Newark, New York
May, 1964
Suppose Jesus had a girlfriend?”
I speculate from our choir loft perch while scanning a sea of darkened pews for the penguin patrol. A diffused mid-day sun filters through clouded stained glass in bloodied streaks. We strain against a forbidding silence, waiting. Scott advances his own theory.
“No way. He probably just beat his meat.”
“Nice talk in church.”
Scott ignores me and glances at his watch—twelve-thirty, lunch is nearly over and still we sit alone.
“She’s not going to come,” I whine. “I told you. She was just yanking your joint.”
“Bullshit, all the guys met her in the loft.”
“Oh yeah, what guys?”
“All the guys. Wait, listen!”
A tentative squeak of the vestibule doors, the light scamper up the choir loft steps, a cautious peek through a crack in the door, and the tall, lithe figure of Joanie Collins, out of breath and panting, appears like a guardian angel.
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispers. “I had to run a little errand for Sister Theresa.” Scott and I look at each other, then at Joanie. She wastes no time. “You first,” she says in a superior eighth grade tone.
“I, uh, I think I hear the buzzer,” Scott says in a nervous rasp, and before either one of us can say anything, he disappears down the stairs and out the back door.
Joanie shakes her head. “What a chicken,” she says and looks and me anxiously. “Well hurry up, I don’t have all day. You first, that’s the rule.” She watches intently, biting her lower lip as I unzip my crisp uniform trousers, reach in and pull out my penis with an embarrassed languor as if I were about to take a piss in font of a live studio audience. I feel ridiculous standing there, pud in hand, as she surveys my anatomy. I catch a tell-tale glance of disappointment, yet no amount of hoping pumps any more blood into my irresponsibly limp member. After what seems like an eternity she whispers, “Okay, now my turn.”
Joanie guides her pleated skirt up past her thigh and in a carefully rehearsed move, drops her panties to her knees. In the dim light, I can barely make out a silhouette shape, some delicate hair.
“You can touch me if you want,” she purrs. I reach forward cautiously, not having a clear idea of just how to touch her, or where. I feel a sudden emptiness in the pit of my stomach, like I was a vast balloon that someone blew up then suddenly let go. Blood from all corners of my body rushes to my adolescent center of gravity. Her eyes dart between mine and the magic happening just south of my shiny belt with the St. Michael’s School emblem. A small gasp escapes her lips—or, is it the titter of laughter? I lean forward, my shaking hand inching closer to her when the school bell signals the end of recess. In an instant we tuck ourselves safely away. As we run down the staircase, Joanie gives me a friendly kiss on the lips. “Thanks a lot,” she says with a bright smile. She runs ahead of me, across the street, into the school, and out of site.
I take my place in religion class where I sit patiently, quietly, letting the drone of Sister Petra’s Catechism drill pass through me without stopping.
Who made me? God made me.
Who is God? God is a supreme being above all things.
Why did God make me? I don’t know, and I don’t think Sister Petra knows either and besides, I’m not so sure that God did make me and even if he did… A sudden, sharp bump from under my desk, as if something was knocking from inside. A quick peek inside—only pens, ruler, crayons, a week-old lunch and other seventh grade sundries. I close the top and try to concentrate.
What is sin? Before I can formulate an answer, I feel another thud from inside my desk, stronger than the first, and then another, followed by several more in rapid succession. I scan my neighbors to see if anyone is looking, but everyone is concentrating on Sister Petra’s lesson. Silence for a while, until a sudden, violent push from something inside my desk nearly throws me off my seat. I strain to keep the desk lid down, to keep whatever is underneath from escaping, as the thing or things inside push ever harder.
What is Venial Sin? Another strong push from inside my desk. I survey cautiously around me through narrowing eyes. No one suspects a thing! I throw back the desktop. Inside, pens, papers, rulers, and crayons—all gone, replaced by a writhing mass of tentacles and eyes floating in a sea of boiling black pudding. The eyes all stare up at me out of the putrid mess. I wince as a sudden pang of pain stabs my chest as if they are all looking directly into me, piercing my body with some alien science. There must be a thousand tentacles of various colors and sizes, all wriggling like worms on a hot plate. A gaggle of tentacles whip out and wraps around my neck and arms, trying to drag me into my desk. I let out a short cry, which is completely unheeded by Sister or any of my classmates. I attempt to cut the things free with a pair of safety scissors. They slice through the tentacles as if they were soft butter. Most retract like slurping spaghetti, but some drop to the floor, contorting wildly in apparent agony. I quickly scoop the up the squirming things, leaving a nasty black smear on the floor and over my hands, shove them back inside my desk and slam the top tight. Sister Petra and all thirty-three of my classmates look up, jolted by the sudden sound.
“Mister Bacon! Is there something you wish to share with the class?”
Still holding the desk down tight against my persistent foe, I make the only possible response. “No, Sister.”
Sister Petra wastes energy on an unforgiving grimace and returns to her Catechism lesson.
What is Mortal Sin? I wipe the sticky black slime on my hands onto my navy-blue trousers, hoping no one notices the stain, and wait for someone else to answer.
No one raises a hand.
Copyright © 2010 Donald W. Bacon
revised 09-May-2010
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