Authors: Chuck Stepanek
And when the cartoons rolled Corky chose random parts of the Catholic service to compliment the antics on the screen: An opening or closing Merry Melodies theme got him strutting around his altar in processional and recessional mimicry. A Yogi bear pick-i-nick basket adventure would send one of mommy’s pie pans among the parishioners for their offerings. The lighting of animated TNT fuses signaled the time for lighting of the votive candles.
Currently Yakky Doodle and Snaglepuss were discussing something of great importance. Corky still didn’t understand all of the dialogue of his cartoon friends, especially these two: A duck that obviously took voice lessons from a rotted cellar door hinge and a lion that uttered hig
hbrow phrases like: “Heavens to Murga
t
r
o
y
d
!”
and
“Exit, stage left!”
But they did funny things. Snagglepuss suddenly became alarmed at the sound of a falling anvil. He leapt high off the ground, his feet churning and churning while the rapid-fire staccato of a tom-tom drum kept cadence with his pace if not his progress. Yakky Doodle watched emotionlessly as Snagglepuss opined: “Exit! Stage right!”
Too late.
The anvil found its mark, Snagglepuss did not find stage right, but stage squashed, and Corky's hands reached for the cherished chalice.
As Yakky waddled in to survey the damage, Corky lifted his goblet reverently toward the screen: “Double-dee-day” He breathed. It wasn’t the Latin that Father Milliken used each Sunday, but to Corky it sounded just fine. “Double-dee-day!” To the left, to the right and again back in the middle, louder and stronger with each pass. “Double-dee-day, Double-dee-day, Double-dee-daaaaaayyy!” Meanwhile, Yakky had tipped the anvil upright with his foot (a remarkable achievement for a
diminutive duck) revealing a clotted mass of mangled limbs and fur, his foible, Snagglepuss.
Corky, delighted, hoisted his chalice to the pinnacle. “Double-dee-day!”
Chapter
2
1
“Coat.”
Corky looked at daddy who was looking at his keys. “Church. Shovel snow. And -- see the – priest.” Corky immediately understood. Anticipation was obliterated by excitement. Another new emotion! He launched himself with more exuberance than he had ever displayed toward – what? The coat closet; of course. Daddy had told him to get his coat because he was going to see the priest! The young papal wannabee was experiencing new feelings at a dizzying pace. Who knew what other magical things would be discovered after the brief drive to St. Mark’s.
At some point during the day daddy had come home and the winter solstice sun had set. However for little boys who exist in a world illuminated by vacuum tubes and serenaded by laugh tracks, the arrival of early evening had gone unnoticed. It was 6 o’clock. Corky could
n’t tell time but he knew that ‘
Hogan’s Heroes
’
was about to start. Stalag 13’s tunnel diggers and radio operators would have to wait for another night. Corky was going for a ride.
An evening drive was not unheard of but was exquisitely rare. Even more so, mommy’s absence meant that Corky was standing in the
front
seat! (The priest had been clear – daddy cleared the walks; Corky would be tutored. To her relief mommy had not been invited). He took in the dim glow of the Ramblers dashboard. He watched as daddy’s massive work shoes stomped the three pedals below. Daddy white-knuckled the steering
wheel with his left hand and with his right cranked the gearshift lever down, then up, and then down again. It was a mysterious pattern of motions, known only to big people, designed to make the car go. The front seat view should have better but the darkness blotted out all of the familiar landmarks. Swirling snow on the roadway reflected the headlights for perhaps 50 feet. Beyond that it was darkness save for the distant streetlight or the glow of a picture window from a homeowner tardy in drawing the evening shades.
Even without the advantage of light and landmarks (a matter of some awe to Corky) daddy still found his way to St. Mark’s. The parking lot was vacant but daddy did not take advantage of this luxury. Instead he rolled past the church toward a curious little building that sat off to the side. He parked right on the street! The headlights went dark, the engine was relieved of duty, and Corky reached for the door handle.
Outside, and with the headlights off, Corky realized that he could see a little better. Perhaps it was the novelty of this new destination. Maybe his anticipation had heightened his otherwise underused senses. Regardless he now could see much more of the detail of the rectory. Smaller than the church, but still like the church with its red-brick exterior and ornate trim. Unlike the church, it had plain old windows and a storm door entry just like at home.
Without the slightest sense of protocol, daddy reached for the rectory door and let himself in. As a meter reader he often let himself in to back porches, cellar doors and even in certain cases the home itself in order to do his job. Besides, this was church – you always let yourself in.
The rectory parlor was gently-lit and empty. Vastly under-used high-back chairs sat stately between a pair of sofas. Daddy didn’t sit. He stood stupidly. The hailing words of ‘meter reader’ nearly escaped his lips but that wasn’t right. He assessed the room looking for clues like a snow shovel or push broom but found none.
It was Corky who eventually declared their entrance: “No TV?” He looked around the parlor corner and came up empty. Then he saw a promising light down a long hallway and moved toward it with the unabashed innocence that is reserved for inquisitive youngsters. Daddy let him go. His boy would resolve the awkward necessity of introduction.
