Pins: A Novel (27 page)

12

Musty incense, red velvet, stories of apparitions in tiny towns in the Alps, faces set in stained glass were what he’d grown up believing held the magic of his faith. They gave him a comfort he could smell in the wood. He believed in the goodness of the Church by loving its physical beauty and majesty, the layers of stories, lives, stars of suffering. He needed cool marble to give him gravity for what he had to face.

Instead, St. Dominic’s felt warm, to be sure. Blond wood in long slats swept along the side walls.
 
Swift in design, large chunks of colored glass blocked light more in the design of a starship than a church. Maybe it was the paneling, or having seen Anthony’s funeral there.

His confessions were functional but apparently not satisfying. He was invited for a few talks with Father Andrew. They were calming, friendly but a bit remote, usually ending in a sales pitch for activities run by the Sisters. Teen Catholic Jamborees. He went. They got him points in his case file.

When his mother made plans to spend the weekend in Newark with Grandmama, he asked to tag along. He needed urban, noisy, gothic.

Joey thought her visits to Newark were to get away from him. He almost took a twisted joy in coming along, knowing he’d bother her with his presence.

But he felt her relax, once they were back on familiar turf, or at least the interstate. They talked nonstop about everything, almost.

Grandmama welcomed him with open frail arms, feeding them immediately. He listened to the women talk, three generations of recipes, rumor, wisdom, with Sophia playing nearby, soaking it in.

He hadn’t been back since Christmas, and then, St. Augustine’s was filled to overflowing with joy and singing.

The Saturday afternoon he entered the church, two elderly ladies sat at opposite sides of the main aisle, small lumps in the rows of shiny wooden pews. Joey looked toward his family’s usual place, to the left and near the back, by the daycare room. He walked up the left aisle, passing the flickering electric red plastic candles around the statues of the Virgin and St. Augustine. But what caught his eye, and held it, was his favorite, the Stations of the Cross, the stone relief sculptures high up along the walls. Joey stopped before the station with Jesus being torn of his garments, then through a side door, down a hallway to a tall doorway.

“Well, Mister Nicci. It’s been too long. How the heck are ya?”

Father Scanlon stood from behind his large wooden desk, lit up with joy, hand extended. His graying hair only further distinguished him in his black clothing and white divot of a collar. His black eye patch looked as dramatic and foreboding as ever, but beneath the worn face of a man in his sixties shone a constant lightness. He patted Joseph’s shoulder, sat him down in one of the immense red cushioned chairs Joseph had only had the pleasure of sitting on twice; once to discuss his first communion,
 
the second time to discuss why he’d broken Brian Hanrahan’s glasses. He was ten at the time. Even he didn’t know why. He thought back, figured it was just because Brian Hanrahan was so darn cute.

“I’m glad you could see me, Father.”

“Of course, Mister Nicci. Always time for one of my favorite students. It was nice of your mother to call.”

Joseph blushed, smiled. Unlike Brother Michael and a few others from his days there, Father Scanlon never had a bad word to say, at least in class. When Joseph wanted to ask a silly question, he’d be able to ask Father Scanlon, such as, How old are angels? What’s heaven made of?

“So, your mother tells me you’re recovering quite well from all the …unpleasantness.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose so.”

“I’m sure it’s been very difficult for you. I think you’ve also been a little difficult with your parents.”

“Yes, and for that I am truly sorry. Are we–should I do the–”

“Oh, no, no. I’ll take your confession, but let’s just talk. You said you had some questions.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Some questions of faith, now that you’ve suffered the trials of public school.”

“That’s one problem, yes, sir. I got a few tough ones this time.”

“Yes, well?”

“Um. Theological question first.”

“Okay.”

“How does someone become a saint?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking of…Somebody made a joke about Anthony. Anthony Lambros. They called him Saint Anthony.” Joseph did not say that the joke was his own. “I was wondering if it might be possible to have somebody from now, like these days, be elected or nominated to be a saint. I mean I heard about the Vietnamese woman who was–”

“Just a minute, Joseph. I think–”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s a valid question. The problem is, a person’s suffering, it has to be for the faith, for the good of the Mother Church, for Our Lord. First, they have to be beatified.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s not just suffering. Now, I’m sure you’re aware about…your teammate’s death being problematic. Of course, since he was so brutally murdered, of course he will ascend to heaven.”

“But if like he was gay or something.”

The priest’s eye blinked. He waited. He thought. “That’s different. It’s …that is not …God does not like it when we willfully sin, and if someone lives a less-than saintly life . . .”

“Right. So?”

“So, that would pose a problem with the sainthood proposition.”

“I guess so.” He wanted to ask, why then did the saints voluntarily suffer, lay on beds of rocks, allow themselves to be burned and whipped? And if they were heretics then, wouldn’t somebody who disagreed with the church now be the same kind of person? Someone like Anthony?

