One: Jorge

Jorge arched his back like a sun-drowsed cat and inadvertently emitted a loud grunt of pleasure. He could feel his vertebrae POP! POP! POP! in perfect military sequence from his back’s middle up towards the scruffy nape of his brown-red neck. Father Hawthorne suddenly stopped his sermon in mid-sentence. Instead of preaching from the polished mahogany lectern at the side of the carpeted altar (the way Father Gonzalez did), the priest stood on the marble floor in front of the pews because he preferred to be close to his flock. Jorge could see the priest’s shoulders stiffen and, as if on a coiled spring that snapped in a child’s over zealous hands, Father Hawthorne’s head popped straight up revealing to Jorge the beginnings of a bald spot emerging from neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair.

Shit! thought Jorge. The priest obviously heard Jorge’s physical expression of boredom that no altar boy should ever reveal explicitly during, of all things, the sermon. Father Hawthorne, exercising the greatest control he could muster at 6:45 on a Tuesday morning, turned his head to the left so that Jorge and Gilbert could see the sharp and bony contours of his profile. Jorge coughed loudly in a frail attempt to cover up his transgression.

“Fuck,” whispered Gilbert. “You’re shit now.”

Jorge and Gilbert sat in two large well-padded, high back and majestic chairs to the side of the altar by the statue of the Virgin Mary. She stood, draped arms outstretched and palms open, looking down from her pedestal with sad and empathetic eyes. The harsh September sun shone through the stained glass windows coating the church’s interior in too-bright gashes of reds, golds, purples and greens. The diehards sat scattered in the first several pews -- seven or eight small bodies -- mostly widows and widowers who attended Mass seven days a week to fill some part of their empty itineraries. Not a few of the widows had eyes for the tall and lean Father Hawthorne even though he was not Mexican and he fumbled at his Spanish so badly that the widows blushed in embarrassment for him.

“Fuck,” Gilbert whispered again.

The priest cleared his throat and the rough sound echoed throughout the almost empty sanctuary. Father Hawthorne froze for a moment until the echo faded and then he slowly turned his head back towards the congregation. Jorge shot a glance at Gilbert. Jorge liked him even though he was as white as Father Hawthorne, one of the few white children who attended the Catholic grammar school. Gilbert was one of the tallest fifth grade boys (several girls such as Mona, Rosario and Ana shot up during the summer and now towered over their entire class) and could absolutely kill in basketball. Gilbert had the moves. All the girls had crushes on him and the boys sought his approval.

Gilbert closed his eyes revealing dark, almost blue, shiny eyelids. Jorge turned from his friend to the priest’s back. Father Hawthorne again droned on about just and unjust wars. His voice matched the low rumble of the delivery trucks making their way east on Pico Boulevard towards downtown Los Angeles six miles away. Vietnam, he said, was a just war because America was fighting the GODLESS COMMUNIST THREAT. Mrs. Gomez and her friend Mrs. Oliveras, widows both, nodded in unison with their hairpinned black veils fluttering at the backs of their freshly dyed hair. The retired Ford mechanic, Mr. Reynoso, let out an intermittent snore as he leaned back into the pew, eyes closed, tongue wriggling in his opened, wet mouth. The other congregants shifted and coughed and tried to look interested in Father Hawthorne’s favorite subject. A yellow, scrawny mutt sat well behaved and patiently in the doorway at the side of the church near the wrought-iron votive candle stand. It kept time to its own panting with its shabby tail.

“Whore-hey,” whispered Gilbert, eyes still closed, mispronouncing Jorge’s name in the most obscene possible manner. “Hey, Whore-hey,” he whispered again but this time his eyes popped open. “I saw Debbie’s panties yesterday at recess.”

Jorge jerked his head from the priest to his friend. Gilbert sat there, angelic with glistening blue eyes and a small smile on his thin, pink lips, looking as though he were remembering a beautiful dream.

“What?” whispered Jorge.

“Panties.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“How?”

“I asked, ‘Can I see your panties?’”

Jorge gulped. Could it all be this easy? Before he could continue with his line of questioning, Gilbert cleared his throat and nodded towards the priest. The drone of the sermon abruptly ended and now Father Hawthorne pivoted with a sharp squeak on the marble floor and with great, deliberate strides, he marched up the carpeted steps towards the altar. He kept his small eyes trained on the altar boys.

