Raising Jake Part 28

"Name one."

I open my mouth, close it, think about it, and realize he's right.

"She had admirers, admirers," my father says. "That's an entirely different thing. You can admire a person without liking her, can't you?"

He doesn't expect me to answer this question. Anyway, my silence is an answer.

My father leans back, gulps some beer. "How can you have a friend if you can't tolerate an opinion other than your own?" he asks. "The answer is, you can't. can't. So what the h.e.l.l can you do? Where can you turn?" So what the h.e.l.l can you do? Where can you turn?"

I clear my throat and say, "The church."

"Bingo! Sorry. Terrible pun, but you understand what I'm sayin'. The Catholic church lays it all out for you. No need to argue about anything, or question anything. They tell you what G.o.d wants you to do, and you do it. A perfect world for a woman like your mother."

"But not you."

"No, not me. Not by a long shot. See, your mother helped everybody who needed help. She liked the weak. But I'm pretty strong, as you might have noticed. She had a h.e.l.l of a lot of trouble with anyone who was as strong as she was, and believe me, she was strong." strong."

"Not that that strong, Dad. I told her I wished that she was dead, and an hour later she was." strong, Dad. I told her I wished that she was dead, and an hour later she was."

My father shrugs. "So?"

"Are you saying that was a coincidence?" coincidence?"

"Are you saying it wasn't?" wasn't?"

"How could something like that be a coincidence?"

My father makes erasing motions with his hands in midair, as if to clean a blackboard cluttered with gibberish. "Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You believe that you had the power power to to will will your mother's death, is that right?" your mother's death, is that right?"

"I wouldn't call it a power."

"Oh, that's good. Because you see, Sammy, human beings do not have have such powers. Maybe G.o.d has that power, such powers. Maybe G.o.d has that power, if if there's a G.o.d, but let me ask you this-if there's a G.o.d, and if he's good, why would he strike down one of his top soldiers here on earth just because her masturbation-happy son wanted it to happen?" there's a G.o.d, but let me ask you this-if there's a G.o.d, and if he's good, why would he strike down one of his top soldiers here on earth just because her masturbation-happy son wanted it to happen?"

I'm weeping now, quietly and steadily. "I don't know."

"You don't? Well, luckily, I I do. He would only strike do. He would only strike her her down to punish down to punish you you for that nasty thing you said." for that nasty thing you said."

He spreads his hands. "Where was her her punishment? She dies beautifully, perfectly, punishment? She dies beautifully, perfectly, in G.o.d's house! in G.o.d's house! Think about that! No pain, no lingering, unlike most poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who die a little bit at a time with their lousy ailments. No goin' back and forth to hospitals year after year, with surgeons takin' her away a piece at a time. No goin' bald from chemo, no bulls.h.i.t visits from relatives tellin' her how good she looks while she's wastin' away... Think about that! No pain, no lingering, unlike most poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who die a little bit at a time with their lousy ailments. No goin' back and forth to hospitals year after year, with surgeons takin' her away a piece at a time. No goin' bald from chemo, no bulls.h.i.t visits from relatives tellin' her how good she looks while she's wastin' away...

"Instead, she goes straight to heaven. She's got a harp and wings and eternal happiness. Meanwhile, you drag yourself around for thirty years with this barrel o' guilt strapped to your back. Now do you see why I never set foot in that lousy church? I just couldn't stand all the dirty tricks they use to keep everybody in line! Guilt, on top of more guilt! What bulls.h.i.t!"

He turns to Jake. "Did you know that they believe in something called Original Sin? Ever heard of that one, Jake?"

"No, sir."

"It means you're born with a sin on your soul, a sin carried over from when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, and you can only wash it away through baptism, and babies who die before they're baptized go to a place called 'limbo.' That's neither heaven nor h.e.l.l. I'm guessing it's a lot like New Jersey. Have you ever heard of such lunacy?"

Jake is laughing too hard to answer. My father turns back to me.

"You're the one who suffered, Sammy, not your mother," he says. "I'll say it again-if anyone got punished, it was you. Not her. You." You."

By the end of his speech, he's almost whispering. Jake is transfixed by every word of it, and looks as if he wishes he'd been taking notes. I can barely hear myself as I ask, "Do you think G.o.d wanted to punish me, Dad?"

