Party on All Saint’s Day

Mrs. Tooth, ever the beacon of Christian morals and public humiliation, went down the list, reading our test scores out loud. A proud tradition. And, in keeping with tradition, I finished last. All 29 of my peers, assembled like a jury, giggling about, now fully informed that Kyle Fallon is mathematically defective. Not just in need of improvement—no, no, that would be too gentle—but existentially, irreparably dreadful at math. And if that wasn’t enough, I had to bring the test home, present it like an award for ineptitude with my head down, and collect my parents’ signature so they too could revel in my deficiency before I brought it back for Mrs. Tooth for her to look at and say, “this brings me no pleasure,” with a smile that could blind you.

Catholic school generally operated on the principle that shame built character. And maybe it did. Just not in any way that helped me understand why in God’s name a negative times a negative was a positive. It had been a simple, sunny summer. I did nothing but swim and play baseball. Ate popsicles and watched my neighbor’s dog fall asleep in strangest positions and places. I even read a few books on the reading list. And yet, while I was doing all this, math had whizzed by me, like the speed of the fastballs I could no longer catch up with; it sprinted into integers, left me squinting at equations with my hands at my sides like I was just punched out—strike three looking at my Failing grade marked so, in the most dramatic of bold faced red.

5th grade, I was fine. I could get by. Made PEMDAS my bitch. But now, they were asking me to carry the x, to find its value. But I had not misplaced x. I had not agreed to be responsible for x. And, frankly, if x didn’t want to be found, who was I to interfere?

And yet, I learned. Sort of. I know now that -8 × -8 is 64. But why? No clue. It’s like that science test last year, the one on septic tanks. I aced it. Could write a whole essay on the function of a septic tank. Did I understand septic tanks? Fuck no. But I had perfected the art of appearing competent. Unfortunately, the complexity of algebra, all those steps to isolate x, put an end to such charades.

I was new at St. James and had, to put it mildly, not thrived socially. My mother had re-married a born-again Christian, a man who referred to himself as “just a vessel” but also drove a Lexus and wore cufflinks made of rare minerals he ordered from Myanmar, and through a series of events I did not fully understand—something to do with Christ’s mercy and “me getting right”—she became born again her bad self and I was packed squarely into this vest and these uncomfortable loafers, given a clip on tie and shipped here in September.

I was tall. Extremely tall. Long necked and freckle faced. The kind of tall that made grown cashiers at the grocery say things like Wow, how’s the weather up there? Can you get the ballgame on that frequency? when scanning my fish sticks and You play ball? —which, yes, I did! I didn’t mind that one. In fact, I couldn’t wait for the basketball season to roll around in three weeks, then the social part would take care of itself. On a team, other kids liked me. I rebounded. I blocked shots and practiced hard. I contributed. And in return, I got high-fives, which required no verbal exchange. No math necessary. The only metric Wins and Losses.

This morning on the bus I was especially nervous. Had my fingernails for breakfast as I sat alone peering out the gray window with an off-white stain the shape of a lion staring back at me. Scary. The rest of the kids on the bus buzzed about the All-Saints Day Pizza Party, an event I was dreading for the simple reason that it was designed for socializing. I would have much preferred a normal day of religion class and recess—structured and predictable, even if it did include math class and tales about vacaying in the bellies of fish. But a party? Ugh. Rather be Jonah. Party meant free time, and free time meant standing there and standing out; like some kind of 17th century statue, a nosy human periscope who did nothing but look look look and never talk.

