The Great Santini (28 page)

"Oh, puke," Mary Anne whispered in Ben's ear, abandoning her pen and paper since Ben was adamant about refusing to read what she had written.

"I think that is a wonderful answer, Carters. That is exactly the answer I expected from this class. It seems crude and ill bred to peel the host off the roof of your mouth simply because it is uncomfortable. Christ, too, was uncomfortable on the cross. Yes, He was very uncomfortable with the nails tearing His hands and feet, the crown of thorns splitting His head. "She turned toward the crucifix that hung above the blackboard; all eyes in the class followed her lead. "For three agonizing hours He hung on the cross, suffering for us. For Carters, for P.K., for Andy, for Father Pinckney, for Sister Loretta Marie—for all the Catholics who would ever live, so that we might sit on His right hand in the golden kingdom of God. Yes, Jesus suffered and this is one reason why we should never complain about the insignificant pains and frustrations we have in our lives. The next time you have a headache, think about having a nail driven through your foot."

Sister Loretta was still staring balefully at the crucified redeemer. Cupping her hand, Mary Anne whispered to Ben," The next time you pick your nose, think about having a nail driven through your nostril."

Ben laughed and the whole class turned around, as if obedient to one of Sister Loretta's clicks, to witness the removal of a malignancy from the class.

"Perhaps, Mr. Meecham, you could enlighten the class as to what is so humorous about a crucifixion."

"Nothing, Sister," Ben said. "I just thought of something funny that happened a few days ago."

"Please share it with the class," the nun demanded.

"I've forgotten it already, Sister," Ben stammered, and the class laughed.

"Indeed," the nun hissed. "Since Mr. Meecham is not interested in the lesson, I think I will use him for a little experiment I thought up to illustrate the suffering of Christ on the cross. I was going to save this for another class, but this might prove to Mr. Meecham that I take these C.C.D. classes very seriously. Come to the front of the room by the blackboard, Mr. Meecham."

Casting a single murderous glance at Mary Anne, Ben walked to the front of the room and stood before Sister Loretta's podium.

"You are a big, strong boy, Mr. Meecham. Let us see how really strong you are. Go to the blackboard, turn, and face the class. Now put out your arms. All the way out, Mr. Meecham," the nun said with sudden fierceness," as if you were stretching them out to be nailed to a cross. That is it. That is fine. Now there are only forty-five minutes left in this class. I want you to hold your arms out until the class is over. No fair bending your arms at the elbows. Just like that for forty-five minutes. Before long, class, Mr. Meecham's arms will feel like lead. Somebody watch and tell me if Mr. Meecham cheats by bending his arms."

"I will, Sister," Mary Anne said cheerfully.

"Thank you, Miss Meecham. It would behoove us to remember that Christ was not able to bend his arms on the cross. Is that not right, children?"

"Yes, Sister," they chanted.

Ben was not taking his symbolic crucifixion with any excess humor. He was not one who enjoyed public exposure or ridicule. The arm muscles would begin to hurt, but it was the personal denuding he experienced under the many-eyed gaze of the class that was the prime cause of his discomfiture and embarrassment.

Sister Loretta continued her monotone:" But the subject tonight was the Eucharist and I was reminded of a true story about the Eucharist that I heard firsthand from a Benedictine father who conducted a retreat at my Mother House in Philadelphia last summer. This true story took place in France and I think it would behoove us to think of P.K.'s question as I relate this story to you."

"Mr. Meecham is bending his elbows," Mary Anne said, raising her hand sweetly.

"Thank you, Miss Meecham. I know your brother does not wish for me to have a conference with your father. Therefore, I am sure we will not have to interrupt class again to admonish him," she said, turning toward Ben as though he were an anthropomorphic representation of a genuine sin.

Ben shot Mary Anne the finger with both of his invisibly nailed hands.