“All rise,” the priest said. Jorge and Gilbert rustled in their cassocks and stood.

“You’re shit,” whispered Gilbert.

Jorge let out a sigh.

 

"An altar boy cannot show disrespect for the sacred ceremony that is the Mass,” said Father Hawthorne as he removed his vestments. The priest moved slowly and with care though he had performed this particular ritual thousands of times before. “I was young once.”

This revelation shocked the boys. They could not even begin to imagine what Father Hawthorne looked like at their age. They were more able to believe that, in a miracle fifty years ago, the priest appeared, full-grown and middle-aged, in the sanctuary and took up his duties as preordained by Jesus.

“Remember that you are an integral part of the Mass even during the sermon. Understand, boys?”

They nodded as they removed their cassocks and hung them up on the pegs that lined a narrow hallway that led to a storage room. Father Hawthorne looked at the boys. “Do you understand?” he asked again. “I didn’t hear a response.”

They almost jumped. “Yes, Father,” they said in unison.

The priest exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “I don’t think you do.”

“Yes, Father, we do,” said Jorge. Gilbert looked away while letting out a low, off-key hum.

Father Hawthorne stared at the boys. “And you, Gilbert?”

Gilbert didn’t turn to the priest. He stopped humming. “Yes, Father. I know I’m an important part of the Mass.”

No one spoke for a few moments. “See you in class after lunch, boys,” the priest finally said. He returned to removing his vestments. “Sister Marie invited me to come and give a talk.” Though the sisters were well versed in the intricacies of catechism, they often invited the parish priest to give the longer, more detailed talks on important church doctrine. “I’m going to discuss the Assumption today.”

“Yes, Father,” said Jorge. Gilbert’s left eye twitched. He nodded in agreement with Jorge.

“Okay, you boys can go.”

Jorge and Gilbert let out a quick “Bye, Father,” and rushed to the door before their luck change. When the boys reached the sidewalk, they headed silently towards the school which wouldn’t start for another hour. Jorge reveled in this time of morning, still cool but bright, when he could breathe the clean air and think about his life. He usually asserted his mental energies to disassembling and then reassembling the people and events of his life like a puzzle or erector set. A good breakfast of eggs, beans and coffee still warmed his stomach and his legs felt sturdy and ready for a good, sweaty game of basketball before class.

“Watch this,” said Gilbert. Jorge frowned because his friend invaded upon his meditations. In a single, beautiful movement, Gilbert reached down with his left hand, scooped up a smooth, small stone and flung it with remarkable precision at Mrs. Montoya’s fat, old calico cat that was sunning itself in the driveway across the street. The stone, which had streaks of blue, rust and yellow running in perfect parallel lines over its surface, bounced off the cat’s forehead with a sickening crack. The old calico let out a shriek, leapt to its feet with an alacrity it once displayed even in non-emergencies, and scurried up Mrs. Montoya’s cement porch.

“Got the fucker,” laughed Gilbert.

“¡Chingada!” laughed Jorge. “What an arm!” But then Jorge stopped himself. He saw that the calico had been hurt. He turned to Gilbert. His friend’s face was frozen in a grotesque mask, a face Jorge didn’t recognize. “Dude, you okay?”

Gilbert didn’t answer but stood motionless staring at nothing. Jorge shivered. Gilbert finally let out a snort. “Let’s go.”

They strolled in silence for a few minutes until Gilbert said, “Well, want to know more about me and Debbie?” Gilbert kicked a battered, empty milk carton ahead of him.

Jorge hadn’t raised the topic because he didn’t want to sound too inexperienced and, besides, the morning felt so peaceful. Debbie would make perfect lunchtime discussion.

“Sure. Tell me.”

Gilbert kicked the carton into the street and jumped in front of his friend. Jorge didn’t stop walking so Gilbert had to stroll backwards; he wanted to see each and every facial expression that his story might elicit. Mrs. Montoya’s calico slowly wandered back to its warm spot on the driveway as her tormentors moved farther away.

“So, Whore-hey,” began Gilbert. “Me and Deb snuck under the bleachers at recess yesterday.”

“Did you ask her to go?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“I said, ‘Deb, wanna’ go under the bleachers?’”

Jorge blinked hard. He could smell Jorge’s body odor and bad breath. It looked as though Gilbert’s white uniform shirt was actually cut from yellow fabric.