He actually chuckles at the question. "I'm not sure I actually believe in G.o.d. I'm just layin' it out for you in the only two ways you can look at it. Either G.o.d meant to punish you, which in my book makes him a pretty spiteful son of a b.i.t.c.h, or it was all just a coincidence."

He winks at me. "My money's on coincidence, Sammy. And I think it's time you started bettin' that way, too. Your mother was fat. She was also, as Jake pointed out, intense. Fat, intense people tend to have fatal heart attacks. That's the way it goes."

I draw the longest breath I've drawn in years. My lungs feel bigger. There actually seems to be more room in my body for air, for blood, for life.

One of the wackiest stories I ever wrote for the New York Star New York Star was about a sixty-something woman from the Bronx who'd struggled with a weight problem all her life. No matter how seriously she dieted or exercised, she remained grossly overweight. Then at last it was discovered that she had a sixty-eight-pound benign tumor in her abdomen, which doctors estimated had been growing for more than thirty years. Thirty years! They removed the tumor, and she was fine. was about a sixty-something woman from the Bronx who'd struggled with a weight problem all her life. No matter how seriously she dieted or exercised, she remained grossly overweight. Then at last it was discovered that she had a sixty-eight-pound benign tumor in her abdomen, which doctors estimated had been growing for more than thirty years. Thirty years! They removed the tumor, and she was fine.

I got permission to interview her at her hospital bedside. She was sweet and forthcoming, and looking forward to a "normal" life for the first time in years.

I even got a look at the tumor, a pink, floppy-looking thing that resembled a giant half-deflated beach ball. The photographer I was with took a few shots of it, then excused himself to go and vomit.

The story didn't make sense to me. Why did a doctor have to diagnose this gigantic growth? How could this woman have carried that thing around for so long without knowing or even suspecting suspecting it was there? it was there?

She shrugged at the question. "Because I've always had it," she said simply. I didn't fully understand what she meant until now, right now, here in my father's sanctified kitchen. He has just lifted this ten-ton growth from my soul, this thing I've always had, and I'm feeling almost giddy. I fight the urge to jump up and shadow-box. My father is grinning at me. He knows he's gotten through. I take a swallow of beer, and it's like a drink from the Fountain of Youth. I grab my son and take him in a bear hug.

"Jake. Thank you for this road trip."

"You're welcome, Dad."

"If you learn anything from my life, learn that it's important to be careful in the things you say and do."

"I will, Dad."

"But not too too careful," my father chimes in. careful," my father chimes in.

I release Jake from the bear hug. "Jesus, Dad, what are you telling your grandson?"

"That wasn't s.e.xual advice," my father says. "By all means wear a condom at all times, maybe two. I'm talkin' in general here." He gulps beer, puts his bare foot up on the table. "Did we or did we not have a bit of an adventure today?"

"We sure did."

"Nothing a careful careful person would have experienced, though, was it?" He clinks his beer bottle against mine and Jake's. person would have experienced, though, was it?" He clinks his beer bottle against mine and Jake's.

"Here's to Officer Orvieto," he says. "I know I'll sleep soundly tonight, knowing he's on the job."

"Great cop," Jake says. "A tribute to the men in brown."

My father laughs at that one, and I realize that Jake has downed three or four beers and is half in the bag.

"Hey," I tell him, "go easy. We've got to deal with your mother tomorrow."

"To Doris!" my father says. "The woman who gave me this splendid grandson!"

"Yeah," I say. "She gave him to you, all right. Come tomorrow, she may kill him."

"Aw, Dad," Jake says, "you really do worry too much. Please stop worrying, 'cause-"

"Because you've got a plan. I know. You've told me a million times, so please, don't make me wait any longer. What the h.e.l.l is this plan?" plan?"

"You'll hear all about it tomorrow."

"Jake-"

"To-mor-row," Jake insists, and the way he says the word sends my father into a beery rendition of "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow," with my son joining him on the second chorus.

But suddenly Jake stops singing. He stares at me, sensing from the look in my eyes that there is more to know about his father, one more story to be told. He also knows that this is the day to ask me whatever there is to ask.

"Hey, Dad," he begins, "why did you freak out when you saw that crucifix before?"

I can't say I'm surprised by the question. I told him I'd tell him about it later, and here we are, later.

My father stops singing and goes pale. He puts his beer bottle down and says to Jake, very softly, "What crucifix?"

"We stopped by his old high school and there's this giant crucifix out in front. Dad could hardly look at it. I thought he was going to get sick."

