Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Corky watched each service closely. The movements and actions he witnessed were the same ones he would repeat at home with Casey and his cartoon friends. Only at home it was Corky who was the priest, while Casey and Harry served as his altar boys and the kids in the studio audience his captive congregation. The lifting of the chalice, the distribution of holy communion, passing the collection plate among the flock. All of these rituals Corky took in with reverence for later use during his favorite time of play.
After church the sinners, now redeemed, would file out the back, each pausing to shake hands with the priest, chat with a few other parishioners and then head out into the world to resume their sinning. Corky's parents
always
positioned themselves to be at
the head of this evacuation. It wasn’t because of vanity or the chance to be first in line to tell the priest how much they enjoyed his arid oration. Anything but. These were people who had endured a lifetime of being social outcasts. An hour spent being part of society (even in church!) left them draped with a sackcloth of insecurity. To greet the priest with a simple ‘Good morning’ was as socially enjoyable as an act of contrition. And heaven forbid should one of the other parishioners try to engage them in conversation. The few times this did occur mommy had handled it with all the grace of a manic ventriloquist: “…oh! Good morning… mother of god…I left the coffee pot on the burner…your name we pray…w
here did we park?...benevolent V
irgin Mary…” These ‘conversations’ would inevitably cease as mommy then performed the most disgusting of acts (but to her perfectly natural). Right hand flayed wide, she would cram a finger deep inside a nostril and corkscrew her arm back and forth. This was no demure dabbing at the nose; this was picking a booger from the back of your brain. She finished only when she was satisfied that she had captured something of interest. Any treasured trinket retrieved was then examined (to and fro) for quality assurance, and stuffed under a fingernail for safekeeping. Seeing this, the well-meaning and suddenly pale parishioner, their appetite for Sunday brunch fully abated, would offer a brief word of hasty retreat; wisely choosing a farewell wave in lieu of a prim handshake.
Daddy’s contributions to these exchanges were null. He would merely stand there; stupidly examining his key ring (which held all of two keys) making it appear as though he was engrossed in the momentous task of trying to determine which was the car key to get them home and which was the key to get them in once they got there.
Indeed, getting out of church fast was paramount. But there was
one
time when it didn’t happen. And because of that one time Corky experienced the biggest thrill of his young years; yet inherited a nightmarish horror that would last him the rest of his life.
4
On that notable Sunday, at the end of the service, mommy simply could not find her purse. The neighboring pews had thinned considerably and even the wide aisle down the center was down to a trickle. Mommy and daddy both poked under the pews and lifted and raised the kneelers in their futile search. Eventually an astute usher who had undoubtedly dealt with such matters asked rhetorically: “Are you missing something?” The question, as transparently obvious as any question can be, was directed at daddy. After taking a moment to process the query he came up with the verbose response: “Purse.” Later that night daddy would reflect on the conversation and actually take a bit of pride in knowing that his contribution helped to resolve the matter.
The purse was discovered. A breathless woman working her way against the remaining flow of traffic in the main aisle, held out the purse sheepishly and said she had taken it by mistake. Mommy thanked her for her honesty by extending a hand with a pair of fresh trinkets, each under its own nail. Daddy looked stupidly at his keys and the usher drifted off to the parish rectory to skim his weekly 2 percent of ‘the loose stuff’ from the collection plates.
Being the last in the church, they joined the lingerers: Those people who are warmly greeted yet silently loathed by priests and pastors alike who, every week, every god damn week, have to stay long after the service so the lingerers can talk about every god damn thing under the sun. You just couldn’t plan on a 12:30 tee time with the lingerers around.
But today Father Milliken saw a new group at the back of the pack. Yes, he recognized the family; they were part of the ‘fast exit’ crowd. What the devil were they doing back here? He scowled to himself and then played the old game in his mind… were they in need of a quick confession? (5 minutes) Infidelity counseling? (schedule for later…besides, don’t look the type) Relative in the hospital? (Christ, let’s hope not…two fucking hours) Death in the family? (he hated planting corpses in the
winter and these rubes wouldn’t even have the savvy to offer him an honorarium).
But on the flip side there were two reasons that he welcomed their appearance: One, he could brush off the regular lingerers by indiscreetly suggesting that the ‘family in the back’ needed to talk to him, and second, there was this handsome little boy. A tousle-haired blond boy of perhaps
4
, maybe f
ive
years old. You could almost characterize him has a nice young man. He stood stoic, unspeaking. When the line moved, he moved. A little boy who did what he was told. A little boy who would not tell what he did. Ha! Father Milliken suddenly found a whole new interest in hearing the story about why this fast exit family was at the back of the line. He brusquely unloaded Mr. and Mrs. Sut
z
. Mrs. Sut
z
was still explaining to him the injustice of her head cheese not selling at last
month’s
bazaar. ‘Christ lady, let me squirt a little cheese on your head…let it go;’ he mused. “Yes, yes…perhaps next
year’s
bazaar. Hello mister Fitzgivens—goodbye.” “Goodbye, goodbye
,
goodbye. Have to talk to a family. Goodbye.” And then they were there.
Mommy and daddy had already had enough for one day, an
hour’s
worth of church and then,
then
having to find the purse!
A
nd
interacting with people!
And
standing in line! Every ounce of social aptitude had been expended
. So when they finally got to F
ather Milliken it was first with relief, and then great dismay when he deferred from his patented one-pump handshake reserved for the fast exit crowd and began to engage them in conversation.