“She your slave or something?” Jorge felt angry but he didn’t know why.

“Yeah,” sneered Gilbert. “She’s ‘or something,’ Whore-hey.”

“Pendejo.”

“Wanna’ hear or what?”

Jorge definitely wanted to hear. So, he bit his tongue and nodded.

“Okay,” smiled Gilbert as he continued to walk backwards. “So I ask Deb to go with me to the bleachers. I say that I got something to ask her. Okay? So, we get there and she looks all smiley and she says, ‘Well, what do you want to ask me?’ And I smile back and look over to Sister Marie to make certain she hasn’t seen us. She’s dealing with the second graders so I turn back to Debbie and say, ‘Can I see your panties?’” He paused for reaction.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear to God.”

“Swear on your mother’s grave.”

“I swear on my mother’s grave even though she ain’t dead.”

“Okay. What happened?”

“So, she looks over at Sister Marie, too, and then back to me and her eyes get real wide. Oh, I got a fucking hard-on right there. Shit!”

Jorge felt himself getting hard so he figured that Gilbert probably was going nuts under those bleachers. “Go on!”

“Well, she then closes her eyes and then, real slow like, she grabs the ends of her skirt and lifts it up real slow. Oh fuck! And then she speeds up and lifts her skirt high enough for me to see everything!”

“What they look like?”

“You know, white with little flowers.”

Jorge let out a big sigh.

“And guess what?”

There was more? “What?”

“I could see her pussy!”

Jorge felt as though his head would explode at any second. His erection made his pants look funny so he shoved his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean? She took off her panties?”

“No, fucker. I could see the outline but, shit, I could see a lot.”

Jorge stopped walking and put his hand on Gilbert’s chest. “Wait!” Gilbert wore a goofy grin and his eyes sparkled even bluer than before.

“What, Whore-hey?”

“How do you know what a pussy looks like?”

Gilbert’s head suddenly jerked back, left eye twitching.

Jorge’s eyes widened. “Dude?” said Jorge.

Gilbert took a deep breath and rubbed his still-convulsing eye. After he gained control over his face, Gilbert forced a laugh. “Can’t tell you.”

“Then you’re a bullshitter!”

“Maybe. But, you’ll never know.”

Jorge sighed.

“Okay, dude. I promise to tell you later. After school. Okay?”

Jorge scanned his friend’s face carefully. He looked sincere. “Okay.”

“Cool. Let’s hurry and get some ball in before class.”

The boys broke out in a full sprint towards the school. Mrs. Montoya’s calico purred happily in the sunny driveway.

 

Two: Sister Marie

The classroom air was heavy with the children’s lunchtime perspiration. Sister Marie walked up and down the front trying to get her students to sit and get ready for Father Hawthorne’s arrival. She was not an unattractive woman: her fine Irish features and abundant freckles made her look more girlish than her twenty-nine years. Sister Marie waved her hands up and down in front of her as if she were fanning away troublesome moths.

“Please, class, please. Get settled. The Father will be here soon.”

“Correction,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the priest. He stood wearing a grin which, truth be told, made him look like some other person. The priest seldom played games but he seemed more relaxed, almost younger in Sister Marie’s company.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed the nun blushing a deep crimson. “Children, please, stand and welcome Father Hawthorne.” She had a little crush on the priest but she hid it well, or so she thought.

“Good afternoon, Father Hawthorne,” chanted the children once they scrambled to their feet.

The priest nodded to them and then squeaked across the hard linoleum and nodded to the nun. “Hello, Sister Marie. Do I have the floor?”

“Oh, yes,” said the nun. “Please children. Sit down and give Father Hawthorne your full attention.” She almost trotted to her desk, sat down with a little grunt and picked up a brass paperweight that was in the shape of an apple. Sister Marie rubbed it with both hands, a habit she acquired quite naturally when the paperweight was first given to her two years ago as a welcome present from the Mother Superior.

When the children more or less quieted down, Father Hawthorne began with his little lecture. “Now, you all know what the Assumption is, don’t you class?”

The children looked around. Raul’s hand shot up. Raul’s hand always shot up. “Yes, Father.”

The priest smiled. “Yes, Raul. Please tell us.”