"There was a bad little French boy by the name of Pierre who went to Communion at his tiny parish church in the south of France. At the time, Pierre was in a state of mortal sin as he had eaten a full breakfast only minutes before he came to church. When it came time for Communion, Pierre went to the altar and received the Blessed Eucharist. Instead of going back to his pew, he went out the back of the church and into the graveyard across the street. There, he took the sacred host out of his mouth . . ."

Here, Carters Marie Simon gasped in horror and put her head down on the desk.

"And held the host in his nasty, grubby, unwashed little hands. He wanted to see if he could find a sign that this was indeed the body and blood of our Savior. He laid the host on a tombstone and took a knife from his pocket. Then he cut into the host with his knife. Can anyone in the room tell me what happened?"

A moment of anesthetized silence filled the room until P. K., raising his hand, rising and ejecting out of his seat, shouted," God killed the little booger."

"Of course not, P.K.," the nun sneered. "But something almost as terrible happened. The host began to bleed. At first it was a small flow as though a tiny vein had been cut. Pierre tried to stop it with his handkerchief, his filthy, snot-ridden handkerchief. But that only increased the amount of blood spurting from the host. Soon it was as though an artery had been cut. It burst out of the host and covered the whole tombstone. Pierre tried to stop it by covering it with his hands, by lying on it with his whole body. But nothing would stop the blood. Before he knew it the blood was gushing from the center of the host like a river, spilling onto the holy ground of the cemetery and flowing toward the church. Pierre ran to the church, racing the river of Christ-blood. He flung the church door open and cried out to the priest who was saying the prayers at the foot of the altar. The whole congregation turned and saw Pierre, covered with blood, his eyes frenzied with the sin he had committed. The priest ran toward Pierre, who led the priest to the cemetery, telling him what he had done as they ran. The priest went to the host, to the source of the blood, and touched it with his hands. The blood instantly stopped. The priest looked at Pierre and, trembling with anger, he told the bad little French boy, 'You did wrong, Pierre.' Later that morning, Pierre went to confession. He is now a Catholic priest presiding over the very same parish where he had once desecrated the host. "Sister Loretta paused and took a deep breath. "So I hope that will be a lesson to all of you."

"That's the most beautiful story I've ever heard, Sister," Carters sighed, fulfilled.

"Is that what happens when you chew the host with your teeth, Sister?" P.K. asked.

"I wouldn't say it happens every time, P.K., but I am saying it could happen at any time. The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"I thought Sister Loretta might bury you for three days after we cut you down from the cross," Mary Anne said as she watched Ben massaging his triceps and shoulder muscles.

"Let me just ask you one question, Mary Anne," Ben said calmly. "Do you want me to mangle your face or do you want me just to work you over with a rubber hose so all the damage will be internal?"

"Dad would kill you if you laid a single digit on his adored Mary Anne."

"Baloney," Ben answered," he wouldn't notice if I ripped your nose off your head."

"You're probably right. Dad doesn't pay attention to anything that doesn't wear a uniform or have a jump shot. Of course, I think I would be doing you a big favor if I did help surgically remove your nose. Have you looked at that thing in the mirror lately? Seriously, Ben, is your nose infected?"

"What do you mean infected?" he asked.

"Your nose is so red and runny looking. At least my nose isn't red. I've heard people say you could get a job leading reindeer," Mary Anne said.

"Let's quit," Ben said turning his head toward the river. "I'm tired of the game."

"That means I won," Mary Anne exulted. "Why did you give it all to me, God? Beauty, brains, poise, charm, and devastating wit."

"And a million freckles," Ben added.

"Look who's talking. The old Clearasil kid."

"Pimples don't last forever; freckles do."

"I bet you have pimples when you're seventy years old. You're never going to be able to eat a potato chip," Mary Anne said.

"Let's talk about something serious," Ben said.

"All right, King Solomon. Talk serious."

"What do you think it will be like later on? What do you think we'll be doing?"

