Raising Jake Part 30

My scalp tingled, as it always did when I feared I was letting her down.

"Mom. You said I could ask."

"These are the sort of questions your father would ask."

Oh boy. Now I'd done it.

"Mom. I'm sorry I said anything."

"No, no, sweetheart, that's all right. I'm glad you're so...observant."

She didn't mean that. She reached across the table, patted the back of my hand. A smile returned to her face, but it was like the smile of a clergyman, bland and vague.

"I can't answer your questions, Samuel. I can't say why the head and the hands aren't bleeding, because I don't know why. I also don't know why his feet are are bleeding. You see? That's the way it is with a miracle. We can't understand it. We can only appreciate it." bleeding. You see? That's the way it is with a miracle. We can't understand it. We can only appreciate it."

"Okay, Mom."

"Does that make sense?"

"Sure," I lied.

"I'm very glad you're here with me."

"Me, too, Mom," I lied again.

"Now, this is a night to celebrate, so let's finish our sundaes and go back for more. How does that sound to you?"

Later, up in our beds, we lay on our backs, bloated with food. The waistband of my pajamas bit into my belly and I wondered if the hum of highway traffic would lull me to sleep or keep me awake.

I'd never slept in a room with my mother before and it felt strange. She was groggy from the feast and lay staring at the ceiling, a dreamy look on her face.

"Samuel."

"Yeah, Mom?"

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

She'd never asked me anything like this before. The question frightened me a little. I didn't want to disappoint her.

"Uhhh..."

"It's all right if you don't know. It's perfectly all right if you don't know."

"Well..."

"I just want you to know that I think you're a very special boy. Can you think of any other boy in your cla.s.s who could have appreciated this experience the way you do?"

"No, Mom."

That was the truth. Most of the boys in my cla.s.s were baseball players, roughnecks, troublemakers, and some of them were just plain crazy. Marvin Kelly's specialty was turning his eyelids inside out so that the red showed above his bugged-out eyeb.a.l.l.s. He'd do that to himself and then hide in the girls' cloak closet, waiting for someone to open the door and shriek with terror. Craig Jancovic was an albino with white hair and pink eyes who once caught a big beetle in the schoolyard, rubber-banded it to a firecracker, and blew the creature to smithereens.

And the wildest kid of all was a dark-eyed terror named Alonzo Fishetti, who came to school each day as if he were doing the nuns a favor. At twelve he was already shaving and flirting relentlessly with the girls. He didn't seem to mind getting hit with the yardstick, or any other punishment they could dream up for him. Fishetti became a legend one afternoon when he climbed out of our second-story cla.s.sroom window and began walking on the ledge, intending to go around the corner to the other side of the building. That's where the girls' bathroom was, and that's where they were changing their clothes for a basketball game. Fishetti figured he could get a good look at half-naked girls through the window, but halfway there he lost his balance and fell to the ground, breaking his ankle. He didn't even cry. He just lay there on the macadam, lit up a Camel cigarette, and waited for help to arrive.

I never did things like that. I never even dreamed dreamed of doing things like that. I was a good boy. That's what the nuns always wrote in the "comments" section of my report card-a good boy, polite, well behaved. of doing things like that. I was a good boy. That's what the nuns always wrote in the "comments" section of my report card-a good boy, polite, well behaved.

But I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up, and before I could say anything more, my mother spoke.

"I wanted to become a nun."

Her words jolted me. She didn't even sound like herself, maybe because she was crying. She rolled on her side to face me, blinked back tears.

"You did, Mom?"

"I certainly did."

"What happened?"

"Your father happened."

I swallowed, tasting something disagreeable from the buffet feast brewing deep in my guts. "You mean you fell in love with Dad, and decided to get married?"

She didn't answer me right away. "Well," she finally said, "something like that."

"But if you'd become a nun-"

"I never would have had you. That's true, Samuel. Obviously things worked out for the best."

She didn't mean it. My own mother was telling me that if she had her way, a second chance to do it all again, she'd want to spend it as the Bride of Christ. I was the only person in the world she could share this with, and the only person who shouldn't have been hearing it.

I stared up at that unbelievably ugly perforated ceiling. It was like the night sky in reverse-black dots instead of white for stars, a white background instead of a dark one.

"Samuel."

"Yeah, Mom?" I figured she wanted to apologize for what she'd just said, but I was wrong. She cleared her throat, hesitated.

"If you should decide to become a priest...well, that would be all right with me."

I sat up and looked at her, my blood tingling. She was beaming at me, her eyes bright and hopeful, and through my shock and confusion it did dimly occur to me that maybe, just maybe, this was the real purpose behind our trip to see the Bleeding Jesus of Scranton.

