to know why I was crying, and I made up some stupid excuse about puking and feeling sick. Then she looked at my dad and asked if he was feeling okay. The creep.”
I turned away from Jon and looked back to where I’d buried the raven. “That night I was on my knees saying rosary after rosary. I wanted God to turn my dad around and I wanted my mom protected from finding out. When my knees gave out, I went to bed and prayed some more. I held my arm straight in the air as long as I could, holding the rosary beads, offering up the pain. Stupid, huh?”
“No.”
“Then I made a promise to God.”
“What kind of promise?”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. “I’ve never told anyone this, except a couple of priests. I...” My heart knocked inside my rib cage. “I sometimes have problems with...” Jon had a blank expression. I started again. “Have you ever had problems with...yourself? You know, when you’re alone?”
“What do you mean? Chokin’ the rope?”
I nodded.
He glanced at the ground and scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“Well, I promised God I’d give it up forever if He’d just fix things. Make my dad smarten up, make him love my mom again, protect her. Well...I did it again.” My bottom lip quivered. “Then my grandpa died. I know it’s not my fault he died, but I keep doing it. I can’t stop it. I broke a promise to God.”
“I do it all the time,” Jon said. “During the day, after dinner, in bed. Sometimes I sneak out to the woods. I can’t help myself, either. Who can?”
“It’s a mortal sin.”
“Ah, Bill... Then the whole world’s going to hell. Everyone does it. I’m pretty sure. Don’t forget that Jesus had one, too. Don’t you think He knows how it is? You’re not a bad person, and playing with yourself has nothing to do with your grandfather dying. Think about it. When he was young, I’m sure your grandpa did it, too.” Jon got up and stood in front of me.
“I know it’s stupid, but I had to tell someone and you’re the best friend I’ve got, so you’re the lucky bastard.” I looked away, and then he reached out and hugged me.
My family wasn’t much for hugging. In fact, the only times I could remember my father hugging me were after I broke my hand in grade two and the day my grandfather died. I couldn’t remember the last time I hugged my brother, and I certainly hadn’t hugged a friend before. Jon clasped me tightly. At first it felt strange, as if we weren’t supposed to be doing it. Then I hugged him back and, for a moment, I almost felt free.
FIVE MARK OF FAITH
Having our loins girded, therefore, with faith and the performance of good works, let us walk in His paths by the guidance of the Gospel, that we may deserve to see Him who has called us to His kingdom.
—The Rule of Saint Benedict
We descended the hill packed tightly into the back of the Volkswagen van. You could cram fifteen seminarians in there with no problem. At the Seminary of Saint John the Divine everyone was compelled to perform a good work on the first and third Sunday of every month. Bingo at the old folks home seemed an easy way to go.
Saint Theresa of Jesus Nursing Home was a converted elementary school on the outskirts of Ennis. The water fountains were low to the ground and the washrooms were still labelled BOYS and GIRLS. The residents needed as much supervision as children, so I thought that was appropriate. They slept in the old classrooms and spent most of their time in the cafeteria, whose walls were covered with pumpkins and witches cut out of orange and black construction paper—courtesy of the grade-three class of the plush new parish school. Halloween was still a month off, but there they were, just the same. At least there weren’t any construction-paper tombstones emblazoned with RIP.
“B-6, B-6.” Emcee Eric pulled the plastic balls out of the little chute and announced the game. There weren’t many luxuries at Saint Teresa’s, but somehow the place managed a deluxe air-driven bingo-ball machine.
Most of the residents were in wheelchairs. Some were hunched over, drooling. One old girl was seated with a blanket neatly tucked across her lap. She sat with her back erect as if she were a dancer ready to spring into a pirouette. Perfect posture. The men had five-day beards or hit-and-miss shaves. The place was clean enough, but it had the sweet smell of decay.
We were sprinkled among the general population, helping slide the little red windows over numbers that had been called out, offering conversation. We were there to brighten their lives with our fresh-faced smiles and spice things up with some gambling. God’s work. The prize was a bunch of candy, which was a bit of a joke. They always got as much candy as they wanted, anyway. Anything to keep them from acting up.
Mr. Thorpe wasn’t a Catholic, but his wife and kids were. He was a railway man who had decided to get a philosophy degree after his wife died and his kids grew up and promptly moved away. Although he was in a wheelchair, you could tell he must have been huge, probably six foot three or better. And he was always clean and well groomed. There was no hair growing out of his ears or on the bridge of his nose. He said he was a freethinker.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Are you a fool?”
“No.”
“It isn’t Chinese, boy. Freethinker. Someone who unchains his mind. Someone who uses what nature put between his ears. Freethinkers think freely—about everything.”
“Then I’m a freethinker, too.”
“No, you’re not. But there’s still hope.”
“N-33.” Eric took a sip of ginger ale. We got free pop and as many brownies and Rice Krispies squares as we could eat. The nurses were grateful for a break. “N-33.”
I always sat next to Mr. Thorpe. No one ever came to visit him, and I thought I could do him some good. Plus he didn’t fart or say crazy things like “You stole my feet! You stole my feet!” I’d heard that and worse. Much worse.
Some of the old women swore. And I’m not talking about shit and damn. They said dirty words in combinations you never thought possible. Prim, proper old ladies—like the one sitting up straight. Usually it came out when someone else called, “Bingo!” The previous year one old lady leaned over and whispered in my ear that she wanted me to screw her. Hard. “With your pecker,” she added, in case I didn’t know. She must have kept this stuff bottled up her whole life. Sitting next to her wasn’t doing any good.
Mr. Thorpe didn’t cling to me when I showed up and didn’t cry when I left. He acted like a normal but generally pissed-off person. I sat with him three times in a row before he indicated he cared one way or another. I think he liked me. Today he seemed spry. “I’ll bet you a buck I can tell you who’ll win,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“You’ll have to pay to find out. Unless you think you know something I don’t.”
I looked around. The odds were in my favour. “Okay. I’ll bet you a buck you can’t name the person who’ll win the next round. I don’t have to choose the right one.