Raul beamed and stood up. He was a lean boy, no different than most in his class, but he moved in a strange manner. It seemed as though he was living under water with his movements slowed to a graceful but almost ineffective ballet. He was almost always left for last when the boys picked teams for basketball or any sport, for that matter. “The Assumption,” Raul intoned, “is when the Virgin Mary went up into heaven, body and soul, instead of dying and being buried like most people.” He paused and waited for some kind of praise from Father Hawthorne.

“And why is that?” asked the priest knowing that he would get the correct answer from this fine, bright boy.

“Well, Father, she was too pure to die like the rest of us.” With that, Raul sat down triumphant.

“And when do we celebrate the Assumption?” The priest added, “Anyone but Raul, please,” when he saw Raul’s hand shoot up again. But, no one else offered an answer for a few moments. Finally, Jorge raised his hand.

“In the summer. August 15th.”

As the priest smiled with pride and the nun smiled from relief (an incorrect answer would have reflected badly on her), Debbie’s hand slowly ascended.

“Yes, Debbie?” said Father Hawthorne.

“Father,” she began carefully choosing her words. “Does that mean that the Virgin Mary’s body is somewhere still?”

The priest nodded. “Well, yes. She was guarded from actual sin by divine grace. Otherwise, she never could have been a proper vessel for Our Lord, Jesus Christ. She was immaculate from her own conception. Free from Original Sin.”

Debbie’s brown eyes widened. “So, Father, she’s still around here somewhere?”

The priest began to grow impatient. “Not here. Remember, she ascended into heaven, body and soul.”

“So, her body is somewhere out in space?”

The class giggled in unison. “Good question,” whispered Gilbert to Jorge. “The panties girl has a point.” Jorge tried not to laugh.

“Well,” said Father Hawthorne while Sister Marie started to look panicked. “Her body is still pure and intact.”

“But if we sent a space ship up there, we might hit her. Right?”

Before the priest could end this line of questioning, Raul offered his own idea. “Maybe she’s behind the moon. It’s safe back there.”

Most of the children nodded in agreement except Ernestine. “The astronauts would’ve seen her when they landed last year!”

“No, no, no,” said Wilfredo. “We landed on the bright side, not the dark side.” Half the class punctuated this last pronouncement with a wild “Yeah!”

“It’s a mystery,” said Father Hawthorne trying to regain control of the students. “We simply do not know.” He gave a bewildered look to Sister Marie. The priest never let down his guard, especially in front of the nuns. But, at that moment, he lacked the strength to hide anything from Sister Marie. She smiled and noticed that the priest looked so handsome, even in his vulnerability. Father Hawthorne didn’t have all the answers and that made him feel less in control, but that didn’t bother the nun. Right then, he reminded Sister Marie of a boy she knew in high school. Kevin McFarland. If the nun had ever been in love, it was with Kevin. He was of medium height but his long legs and arms made him look taller. Kevin’s manners were impeccable, for a teenage boy, and he liked to walk Sister Marie home before she was Sister Marie. Back then, she was Elizabeth. But she got the calling and her parents, who had six older daughters and one son, couldn’t have been more delighted. One less wedding to pay for. But that was long ago.

“Class,” the nun said as she rose deliberately to her feet. “Father Hawthorne has two more classrooms to get to so please, I think we’re done with questions.”

The priest smiled. “I appreciate all of your interesting questions and ideas,” he said as he inched towards the doorway. “I really do, children. Sister Marie has done a wonderful job.” The nun blushed and looked at her shoes. “A wonderful job,” Father Hawthorne repeated as he nodded and disappeared into the hallway.

 

Three: Jorge

“So, tell me. You promised.” As he said this, Jorge shot the basketball but hit the rim with a loud rattle as the chain link net shook.

Gilbert jumped and grasped the basketball with both hands. “Okay, okay, Whore-hey. I’ll tell you.” He dribbled and took a shot. The basketball slid almost silently through the hoop and net. Jorge ran under the falling ball, caught it and tucked it under his right arm.

“So, tell me. How do you know what pussy looks like?”

Gilbert sighed. “Okay. Me and a couple guys went up to Father Gonzalez’ room. He has a whole box of magazines under his bed.”

Father Gonzalez? He seemed way more normal to the children than did the ancient Father Hawthorne. Father Gonzalez was maybe thirty years old but he looked like a teenager with the way he wore sideburns, talked hip and cussed with the boys when the nuns weren’t around. But dirty magazines? God!