“You have to think of it this way,” Father Scanlon continued. “Think of the Pope and the Mother Church as your grandfather or your grandmother. Now, we know how wonderful your great-grandmother is. I think she was even at my first communion,” he joked. “But they’re very set in their ways, you know, being their age, and well, they’re just not quite ready for some of the new ideas you kids have got going. D’ya understand?”

“Sort of.”

“Good.”

“But what about the thing that…See, Anthony, he, um, well, you read it in the papers–”

“Saw it on the news. Yes.”

“And I was, like thinking. Would God not let Anthony into heaven because he was gay?”

Nothing. Father Scanlon’s eye didn’t even blink.

Joseph let the silence fill the room. He knew the impact his words would have. He knew the soft warmth of the room would daunt him, the leaded glass, the books, the curtains, all the cool curving columns would woo him and charm him back to submission. That was why he’d practiced his questions. He knew that one word would blow away a lot of dust.

“Joseph, my boy. You’re on the wrestling team.”

“Well, uh–”

“Okay. Well, think of it this way. You have a set of rules. You don’t cheat when you compete, do you? Or when the ref blows the whistle.”

“Right.”

“So, when we… misbehave, or cheat, or don’t play by the rules, we can’t play the game, right?”

“But what about if Anthony loved somebody and really really felt a closeness and wanted to only be with that person. I mean, what if he just wanted to–”

“Joseph, are we talking about Anthony or you?”

“Both.”

“Well, then, I suggest you consider playing by the rules.”

“I don’t like those rules anymore.”

“Well, that, my boy, is a problem.”

“Why can’t the rules change? Wrestling rules change all the time.”

“We don’t work so fast here, as you may recall.”

They both forced out smiles, tried to find a way back.

Back was not an option.

“Do you think it’s evil, Father?”

“What is?”

“You know. Being, like…“

“Joseph. You know what sin is. You know what damage it wreaks. Look at those boys. See what their lives have become. Thank your parents for raising you honorably, to tell the truth, in Anthony’s memory.”

“Yeah, but where’s Anthony going? Seems to me like he keeps hanging around me.”

“You’re just feeling sad about his death.”

“And plus I’m thinking that the church is like booting him out for being, what is that, intrinsically evil.”

“You don’t know–”

“Yes, I do. I do, Father. I knew Anthony and I know what the church says about it and I’m thinking I can’t agree.”

“Now, don’t get in a dander.”

“The Pope said that, he said, ‘intrinsically evil.’ What’s intrinsically?”

“Well, it means, well, by nature, that by nature, the act, um, not you yourself–” His words faltered, became a jumble. Joseph looked away. He wasn’t going to find an answer. He knew the answer. It was the same with Assistant Coach Fiasole, the same with the Ass Prince, the same with Miller and everybody else.

“I know you’re tryin’ to be nice to me an’ all since I like suffered all this, but ya see I’m really having a problem seeing this the way it’s told to me, like I gotta be somebody else or dead before I’m gonna get some slack.”

“I see.”

“I’m not …I already… I know what I am. I mean, I’m not …gonna go march in a parade.” Yet. “But I gotta be honest with myself, right?”

“Yes, if that’s what you call it.”

“Because it’s what everybody’s thinking. It’s what everybody’s saying behind my back. I turned both cheeks and then some, Father.”

The priest waited for Joseph to say more, but when he said nothing, Father Scanlon started again. “If you want to be what you say you are–”

“Want. What is to want?”

“You are settin’ yerself up for a lot of problems, suffering and humiliation. Think of your family.”

“Sir, I am, but see, there’s this other family. This family I can’t see.”

“I don’t getcha, Joey.”

“Um…”

“Well, would you care to explain it to me?”

He wanted to talk about the other Joeys. He wanted to say how some of this suffering should come to some good, as he imagined, or had imagined any saint’s life to be worthy of. But all he could see was more suffering. He wanted to be home, wherever that was, or outside, breathing the cold spring air. He needed a little bus exhaust, some more of Grandmama’s lasagna, spiraling DNA balloons in all colors taking flight.

Sunday afternoon, Marie nodded as she drove by their old house. “There it was,” she sighed.

He gazed through the car window at the house, the worn slats of aluminum siding, the windows and doors, a box of memories, one-eyed photographs.

After leaving Grandmama, who loaded them down with food to take home, Marie and Joseph visited Marie’s old high school pal Angelina, who had been their neighbor in Newark, but had moved down the block to a better building and kept meaning to come up to Little Falls to visit.

After Angelina asked a third just-curious question about “the tragedy,” Marie asked if her son could leave the room and watch some television.