"You want me to be a priest, Mom?"

"I didn't say that. I want you to be whatever you want to be. If If you wanted to be a priest, I would be..." you wanted to be a priest, I would be..."

She couldn't find the right word. "Happy?" I guessed.

"Pleased," she decided. "Pleased for you, and the life you would lead."

I lay down again, stared at the ceiling. For the first time ever I began thinking about the life of a priest-saying Ma.s.ses, distributing communion wafers, going to people's houses for Sunday dinners...hearing confessions! What would that be like, sitting in a dark box to hear people tell me their sins!

And what about those white collars that always seemed to be choking the men who wore them? Every priest I'd ever seen seemed to have the edge of that collar biting into his neck fat, like the collar of a dog being restrained by his master. That particular detail of the priestly life seemed to be the worst of all-I'd be forever digging my forefinger into my collar, pulling it away from my Adam's apple to get a few unblocked breaths of air. Could I live with that? Could anybody? anybody? Apparently, they could. Apparently, they could.

"I don't know if I could do it, Mom," I blurted.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't have to know! You have years and years years to think about it." to think about it."

I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about anything. anything. I guess I just wanted to be a kid. I guess I just wanted to be a kid.

It was getting late, but I wasn't sleepy. I realized that by this time the school dance was over, and I couldn't help thinking about which of my cla.s.smates had gotten to dance with Margaret Thompson. By missing the dance I feared that I'd be completely out of the running for the winning of Margaret's heart. That thought saddened me beyond words. All I could do was sigh.

My mother heard me. She sensed my anguish but completely misunderstood it.

"Samuel, please stop worrying. Forget I said anything. Don't even think about being a priest."

"Mom. If I became a priest, I couldn't get married, could I?"

"That's right, Samuel."

"So I couldn't have children, could I?"

"No, you couldn't."

"I might want to do those things, Mom." Even though you didn't want to! Even though you didn't want to!

"Of course you might, Samuel. You'll make all those decisions when the time comes."

She wasn't being sincere. Her words were like the warning on a cigarette package, something she was forced to say by law. She'd planted the seed she'd wished to plant, far from the wrath and mockery my father would certainly have rained down upon the life path she was suggesting for me with all her considerable will and might.

"Samuel. Let's try and get some sleep. We've got another big day tomorrow."

"Okay, Mom."

She rolled over and within minutes, she was asleep. She'd said what she wanted to say, so she could conk out with a clear mind.

But I was wide-awake and anxious, lonelier than I'd ever been-lonely in advance over the life my mother had mapped out for me. A priest? Who in his right mind could possibly want to be a priest? priest? Beyond that, something else was troubling me-the fact that my own mother didn't seem bothered by the idea that she would never have grandchildren. Wasn't the desire for grandchildren a normal thing? Weren't old people always taking photographs of their grandchildren out of their wallets and boring anyone who'd listen with tales of these wondrous youngsters? Beyond that, something else was troubling me-the fact that my own mother didn't seem bothered by the idea that she would never have grandchildren. Wasn't the desire for grandchildren a normal thing? Weren't old people always taking photographs of their grandchildren out of their wallets and boring anyone who'd listen with tales of these wondrous youngsters?

Well, that was fine for the rest of the world, but as far as my mother was concerned the Sullivan line would end with me, and that was all right.

I looked over at the stranger in the next bed, her shoulders heaving with each breath she took. I was sad. I was lost. A weird feeling was gnawing at me, and it took a minute to figure out what it was. At last, it came to me. It was a brand-new feeling, one I'd never experienced before.

I missed my dad.

It felt as if I'd been asleep for five minutes when my mother shook me awake. She was showered and dressed, and cheerfully announced that the buffet breakfast was being served in fifteen minutes-just enough time for me to shower and dress.

We stuffed ourselves again, and this time there were pans of scrambled eggs, pancakes, link sausages and bacon, as well as tubs of oatmeal and Cream of Wheat and small boxes of every cereal they made at Kellogg's. My mother must have eaten a dozen pancakes, drowned in b.u.t.ter and maple syrup, while I couldn't stop myself from gorging on the link sausages. If we'd stayed at the motor lodge for another night or two I'm sure that somebody from our group would have suffered a gluttony-induced coronary.

We were all packed up and ready to leave, our stuff stowed safely in the bus. The plan was to make one more visit to the Bleeding Jesus, return to the bus, and head home. We paired up as we had the day before, my mother leading the blind man while I pushed Mrs. Paulsen.

