, and shining there in that back corner.

  She’s hunched the way cats get when they’re about ready to run. Her eyes stay on me without blinking and I’m looking to see if she’s hurt or anything. Lots of times cats get hit by cars then crawl into these garages to die. But she looks healthy, healthy that is for an alley cat.

  I’m starting to back out the door when she dashes past me and scrambles up the inside of that garage door and out the broken window. I’d left the door open so there was no reason for her to go out that way.

  She moves so fast she scares me and I push myself against the garage door that isn’t open. These garages have two doors that swing like regular doors; they don’t swing up the way they do in the movies.

  I’m about ready to go out the door when I hear some sounds coming from where that cat was. I know right away what it is and I want to see them. I tiptoe back carefully and there, tucked in the cloth, are five baby kittens. They’re so small their eyes are still closed; they can’t stand up. I reach in and lift them one at a time. The mother was a striped tiger cat, standard alley-cat color, sort of greenish gray and black stripes. Two of these kittens look like that. Another is black and white, one is black, and the other is a brownish color with dim blackish stripes. This last one is strange because it doesn’t have a tail and it’s too young for anybody to have burnt it off. I’m not sure if the mother had a tail but I think she did. Maybe the father was one of those cats who got his tail burnt off and this kitten inherited it. It is dark brown as if it’s already been burnt. Maybe this one is a devil cat, come straight out from H-E-L-L.

  After playing with the kittens for a while and listening to them, I decide to see if I can help them stay alive. Most of the kittens in these alleys get killed by dogs, boys, or other cats. A lot of times there just isn’t enough to eat.

  So, before everybody comes home, I go in, open the icebox, and take two pinches out of the hamburger in its brown paper. Mom is going to make meat loaf with it. I pat the meat back into shape so it looks the same. To make up, I’ll eat a little less myself; I don’t particularly like meat loaf much anyway. I pour milk into a cup without any handle I had in the cellar for my turtle before he disappeared. I take both these, a piece of broken broomstick, and some wire back to Mr. Harding’s garage. I put the
milk and the hamburger beside the kittens.

  The mother cat isn’t there. I figure she’s out looking for something to eat.

  I don’t have much time before everybody comes home, so I go out and push the broom handle through the latches on the door and wire it shut. This will keep other kids out, and so long as the only way to get in is through that window, no dog or anything can get at them. When I finish, I feel better; I feel almost as if I have a little family of my own. I’m ready to tell Mom and Dad about being thrown out of the altar boys.

  It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Mom gets all excited at first but then settles down. Dad asks me to explain and I tell about the eraser and Mr. Harding and the taste of the crucifix and my spitting, the exercising; the whole thing. It sounds even crazier when I’m saying it than it did when it was all happening. While I’m talking, my scrambled eggs and bacon are getting cold. We always have scrambled eggs and bacon on Sunday morning. It’s the only time we have bacon because it’s so expensive. We each get two slices.

  “And after that Father Lanshee threw you out of the altar boys, is that right?”

  “That’s right. I think he doesn’t want to take a chance of letting someone who might have a devil inside him get on the altar.”

  That’s when Dad starts laughing and I know it’s going to be all right.

  “Don’t you worry, Dickie; you don’t have any devils in you. Don’t you worry about it.

  “You know, your grandfather, my father, has the same trouble with nails in his mouth. They’d get so wet they’d almost be rusty before he could drive them into the wood, and there would be a little puddle of spit around the top of each nail when it was pounded in.”

  I stare at him, hoping he’ll go on. I love to hear stories about my grandfather.

  “You eat your egg and bacon now, Dickie. I guess there isn’t much chance of your going to communion anyhow. But you’d better get to that eleven-o’clock mass. It’s going to be a high mass and could last almost two hours. I guess that’ll pay off to God for you missing the nine-o’clock today.”