"I'll be very famous. Some great men will throw themselves on subway tracks because I refuse their hand in marriage. I'll write several best-selling novels that will be banned by the Catholic Church and my mansion will be a watering place for the great literary and social figures of the late twentieth century. You will still be a zit-faced golden boy throwing up jump shots."

They turned down Eliot Street where the smell of deepset gardens and the bark of aroused dogs followed them past old brick walls covered with lichen and ivy. The moss was thick on the overhanging trees and the light of every star was extinguished in the leafy chapel through which Ben and Mary Anne walked home.

"Be serious, Mary Anne. What do you think will really happen?"

"You'll be a Marine pilot. I'll be married to some creep, having children and wishing I was dead."

"Why? Why does it have to be like that?"

"Because it's written all over both of us."

"I'm not going to be a Marine, Mary Anne. I swear I'm not," Ben said bitterly.

"Yes you will. You'll go to some two-bit southern college and then go into the Marine Corps after you graduate. Dad will swear you in and Mom will be lovely and beautiful and proud. Slowly, all that's good about you will dissolve over the years and you'll begin believing all the stuff Dad believes and acting like Dad acts. You're a golden boy and a fair-haired child. You've got to have people love you and fuss over you. You've got to have them approve. That's where you and I are different. I've never had anybody's approval, so I've learned to live without it. That's why I'm going to be a better person than you before it's all over."

"Do you think either one of us will ever write, Mary Anne?" Ben asked.

Mary Anne thought for a minute, then said," No. We won't write any books. Writing books is something you talk about when you're very young and continue to talk about all your life until you die. You'll write fitness reports on young Marines and I'll write witty notes to my kid's teacher."

"I'm not going to be a Marine! I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!" Ben said.

"Oh, yes you are," Mary Anne said. "Yes you are! Yes you are!" as they crossed the open field of the Lawn. "You are because the Lord, to quote a great woman, works in mysterious ways."

On October the eleventh, in the darkest, coolest part of the morning, Bull shook Ben awake. The clock on the nightstand beside Ben said that it was four o'clock. Bull ordered his son to dress on the double, to meet him at a muster formation in the kitchen, or be put on report.

"Why are you getting me up now, Dad?" Ben asked as he swung his feet to the floor and groped for his blue jeans.

"Who dares question the Great Santini? Anyway it's classified top secret until you get downstairs."

Bull was in a grand, exuberant mood. His father was one of the few people Ben had ever met who could wake from a deep sleep fully refreshed. Bull needed no period of adjustment, no time for the luxurious stretching and lolling that Ben thought was the most exquisite pleasure of morning. As he heard Bull's footsteps on the stairs, Ben staggered toward the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, the tonnage of missed sleep stacked on his brain lightened only slightly. The bathroom light blinded him as though he were a bat flushed from his cave at noon. Going downstairs, he smelled the pot of coffee perking in the kitchen. His father, in full uniform, sat at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming cup. On the table was a large gift-wrapped package.

"Happy Birthday, boy," Bull said, averting his eyes from Ben's.

"Hey thanks, Dad," Ben said, rushing for the package. "Of course, I can't believe you woke me up at four in the morning to give me the present."

"This is just the beginning of the morning. The head honcho has some big plans for your birthday. But I wanted you and me to be alone when you opened this present."

"What is it?" Ben asked, lifting the package and measuring its satisfying heaviness.

"It's a training bra," Bull said, grinning into his coffee. "Open it, boy. I've been saving this for your eighteenth birthday for a long time."

Ben ripped the paper off the package, then lifted the cover off the box. Inside Ben stared at an old leather flight jacket with a warm fur collar and the patch of the Red Cobra Squadron on the sleeve. He removed the flight jacket and held it up for a moment, the odor of leather mingling with the coffee smells.

"What do I do with it, Dad?"

"Put it on. It's yours. That was my first flight jacket. The one I wore when I flew in WW Two with the Cobras," Bull said as Ben slipped the jacket on.

"It's really nice."

"They don't make 'em like that anymore. That's part of the Old Corps. That jacket shows me a lot of class."