“Did he catch you guys?”

Gilbert laughed. “He invited us up!”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” Jorge was beside himself. “How did this happen?”

“He took me and José and Billy out for hamburgers after we helped him clear out the garage at the rectory on Saturday. Then he invited us up to his room, pulled out this big box of magazines from under his bed and said, ‘Go wild, boys.’”

“No shit?”

“No shit!”

“What did he have?”

“All kind of pussy magazines. And there were some with guys and women doing things. Fuck!” Gilbert hopped up and down like he had to pee. Suddenly, the yellow, scruffy mutt who usually observed the early Mass gamboled joyfully across the playing field nipping at little birds. “Watch this,” said Gilbert as he snatched up a stone and flung it at the dog. He missed by three feet failing even to get the animal’s attention. Jorge wanted desperately to get back to the topic at hand.

“He just let you go through them? Just like that?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“What did he do?”

Gilbert surveyed the ground for another stone but gave up. “He just sat on the bed, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“What’s eating you, Whore-hey? What’s the big-assed deal? That priest is cool.”

“Just asking. What else did he do?”

“Nothing. He drank some wine. Let us have some. That’s all. He put on some cool music. Sly Stone. Good shit.”

“Oh.”

“He went to the bathroom a lot. But he said the wine makes you do that.”

The yellow mutt gave up on the birds and decided to explore the two boys. It bounced happily over to Jorge and Gilbert and cocked its head in anticipation for something good.

“Fucking bitch,” said Gilbert as he eyed the dog.

“Think she’ll eat M&Ms?”

“The bitch’ll eat anything. Even your mama.”

“Fucking pendejo,” Jorge said almost perfunctorily as he rummaged through his shirt pocket and pulled out a half-eaten bag of candy. He tossed a few to the dog. Its tail wagged so fast it looked as though the canine would take off any minute into the evening sky. It walked over to the scattered M&Ms, sniffed and then licked them up. The boys swore the dog smiled while it smacked its black lips.

“Fuckin’ eh, she likes them,” laughed Gilbert.

“Knew it,” said Jorge.

Gilbert stopped laughing. “You know, chocolate will kill a dog.”

Jorge looked up. “Not a little bit.”

Gilbert grinned. “Be my guest. I warned you.”

“You make this shit up.”

“So, don’t believe me. I don’t care if the bitch dies.” Gilbert looked at his watch. “Shit! It’s almost dinner.”

Jorge didn’t have a watch but he could tell by the darkening sky that Gilbert was right. “We gotta’ go home.” They ran over to their books and simultaneously scooped them up.

“Race you, Whore-hey!”

“Uno, dos, tres,” and Jorge jerked towards the park’s gate. Gilbert laughed and followed. The yellow mutt watched the boys dash away. After a moment, the dog realized that its source of M&Ms was gone. It slowly walked towards the field in search of birds to chase as the boys’ laughter grew faint.

 

Four: Sister Marie

The next day, as the children played in the schoolyard for afternoon recess, Sister Marie rubbed the low bookshelves with an old cloth. Chalk dust covered everything in her classroom despite her best efforts to prevent the white dust from migrating too far from the blackboard. She suspected that one of the boys (it couldn’t be any of her girls) banged the worn, gray erasers on every surface he could hit before the nun could return from her frequent visits to the school nurse. At least three times a day, sometimes as many as five or six, Sister Marie saw Mrs. Hanson in the little ten by ten-foot room liberally known as the “infirmary.” The room held very little furniture: an almost empty medicine cabinet, a couch, a small table and a chair all of which was made of the same, sickly yellow wood used throughout the school. Mrs. Hanson’s jaundiced complexion made a perfect match for the infirmary’s furnishings. More often than not, she smelled of Vick’s Vapor Rub and usually held a moist handkerchief to her runny nose which she alternated with puffs from a filter-tipped Raleigh. Mrs. Hanson resembled a bison. During her second visit to the nurse that morning, Sister Marie felt worse than most days. She knocked on the infirmary door before turning the knob and coming in. Mrs. Hanson sat at the table, handkerchief balled up at her nose like a misshapen yellow rose, cigarette burning in the ceramic ashtray with LIFE magazine spread before her.

“Sister, come in,” she said without looking up. “Sit.”