Hail Mary. Our Father. Pledge of Allegiance. Morning announcements were done. Then, quickly, boys in one line, girls in the other and herded like His flock of sheep toward the church, where the day’s ceremonies would begin. All Saints Day, as we were told seven times by four different staff members as part of announcements, is a Holy Day of Obligation, so first and foremost: Mass. I didn’t mind mass as much as some other kids. It was easy, they just told you what to do. Sit, stand, kneel, stand, kneel, open wide for the wafer, bless yourself. Amen. Mrs. Tooth, as always, was watching us like a prison warden. Anyone caught whispering, fidgeting, or displaying insufficient reverence would certainly be revoked of dessert privileges later. So, while I waited for the wafer, I did what I always did, weighed the pros and cons of asking Mrs. Tooth to pee vs the embarrassment of potentially, although unlikely, even with the most overactive bladder God has ever bestowed on a man, peeing down my leg. To pee or not to pee, that was always the question in God’s House. The wafer, the Host, though baffling to me from a logical standpoint, was my favorite part of the pageantry. It was weird, no doubt, symbolic cannibalism and whatnot, but it was at least something to look forward to. A light at the end of the tunnel. Once I ate the Body, I knew a urinal was on the horizon. Plus, I admit, for having no flavor, He dissolves in an oddly satisfying way. Finally, Pastor Phillip did the final bit, telling us to go in peace to love and serve the Lord etc., and then we were walked next door to the convent cafeteria by Principal Dolan. Where fun was to allegedly begin.

The off-white cafeteria walls were covered in computer-printed photos of all different Saints plastered on poster board. You had your usual suspects, the heavy hitters even I knew of: St. Paul, St. Peter, Mother Teresa front and center (big font, prime real estate for Mother T—obviously). But also, obscure ones, like a St. Barbara, who was said to be the patron saint of fireworks, or this St. Apollonia, who was pictured holding a mechanical wrench, allegedly to yank out a rotten tooth? I guess praying to her was the best people could do before Novocain. St. Gertrude of Nivelles was invoked to prevent rat infestations. Drogo was the patron saint of ugly people. Saint Vitus the same but for epileptics.

I held my bladder for so long in Church I turned my brain into a fortress. I almost forgot I was about to explode until Wendy Lee, in what I can only assume was an act of divine intervention, accidentally kicked me square in the shin under the table. A sharp jolt ran up my leg and punched me straight in my bladder, forcing a little droplet to escape into my cotton boxers. I winced and looked around for Mrs. Tooth. I started banging my knees together, tensing my abdomen, wiggling around like a bunless footlong until I finally made eye contact with her. Finally, after a half minute of ignoring me, she nodded briefly; acting as if she were bestowing upon me some sacred gift instead of permission to pee. Yes, child, you may relieve thyself. She turned back to Principal Dolan.

I bolted into the hallway. A walking sprint with a bladder rigged to blow. I was so focused on getting relief I blew right past the guest bathroom that was well hidden in the lobby wall. I past the lobby, turned around, and found myself in a room I’ve never been in before. The pressure in my head; the pressure building in my lower stomach, both immense. I felt lost. Scared. I started high-kneeing, jogging in place, eyes darting, huffing and puffing, desperately seeking a lavatory. Drip drip. Just then, I saw the stairs.

Salvation at the top, relief maybe. I take them two at a time. I reach the top. Spot a sign: Bathroom. Oh merciful heavens! Thank you.

I barely got my slacks below my hips before the clear missile started zooming with a velocity unknown to mankind. This morning’s iced tea. Last night’s Gatorade. The chocolate milk I stealthily downed in the dead of night without my parents knowing. A whole archive, exiting in one continuous, glorious, historical jet luge. I leaned against the wall, knees almost buckled from relief as I closed my eyes in bliss—letting this miracle of a stream have its moment. It was a hobby of mine, timing my after-church whizz. And I’m proud to announce, this was the first stream in the history of my storied career to crack the two-minute mark. An unbroken two-minutes at that! Heck yea. A record-breaking performance.

I zipped up a proud and changed boy who for a second felt like a man. In the hallway, right on the other side of the door, suddenly I could hear the voice of the pulpit, Pastor Phillip, loud and confused, coming through the thin bathroom door.

 “What do you mean?” he asked, almost yelling.

“I mean she had the key, the only copy, and she passed away this morning.”

“That’s terrible. Where is she? How come I wasn’t made aware?”  

“She’s lying dead in that room behind you. No. No. To your right. That one.”

“Wait, what? She’s—what?!”

“Dead, sir. In there.”

“And worst of all, only she knew where the key to the pantry was. We can’t get any of the chips, sodas, snacks and such out of the pantry unless we break down the door and we can’t. The kids are already in there.”

“She’s lying dead. In there!?”