Father Milliken had no trouble keeping up his end of the conversation. After all, that’s what priests do; carry on soliloquies for the better part of an hour. “Was there something you folks wanted to visit about?” He asked with kindness in his voice and trepidation in his heart. “Oh no!...my purse I lost…thank you saint Anthony!...the woman, she returned it…decets of the rosary, blessed Virgin Mary.”
Daddy looked at his keys.
“Oh, a lost purse!” Father Milliken laughed with great sincerity. He had swept out the lingerers, and his concern that these rubes would need his ear or his services was completely unfounded. Besides, there was still this handsome little boy.
Corky had been watching in awe. The priest was the most remarkable person he had ever seen. Even more important than Casey the engineer! This person…more than a person…had been up in front, at the altar, before all of those hundreds of people. Never before had Corky experienced more than a quick glimpse of the priest the many times they had hurriedly vacated the sacristy. But now, this more-than-man stood squarely before him. His robe brushed lightly just above the floor. Thick ivory colored ropes cinched his waist and dangled to garish tasseled ends. A large crucifix, suspended by a thin silver chain, lay upon his chest. To Corky, the priest was the tallest, most important person in the world. And then, for the first time ever in his young life, Corky was delivered an unfathomable shock.
Father Milliken bent low, looked Corky directly in the face, smiled warmly and asked: “Who do we have here?” Corky was absolutely speechless. He had never been acknowledged as a person ever before. Yes, he knew about smiles from TV but acknowledgement? Him as a person? No way, no how. This was a first.
Accustom to the impact his appearance
could have on little children, F
ather Milliken then turned to the parents for validation. Daddy, struggling with forces intellectual and social, searched deep inside himself, found the word, and provided the enlightenment: “Boy.” There was dead air for a few seconds before he amended his statement. “Our boy.” ‘Christ in a sidecar driving backwards during a hailstorm. If birdshit were brains these people’s cages would be clean!’ The good father ruminated. Audibly he chuckled a different sentiment “Why yes, yes indeed! Your boy!” And what a fine young boy he is!”
“He likes to play church…holy Jesus be with us…wants to be a priest…it’s time for coffee…a priest-like you…blessed
cherubim.” Hidden only by the girth of his gen
erous robe, the statement made F
ather Milliken visibly quiver. It wasn’t the segmented prayer mumbo jumbo; oh no,
that
he dismissed in a heartbeat. It was those other words: ‘A little boy…who likes to play church…who wants to be a priest…like you.’ He wrestled with internal forces for a moment and then succumbed. He cleared his throat importantly and then made his best pitch: “You know, I’m wondering if we could help each other out. Occasionally we need someone to clear snow off the sidewalks in the evening.” He looked at daddy. “If you’d like to come by oh, say maybe once a week to clear the snow and bring your boy along, I’d be happy to have him in my room and talk with him about being a priest.” ‘After all,’ he turned now toward mommy. ‘We all need to do our fair share in supporting the church, whether it’s time, talents or money.’ He nodded at the purse.
That salted it. Daddy would be clearing snow and Corky had a date with a priest.
5
The days passed, just like always. Daddy would grunt his monosyllabic morning weather report before heading out to read meters. Mommy would fret in the kitchen sending up her novenas to Mrs. Folgers and the Virgin Mary. And Corky, well you would find him parked in his usual spot glued to the tube. Although things seemed the same, there was something different. Had Corky known the word he would have identified it as anticipation. He knew that a momentous occasion was upon him. He understood that someday he was going to see the priest while daddy shoveled snow.
With that in mind, he no longer confined his time for playing church to the half hour of Casey and his cartoon friends. Church frequently replaced marbles during the afternoon soaps and even a few of the studio audiences got a dose of redemption during the evening variety shows.
Corky took great pains with his preparations. Especially right before Casey. He pulled out every ‘cyclopedia’ from the bookshelf to build a reasonable likeness of an altar. Another book, a fat Webster’s dictionary that had gone fuzzy along the edges, served as his bible. And most important, at a place of great prominence, atop ‘cyclopedia’ volume ‘M-N,’ was the chalice.
Until this week Corky’s chalice had been whatever random drinking glass he had retrieved from the dish drainer for the day. But after the encounter with the priest, mommy had splurged and bought him a cheap dime store goblet for less than dime store price when she happened across it at the Salvation Army. Corky was thrilled. The goblet had an off-white hue and the outer bowl was adorned with raised bumps and lines that vaguely resembled grapes on the vine. And the chalice was about to be put to use. The toot-toot of a train whistle meant that it was time for church!
The standard opening sequence for Casey and his cartoon friends showed the great man himself, out in the train yard hopping across several sets of tracks in route to the depot. A tinny instrumental chugga-chugga train melody (clearly part of the public domain) ushered Casey to his destination. Slowly, deliberately, Corky placed the palms of his hands in front of him. As the pre-taped version of Casey reached for the depot door Corky gently unfolded his hands like opening a book. Casey stepped inside. Corky spread his arm in welcome. And as the TV image segued from the canned intro to a live Casey entering the studio Corky leaned back and raised his arms upward in the now famous touchdown Jesus pose. “Hi kids!” Casey bellowed. “Amen!” Corky dutifully replied.
The show progressed and Corky fulfilled his obligation to his congregation. As the engineer passed his mic to coax names out of each studio audience youngster, Corky pantomimed the act; placing a Eucharist on each extended tongue. When Harry the Happy Hobo recited the list of birthday names: ‘Lisa…
Charlie…
Peter…’ Corky traced a finger along an open page of
the bible according to Webster, his inexperienced lips trying to replicate the names as uttered by the glib-gifted drifter.