Sister Marie walked briskly to the green, vinyl couch and sat down with a squeak. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Pretty bad, eh?” said Mrs. Hanson as she stood up. The nun nodded. Mrs. Hanson walked over to her and sat so close that her plump leg rubbed against the nun’s.

“Yes, pretty bad.”

“Okay, stay still.” As she said this, Mrs. Hanson put one large hand on the nun’s forehead and the other on the back of her neck. “Ready?”

Sister Marie nodded. With a little grunt, Mrs. Hanson pushed both hands towards each other as though she were squeezing an accordion. The nun let out a deep breath.

“That’s my girl,” said Mrs. Hanson. Any woman younger than she was “my girl.”

“Ooooh,” Sister Marie moaned.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hanson released the nun’s head and neck. Sister Marie’s eyes popped open.

“Better?”

Sister Marie straightened her veil. Unlike the older nuns, she opted for the more modern habit that included a short, blue cotton veil that wrapped around her head like a scarf allowing her ears and neck to remain uncovered. The rest of her outfit was a one-piece, short sleeve dress with a hem that ended just below the knees. It was fashioned out of the same, lightweight fabric.

“Yes, much better.”

Mrs. Hanson stood up, walked away from the nun and lowered herself slowly into her chair. “I can’t give you any more aspirin. It’s too soon. After lunch will be okay.” She turned back to her LIFE magazine.

“Thank you,” said the nun. “Mind if I sit for a moment.”

“What about those kids?”

“Oh, they’re doing spelling baseball right now. It’s their favorite. They’ll be okay.”

“This Candace Bergen sure is pretty but she looks like a hippie.” Mrs. Hanson pointed to a picture in the magazine though the nun did not look over to see. “I sure liked her father’s movies. And that radio show. A real hoot, don’t you think? With that puppet, and all.”

Sister Marie sat, hands cupped upwards in her lap, staring at the medicine cabinet. After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Hanson looked up from her magazine.

“You really need to see a doctor sometime, you know. It could be more serious than just headaches.”

The nun blinked and came out of her trance. “Oh, my mother suffers from them, too,” she said slowly. “And she’s still going strong at sixty-eight.”

Mrs. Hanson turned back to the LIFE. “But it’s no way to live. If there’s a way to fix it, I’d look into it if I were you. It’s just no way to live.”

Those words stayed with Sister Marie the whole day. It’s no way to live. As she wiped the bookshelves, the nun wondered about the ways she could have lived. Her sisters all married and had children. Oh, she loved her nieces and nephews. What kind of mother would she make? She was a very good teacher, she knew that. She looked out the window and could make out some of her students playing kickball. They like her. They really do. Sister Marie could see Sister Ramona, the second grade teacher, being silly with some of the girls. Sister Ramona would have made an excellent mother, too. Sister Ramona with her white teeth and deep dimples on her brown cheeks.

The sound of the children playing calmed her, made Sister Marie’s head feel more relaxed, less pained. She then noticed Father Hawthorne stride across the schoolyard to the Mother Superior who stood in the shade wearing the ancient, all-covering habit that the older nuns preferred. The priest looked so strong and vibrant as he walked with great determination towards the nun. But something didn’t seem right. Father Hawthorne’s brow was more furrowed than usual and his right hand shook. Sister Marie moved closer to the window and squinted to get a better look. The priest reached the Mother Superior. He leaned near her and whispered something and it looked to Sister Marie that she gasped. Father Hawthorne put his hand on the nun’s elbow and they strode together towards the rectory. At that moment, the recess bell let out a loud ring that made Sister Marie jump. She walked back to her desk to wait for the children leaving the dust cloth on the bookshelf in a crumpled ball.

 

Five: Jorge

“Catch, Whore-hey!”

Jorge snatched the basketball before it could hit his head. “Hah! Jerry West here!”

Gilbert laughed. “Lucky catch!”

As Jorge shot the ball, Raul ran up to the boys.

“Look who’s here,” said Gilbert. “The little bitch.”

“You goon,” said Raul breathing heavily.

“Goon? What the hell is that?”

“What’s up, Raul?” asked Jorge as he got the rebound.

“Did you hear?”

“Yeah,” said Gilbert. “I heard your mama say she wanted some of this.” He grabbed his crotch and made a grotesque face.

Raul ignored Gilbert. “About Father Gonzalez. Did you hear?”