“Deader than Saturday night sermon, Pastor Phillip.”

“Did you call the coroner? Anyone?!”

“We ladies had a lot to fuss over this morning, with the children coming.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joesph!”

“Pastor Phillip!”

“I’m sorry—fuck me.”

Cough* Cough* Cough*

I couldn’t help it. The talcum powder—an unmistakable cloud of it—was hanging around the sink. The general area. Pastor Phillip, who, I could only assume, had just done a whole freshen-up routine in here, caked it on his collar good. It was alive, floating in the air, tickling my throat. Sister Abigail burst through the door and all I could do, besides being pretty sure I was going to die from a cruel punishment, was feel this weird, oddly calm relief that, at least, my pants were on.

She secured me by the earlobe. Not grabbed, not pinched—secured. And then we were off, my feet scrambling to keep up, down the hall, around the corner, into a tiny, overstuffed office filled with boxes of old missals and gallons of unopened grape juice. Spun around fast, disoriented. But it was the room on the left. Had to be. I couldn’t see a dead Sister gracing us with her presence.

Then, she turned to face me. Eye contact. Deep. Meaningful. Scary.

“Well?” She said.

“Umm—?”

“What are you doing upstairs? Why aren’t you with your classmates? Why didn’t you use the designated downstairs bathroom?”

Too many questions. I could barely hear her. So, I told her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it.

She paused. And then—a surprise. Not a slap across the face or a spanking; not even a stern scolding. Instead: A wrinkly hand on the shoulder.

“That,” she said, voice hushed, hand now shaking, “was sensitive information you just heard.”

“I didn’t mean to hear it, Sister.”

“I know. But here’s the thing—it doesn’t matter because it’s you. You’re one of the most grown-up boys we have enrolled here. One of the most responsible.”

Ah. Oh.

“So,” she continued, voice smooth, “we don’t have to worry about you starting gossip. Because we know—” and here she squeezed my shoulder a little, “—that a mature young man like you will keep Sister Margaret’s death a secret. Isn’t that right?”

At this point, still looking into the depths of her eyes, utterly frightened, I would’ve peed down my leg had I had any left. Long-necked and slack-jawed, I nodded.

“Here,” she said, opening a drawer, pulling out her pocketbook. “You growing kids need snacks. Take this.” She put thirty dollars into my hand and folded my fingers over it—two tens, nine singles, four quarters. I put it in my pocket. She went to the desk, leaned over, and made a list. She handed it to me, a long list in tight, neat, old-fashioned cursive.

It read:

5 Bags of Chips. Mix
2 Pints of Ice Cream. Vanilla/Chocolate.
4 Liters of Soda. Cola, Diet Cola, Sprite, Root Beer.

“Now,” she said, hunching like Quasimodo, “You’re a big boy. Be the savior of this tough day. Run to the corner store for the rest of your classmates.”

And I thought to myself: I’m a big boy. Heck yea.

Sister Abigail, bless her heart, did not seem to be aware of the buddy system. Because here I was, out on the sidewalk, alone, uniformed, the world suddenly stretching forever in front of me. Scary. Should I get Mrs. Talty? She wouldn’t approve of this. Two crosswalks away, I told myself, two crosswalks away. That’s nothing. Sister Abigail trusts me. I wiped my brow, put one loafer in front of the other and played a little game where I avoided the cracks in the pavement instead of looking ahead. It kept me going. I stopped at the first light. Crossed. Past the Irish pub, a clothing store, a jewelry store, and after another crosswalk I skipped through, there it was: L&L Convenience, sitting on the corner of Broad and Shrewsbury.

I clutched the money in my pocket like it could’ve grown legs and escaped and stepped inside holding it tight in my pocket.

Sister Abigail’s list: chips, ice cream, soda. Easy. I grabbed a basket and made my way down the narrow aisle. Everything was grouped perfectly. A shelf for the chips. Ice cream in the freezer, soda in the fridge. What wasn’t so easy, for me, was doing the math. Figuring out if the 30 dollars Sister Abigail gave me was enough for what she included on the list. Quick mental math (uh-oh). I know I can’t carry the X, but I can add and subtract (kind of). Thirty bucks. Something is not adding up. I am maybe 75% sure I do not have enough. But maybe I do? We all know Ryan is a mathematical disaster. I’ll take it up to the register and see what happens. A tall man, almost as tall as me, with two different colored eyes greets me at the register. He scans, I sweat.