My father turns to me, looking truly weary for the first time all day. "You might as well tell him," he says. "This is a night for the truth. He might as well know what you and I know, Sammy."

I can feel myself trembling. "Dad," I begin, "even you you don't know the whole story about the crucifix. I'm the only one alive who knows the whole story of the crucifix." don't know the whole story about the crucifix. I'm the only one alive who knows the whole story of the crucifix."

The truth of it hits me as I speak these words. My father's eyes widen in shock. I guess I always thought I would take this story to the grave with me, but suddenly it's time to share it.

My father picks up his beer, takes a bracing swallow, puts a hand on Jake's shoulder. They're both looking at me with the eyes of children who are about to hear a ghost story, eager and reluctant at the same time.

My father turns to Jake. "You sure you want to hear this story, kid?"

Jake nods. "Yeah, I do. I might as well hear everything, after all these years of never hearing anything."

My father grins at Jake. "Smart," he says, and then he turns to me. "Go ahead, Sammy."

"Dad. Are you sure you you want to hear this?" want to hear this?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I want to know the whole story, whatever it is. Come on, man, we're listening."

His voice is quaking. I've never heard my father's voice quake before. He's afraid. He should be.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

My mother first read about it in the Tablet, Tablet, the weekly newspaper for the Archdiocese of New York. It seems that a janitor in a small church in Scranton, Pennsylvania, was mopping up one morning when he happened to notice red stains on the floor beneath the life-sized crucifix at the altar. Looking up, he saw that the wooden Christ figure was bleeding from the nail holes in his feet. the weekly newspaper for the Archdiocese of New York. It seems that a janitor in a small church in Scranton, Pennsylvania, was mopping up one morning when he happened to notice red stains on the floor beneath the life-sized crucifix at the altar. Looking up, he saw that the wooden Christ figure was bleeding from the nail holes in his feet.

A miracle. And just like that, Scranton turned into Jerusalem as Catholics from all over the country flocked to view this miracle.

Of course my mother wanted to go and see it. My father thought she was out of her mind. We took a two-week vacation to a Pocono Mountains resort each summer during the last week of July and the first week of August, and that was the extent of the Sullivan family travels. An old navy buddy of my father's owned the place, so we got a discount on our cabin. My father fished, my mother struggled to cook our meals on a bottle-gas stove, and I formed fleeting friendships with the children of other vacationers around a large swimming pool with a cracked cement floor. Then we returned home to Flushing for the remaining fifty weeks of the year, and no other family trips were ever even discussed until the Bleeding Jesus. .h.i.t the headlines.

Our church was organizing an overnight trip to Scranton-a chartered bus there and back, plus one evening at a Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge, buffet dinner and buffet breakfast included. My mother would leave on Friday morning and be back late Sat.u.r.day afternoon. The cost was fifty dollars. She had the money, her own money.

Now it was Thursday night. We were at the kitchen table, eating macaroni and cheese, and my mother wanted my father's approval. He was dead set against it.

"Mary. This is ridiculous."

"Not to me it isn't, Danny."

"Why do you want to see this thing?"

"It's a miracle in our lifetime."

"It's a scam that's going to be found out, sooner or later."

"Oh, Danny. You have no faith at all, do you?"

"Not in things that don't deserve it. Somebody's workin' an angle here, I can just feel it."

My mother shook her head. "It's so sad. If you you can't explain it, it has to be a fake." can't explain it, it has to be a fake."

"And if you you believe it, it has to be real." believe it, it has to be real."

"You would have laughed at Lourdes, Danny."

"I'm laughing at Lourdes right now, Mary. Everybody who goes there in a wheelchair comes home in the wheelchair. Who gets healed?"

"There's such a thing as spiritual spiritual healing, you know." healing, you know."

"Yeah, I know. That's where the priest says, 'Don't you feel better now?' just as the collection plate comes around."

By this time my mother had her hands over her ears. When he was through talking she lowered her hands and said, "I'm going to Scranton and I'm taking Samuel."

"You're what?!" what?!"

"You heard me."

I was shocked. This was the first time I'd heard that I was going to Scranton.

"Your supper for tomorrow night is in the freezer," my mother continued. "Preheat the oven-"

"Whoa, whoa! Why are you dragging the kid along?"

"I think he should see this."

"Mary. Don't turn your obsessions into his obsessions."