Gilbert let go of himself and walked up to Raul. “What about Father Gonzalez?”

“So, you didn’t hear?”

“No, goddamn it! What about Father Gonzalez?” As Gilbert said this, he put a hand on Raul’s shoulder.

Raul knew he couldn’t keep them in the dark much longer. “They found him. Father Hawthorne found him.”

Jorge walked up to the others. “Found him?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“Dead! They found him dead!” Raul almost smiled as he let out the news.

Gilbert froze. Jorge looked hard at Raul to see if he was trying to pull a joke on them.

“I’m not lying!” said Raul acknowledging Jorge’s suspicious look.

“Where?” Jorge finally asked.

“Hanging. In his bedroom. Father Hawthorne found him. They brought the ambulance around behind the rectory so we wouldn’t see.”

“Who told you this?” asked Jorge.

“My pop. He’s a security guard at the hospital. He knows all the cops and they tell him stuff. You know that.”

“Why’d they take him there if he was dead?”

“Cuz, just in case, you know. Just in case he really wasn’t dead yet, I guess.”

Jorge looked at Gilbert to see his reaction. His friend’s face revealed nothing except that all blood had drained from it.

“Can you believe it?” said Jorge. “Why couldn’t it have been Father Hawthorne, instead? Father Gonzalez was cool.”

“There’s more,” said Raul.

This caught Gilbert’s attention. “What?”

Raul leaned closer and whispered, “Pictures and stuff.”

Gilbert started to breathe heavily.

“What kind of pictures?” asked Jorge.

“Fuck this shit!” said Gilbert as he pushed Raul aside. “And fuck you, you little shit!” He turned and ran towards the yard’s large exit gate.

“Hey, Gilbert!” yelled Jorge. “What’s up?” When it was clear that Gilbert had no intention of answering, Jorge turned back to Raul. “So, what kind of pictures?”

“Well, I heard pop talking to mom. There was this box, you know, with Playboy magazines and stuff.”

“Oh. Is that all.”

“No.”

“What else?”

Raul started to whisper again even though no one else was around. “Father Hawthorne didn’t touch anything because he was more worried about Father Gonzalez. Anyway, there was another box. The police got that one.”

“A box of what?”

“Pictures. Pictures of boys. From our school.”

“So?”

Beads of perspiration formed on Raul’s upper lip. “Naked pictures.”

“What?”

“Yep. And the police interviewed Father Hawthorne at the hospital. He said he didn’t know about any of it.” Raul looked at his watch. “Shoot! It’s almost dinner. I gotta’ go. See ya’ later.” And with that, Raul headed towards the exit.

As the sun set, the horizon filled with deep purples and pinks. Jorge tried to collect his thoughts. He looked at the schoolhouse. It sat, nothing more than a rectangular box, solid and simple in the middle of the asphalt yard. Behind it, the rectory where the priests – now, priest – lived, looked elegant with its modern lines and well-trimmed shrubbery. Jorge gave a start. The yellow mutt had touched his hand with a wet snout. Jorge looked down and the dog wagged its tail wildly.

“Hello, girl.”

The dog panted and rubbed its skinny body against Jorge’s legs.

“That’s a good girl!” and he patted the dog’s head. “Want some candy?

The dog, seemingly understanding the question, bounded up on Jorge almost pushing him to the ground.

“Whoa, girl!” Jorge fumbled for an opened bag of M&Ms in his shirt pocket. He poured out a handful and then, after a second’s thought, put most of them back in the bag. Jorge let two M&Ms sit in his palm and let the dog lick them out of his cupped hand. “That’s a girl! Can’t have too many. They’ll kill you.”

The dog finished eating his treat and got down on all fours. A crow cawed and landed in the open field. The dog, out of instinct, spied the bird and, for a moment, froze. It turned from Jorge and started to creep towards the crow. Jorge watched the dog as it suddenly broke into a trot and then a full-blown gallop. The crow looked up and, just before the dog could bite it, the bird spread its wings and flew up into the oak near the vine-covered chain link fence that lined the back of the yard. Jorge kept his eyes on the yellow mutt as it yapped at the bird. After awhile, Jorge gathered up his books and started his walk home. The dog barked as the crow sat silently looking down at the canine.

 

[END]

Assumption appears in Assumption and Other Stories

© 2003 Daniel A. Olivas - Contributor's Bio