“Thirty-six fifty,” the man says.

Stomach drop. Full free-fall. I open my mouth, gibberish. Unintelligible animal noises following a snot bubble. The man raises a hand like, relax buddy, it’s not the end of the world.

“Just pick something to put back. Breathe, my man.” He said to me, seeing my red face.

Standing there, holding a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in one hand and a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles in the other, two of my all-time favorites, having a total crisis of indecision, until a genial voice spoke up behind me:

“You need all those snacks, don’t ya, kid? I can help ya.”

I turn. A harmless looking older man stood there wearing a trilby on his head and a cross around his neck.

“Well—yeah. I do.” I said.

“I’ll tell ya what,” he says. “I got this here card. Like a credit card, sorta. But special. Limited though. They control what you’re allowed to buy. My sick aunt, dying of cancer, loves a little whiskey at night, to fall asleep. To kill the pain. Man, she suffers. I can’t get her what she needs with the card.”

“That sounds terrible, mister. I’m sorry.”

“It is—it is my generous well-dressed child. Hey, come to say, seems like you got a heart of gold, raised up right—would you do me a favor?”

“Yes, mister, sure thing. I love helping folks.”

“Beautiful. Let me buy your food on this here card. I’ll even get you an extra bag of chips as a thank you. In return, just hand me that twenty, so I can pick up a few things for myself and take care of my poor aunt Bertha.”

Now, should this have given me pause? Probably. But doing good simply felt too good. I love helping. I’m just being a real grown-up, solving problems as they came. And I knew Sister Abigail would punish me if I came back missing anything, even if it was her fault. I’m the guy who’s saving the day.

“There,” he says, pointing over my head behind me.

I turned to look. He gently slid the money out of my right hand, spilling the coins he didn’t know were wedged in my palm all over the floor.

“That’s alright,” he says. “Stop, stop—don’t worry about it. I’ll pick these up. Go. Get another flavor of Doritos and meet me up front. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Okay, mister!”

Another bag of Doritos? Or Sun Chips, for variety? Personally, I would pick Doritos ten times over. But what about my classmates? What would Sally Carroll enjoy? Let’s go with the red bag of Sun Chips. Freak yea.

I turned around, stubbed my toe on the corner aisle. Immediately, upon looking down, I saw the quarter on the ground, one he couldn’t find. I smiled and picked it up, ready to hand it to him. But the man was nowhere to be found.

I drifted to the counter, hesitant, shoulders sunk knowing all but certainly I embarrassed myself. That this would end terribly.

“Uh, excuse me,” I manage to say to the tall man. “Did—uh—did the man pay for these groceries here?”

He stares at me, scratches his head, then shakes it.

“Huh?”

He bought me one thing. A cherry Airhead. A single cherry Airhead. I stood there, empty inside, empty pockets, empty hands except for my single cherry Airhead. I held back tears, holding the Airhead, shaking, before spotting a bench—solemn and shaded. I took a seat. I unwrapped it carefully, a bittersweet little ceremony. I ate, slowly, thoughtfully, chewing the sticky sugar-plastic as if it contained the only sweetness I’d ever get to know for the rest of my short life. It tasted like Robitussin. I puckered my lips. My tongue red red red.

Then, as one does when he’s made a sucker, tasting red and feeling doomed, I considered running. Just running and running. Setting up someplace new, under a new name, with a new identity, a new Jesus and a new stepfather. But when the candy went so did the delicious daydreams. Reality was there, as it tends to be, tapping its watch in my face. Telling me to go back. Telling me time to confess.

Back at the convent hall the pizza was stacked high and piping hot. The good stuff just arrived. Grease pooling in craters of pepperoni, pooling through thin paper plates as kids pulled cheese in all directions, making a mess. But I didn’t go for any. Instead, I slunk into a corner, away from the feral students ravaging the boxes, praying to God for invisibility powers. Sister Abigail materialized, seemingly out of thin air. Her grip was firm on my shoulder.