And that he did. Near the end of the hallway Corky found not a TV,
but the broad smiling face of F
ather Milliken. “Well, look who’s here.” The good father absolutely beamed with pleasure. Corky caught his breath and took just the slightest step back. He recognized the face, but this was not the same man he saw every Sunday decked out in robes and ropes. Father Milliken was dressed in black from head to toe. The only exception was a rectangle of white just below his chin on his stiff upturned collar.
“And where might your father be?’ Queried the smiling priest. Corky had no words. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to turn and point. His mind was awhirl with so many images! Sunday church! His chalice back at home! (why didn’t he bring his chalice!) Distributing communion with Snagglepuss! But mostly he was left without words because once again this man, this man of great importance, had looked him square in the eye and acknowledged him.
The moment passed but the feeling lingered as Father Milliken looked down the hall and spotted daddy who was still standing at the front door. “Oh do, come in. And thank you for agreeing to help with the snow.” The two-part statement left daddy momentarily confused. Was he supposed to come in or was he being directed to go out and shovel. Shoveling would be his preference. It did not include human interaction. But he did ‘come in’ and the twosome of father and son became a threesome of father, daddy and son.
“These are my quarters.” Father Milliken said expansively. He waved an uplifted palm across the breadth of his room, a gesture not unlike the ones that punctuated his Sunday sermons. The room was cerebral with books, tabletop sculptures and a polished
globe. Perhaps a few too many paintings of religious figures broke up the monotony of the stark walls. But what else is a priest supposed to hang, a pennant for the
Minnesota
golden gophers? A poster extolling the honey-brewed flavor of Grain Belt beer? A bachelor he may be, but a bachelor’s life
he did not lead. At least not in the traditional sense.
The furniture matched the pieces that occupied the parlor, although these pieces were used with a bit more regularity. There was a TV, which to Corky’s astonishment was not on (maybe a god damned glass of water had fallen on the priests TV too). “And here in the corner is my prized worldly possession, if priests are allowed to have such a thing.” He looked to daddy for validation and was not surprised in the slightest by the vacant response. “My telescope.” He went on grandly. “Our religious analogies between earth and sky, man and deity, have existed since the creation of the garden of paradise. If not even a few days before.” He laughed at the joke and then laughed again when he realized the joke was totally beyond the grasp of the only other adult in the room.
He continued in a more condescending manner. “So your boy wants to be a priest.” With the look of a man trying to resolve some complex matter in his head daddy replied: “Yes.” Father Milliken nodded sagely. “And you want to shovel snow.” It worked the first time so daddy repeated his answer. “Well good! We have an arrangement and an agreement. I’ll keep---“ The priest flushed slightly. “Why forgive me, I don’t even know your name. What do they call you young man?” Corky had neither the wind in his lungs nor the savvy in his social to contend with the question. He stood mute, still staring at the gregarious giant before him. Father Milliken turned toward daddy who also flushed but far more than slightly. “Boy – uhh …Corky. Call him…Corky.” A pregnant pause permeated the room before the priest suddenly brightened: “Oh well yes, of course, a nickname! Then Corky it is!
And with the introductions made Corky was left alone in the room while daddy and the priest went off to retrieve the shovel
and discuss (although discuss is a generous term, Father Milliken talked, daddy listened) the procedure for clearing the walks of snow.
Corky was not unaccustomed to being alone. But being alone in a foreign place was a whole ‘nother matter. He hadn’t been offered a chair so he stood fixedly in the spot where the two men had left him. The priest’s voice and daddy’s heavy footsteps occupied his ears as they drifted down the hall. The rest of his senses he opened to the world around. His eyes landed on a large desk. It wasn’t the desk itself so much, but the objects upon the desk that caught his intrigue. There was a thick black-bound book splayed open. A cluster of colored strings emanated from the top of the book and from there they separated and hid among the pages. A bible he thought. He knew the word and he knew the significance. Perhaps Father Milliken would hold the bible high and read to him just like he did in church. Also on the desk were scapulas, tassels, and even a small bell like the kind the altar boys rang during mass. Diminutive crystal vessels of holy water and anointment oil displayed varying levels of each clear liquid. An incense burner, smaller than the one swung back and forth during mass, but an incense burner just the same (Corky could now detect the lingering aroma, that and furniture polish) held a position of prominence at the head of the desk.
He could barely take it all in. He looked the room over and over again, each time his eye would find something it had missed before. The anxiety of being in a foreign place all alone tried to lift itself up the back of his neck. When he found that happening he turned his attention to his personal pacifier; the silent TV. Hogan’s Hero’s was on right now. He didn’t dare be so bold as to turn on the TV, but its mere presence alone meant comfort. And who knows? Maybe the priest would come back, turn on the TV and they could play church together.
There was one item in the room that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was the telescope. It intrigued him because the name was so close to ‘television’ that it must be good. But the sight of the device itself; a gangly, ominous contraption; with spindly
legs, mysterious tubes and slinky cables was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. It reminded Corky of the te
rrorizing spider from the show ‘
The Incredible Shrinking Man.
’
And so he turned his attention away and looked at other things of interest until Father Milliken returned.
And return he did. “Well, Corky it is, right? Let’s get started.” He beamed. Father Milliken entered the room and closed the door.