I was woozy from the food, from a lack of sleep, and from the almost indescribable weirdness of it all. I needed the wheelchair almost as much as Mrs. Paulsen did that morning. I actually clutched its handles to maintain my balance.

My mother, on the other hand, looked as if she'd just swum the length and breadth of Lourdes, and emerged from the waters br.i.m.m.i.n.g with hope and happiness for the sweet, blue-skied future. She probably could have given Mr. Campbell a piggyback ride to the church, stoked as she was by her faith and the miracle we were about to witness yet again.

The line leading inside was longer and slower this time. The cool weather had turned-the sun was hot, making me feel even dizzier. I didn't realize I was leaning my full weight on the wheelchair handles until Mrs. Paulsen suddenly tipped back and did a "wheelie," her dangling legs kicking the a.s.s of the wheelchair pusher ahead of us. She shrieked, and I quickly set her down on all four wheels and apologized to the tall, skinny guy we'd b.u.mped. He was cool about it, and then I apologized to Mrs. Paulsen.

"Oh, don't worry, Samuel, I'm fine."

A tight claw on my elbow-my mother had me in her grip from the adjacent line for the ambulatory, her total mortification burning like h.e.l.l's fire in her eyes.

"Was that supposed to be funny, funny, young man?" she hissed. young man?" she hissed.

"Mom! It was an accident!"

"Kindly be careful, and remember where we are."

"I'm sorry...."

But I wasn't sorry. I was sick of this whole thing, and dying to be out of there. The last thing I needed was another look at the Bleeding Jesus. I also knew that everybody back at school on Monday would be telling me about what a great dance I'd missed, and how I should have been there, and that was going to kill me.

I was tempted to turn the wheelchair around, push Mrs. Paulsen back down the ramp, and then let her go rolling down the long, steep sidewalk. Talk about a Holy Roller! And how many of those waiting out there would have rushed to save her, at the price of their precious places in line?

We inched our way into the church. The heat was worse indoors, as the place was not air-conditioned. Rotating fans pushed the steaming air around without cooling anyone. I was sweating right through my shirt, but my mother seemed remarkably cool. Mr. Campbell took off his gla.s.ses to wipe sweat from his face, and I saw with horror that he was not only blind-he had no eyes at all. His eyelids covered the sockets like sunken drumskins, and I wondered how such a thing could have happened to him. Had he been born that way, or had some disaster robbed him of his eyes? Thankfully, he put his gla.s.ses back on to hide the horrible sight....

A sudden b.u.mping sensation-while staring at the blind man's empty eyes, I'd once again rammed Mrs. Paulsen into the wheelchair pusher in front of us. This time, he was not quite so understanding. He turned to me with his hands on his hips, rolled his eyes, and sighed in exasperation.

"Do you mind? mind?" he said, clearly a queen. "I mean, it's getting a bit boring. boring."

I apologized all over again, to the man and to Mrs. Paulsen. I dared to look at my mother, who was shaking her head.

"I suppose that was another accident, Samuel?"

My cheeks burned with shame, and suddenly, in the midst of all this, we were upon the Bleeding Jesus and the smiling priest with the b.u.t.terfat face. It was the same scenario as the day before, but something was different. Everything seemed to have slowed down. It was as if the line had stopped moving, and we had all the time in the world to drink in this miracle, unlike the fleeting pa.s.sage of the day before. So much had happened to me since we were here last-two buffet meals, and two remarkable revelations. My mother wished she'd become a nun and not a wife or a mother, and she wanted me to be a priest, just like the man in black who stood there with his hands behind his back, guarding the Bleeding Jesus.

I was more interested in that man than I was in the miracle. He seemed peaceful and smug, and for no good reason I wanted to do something to jolt him, snap him out of his superior state of calmness.

A red velvet rope hung in a protective loop before the crucifix, and it might as well have been a barbed-wire fence. n.o.body went near it. It was strictly a symbolic thing to keep the believers at a respectable distance.

It made sense. It was only natural that everybody would want to touch the Bleeding Jesus, to see if its flesh was warm, to let it heal the maladies within their bodies, known or unknown. But if you let one person touch it, you'd have to let everybody everybody touch it, and then what would happen? The red velvet rope was there for our own good. touch it, and then what would happen? The red velvet rope was there for our own good.

And the h.e.l.l with that.

I released the handles of Mrs. Paulsen's wheelchair, walked around it, and stepped right over the lowest part of the rope's loop. A collective gasp rose from the ma.s.ses, as if I'd just stepped onto the surface of the moon.

"Son," the priest said, calmly but firmly, "get back in line."

My mother wasn't nearly so calm. "Samuel!" she hissed. "What do you think you're doing?" doing?"