“You’re back,” she said. “Right on time. Bless you, son. Where are the snacks? The children need the chips and soda right away.”

I blinked. Blinked again. “I was robbed, Sister Abigail.”

A mix of doubt and righteous fury stormed over her creased face. Her skin, never beautiful but ages ago elegant, now had indigo veins of resentment bulging from both sides of her forehead.

“You were, you were what?”

“A man,” I said. “With a credit card. Well, said it was a credit card. He told me he’d pay for our groceries on it, for a trade, you see, and he stranded me. Honest. I thought I was helping him.” I said, fighting back tears, knowing crying would work on some faculty members, but not Sister Abigail.

Fueled by a rigid Catholic sense of justice, a pension for drama, Sister Abigail inserted two fingers into her mouth and unleashed a whistle so piercing, so specifically attuned to the parochial order, that only Mrs. Talty reacted—head snapping up like a trained hound as though the two had their own Holy frequency. She waltzed over.

“Well,” Sister Abigail said. “Tell Mrs. Talty what happened.”

I had to pee. Again. I took my time but there were no broken record this time. A below average whizz. I washed my hands. Dried them. Re-washed. Re-dried. Tried not to think about the conversation they were having about me outside. My vest, my pockets, my shoes—all searched. And yet, suspicion lingered. Because I was a new kid with a public-school past? Did they really think I pocketed the money?

When I emerged, they were still at it, deliberating. I sat on the bench, my specialty—the long-necked, slack-jawed, knee jerking waiting act—and stared at my hands, my long fingers, the faint trace of red still stuck and wondered what life was all about…

A few minutes later, minutes that felt like hours, they came—Mrs. Talty, Sister Abigail, Principal Dolan; The Holy Trinity of high-ranking Devotees, all in their austere, stocking-laced glory. A murder of crows, if crows carried tracts and goodie bags, which they passed out to my classmates as they lined up, two single file lines, for the trip back to the classroom. Not even a glance at me. Just straight past, like I was part of the wall. They marched obediently through the parking lot, Mrs. Talty leading the charge, as Sister Abigail watched through the window, hunched. She lingered, hands clasped, somehow both shaky and still at the same time, smiling the smile of a woman watching a field of wheat sway gently in the breeze on a spring day. The clock above me read 1:20. An hour until freedom, give or take. What did she want with me?

Finally, she turned from the window, about to tell me: “Follow me.”

Up the stairs. Past the bathroom I’d coughed in, past the room where I’d been hauled in by my earlobe and ushered into the other room. The room on the right. Inside, a lineup of nuns, four of them, biddies I haven’t seen before standing at crisp attention. Sister Abigail shut the door behind me. And there, in the center of the room, laid out like a turkey on a cutting board was Sister Margaret. So naked. So dead. Starting to wither. And—oh, oh—the smell of a thousand hard boiled eggs in the sun.

Sister Number Four solemnly dunked a yellow sponge into a thick greenish mix of water, aloe, and spice, and who knows what else, then handed it to me with a sacrosanct bow, as though bestowing a sacred relic upon me. A Holy obligation.

"Help us prepare the body, my child," Sister Abigail said, "clean her, and your soul shall be healed."

I blinked.

"John 19:38-40 is a verse we take seriously," intoned Sister Number Three.

"Anointed with spices," said Sister Number Two.

"Reverence in preparation," said Sister Number One.

"Wrapped in linen," said Sister Number Two.

"Matthew 27:59!" they all said in unison.

Sister Abigail drifted to the foot of the bed, hunched and deliberate, her eyes serene, her movements measured, and made a dramatic sign of the Cross.

The texture of the sponge. Slimy. Warm. Holy? Oddly satisfying. It cued my brain. Nothing I could do about it. My never fail association I surely need medicine for. My parasympathetic nervous system un-parasympathetically letting me down yet again! My bladder primed. The sight, the request, the horror, was having its way with my distruster muscle.

"Start with her feet," Sister Abigail said.

Right then, that exact moment, my mental forecast and the storm down below became the same: soggy and miserable—with a 100% chance of humiliation.