Summer of Night

  Mike was one of the few who continued to serve on a regular basis. Father C. demanded a lot: the altar boy had to understand what he was sayings not merely mumble Latin phrases. Mike had gone to a special Wednesday-evening catechism class taught by Father C. for six months to learn both the rudiments of Latin and the historical context of the Mass itself. Then, the altar boys had to participate-really pay attention to what was going on. Father C. had a fierce temper and would turn it on any boy who was lackadaisical or remiss in his duties.

  Father Harrison had loved to eat, and loved drinking even more-everyone in the parish, no, in the entire county, had known of the old priest's alcohol problem-but Father C. never drank except during Communion and seemed to view food as a necessary evil. He had some of the same attitude toward visitations; Father Harrison had talked about everything and everyone-he would sometimes spend an afternoon discussing crops and weather with retired farmers at the Park-side; but Father C. wanted to talk about God. Even his visitations to the sick and dying were like Jesuit commando raids, last-minute spiritual quizzes for those about to take the Ultimate Final Exam.

  Father C."s one vice, as far as Mike could tell, was smoking-the young priest chain-smoked, and when he wasn't smoking he seemed to be wishing he could-but that was all right with Mike. Both his parents smoked. All of his friends' parents smoked-except for Kevin Grumbacher's, and they were German and weird-and Father C."s smoking just seemed to make him more intense.

  On this first Sunday of true summer, Mike served both morning Masses, enjoying the coolness of the sanctuary and the hypnotic murmuring of the congregation as they mumbled their responses. Mike pronounced his carefully, precisely, neither too loud nor too low, articulating the Latin the way Father C. had taught him during those long evening lessons in the rectory.

  "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi… miserere nobis… Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison…"

  Mike loved it. While part of him was totally involved in preparing the miracle of the Eucharist, another part wandered free… as if he truly could leave his body… being with Memo in her dark room, only now Memo could talk again and they would have conversations like when he was a little kid and she would tell him stories from the Old Country; or floating above the fields and forests out beyond Calvary Cemetery and the Cave, flying free like a raven with a human mind, looking down on treetops and streams, and the strip mined hills the kids called Billy Goat Mountains, floating serenely above the faded wagon ruts of Gypsy Lane as the old road wound through woods and pasture,…

  Then Communion was over-Mike always waited until the High Mass on Sunday to take Communion himself-the final prayers were said, responses given, the Eucharist was sealed in the tabernacle atop the altar, Father Cavanaugh blessed the congregation and led the procession from the sanctuary, and then Mike was in the little room they used to change, setting his cassock and surplice aside to be laundered by Father C's housekeeper, carefully placing his polished oxfords in the bottom of the cedar wardrobe.

  Father Cavanaugh came in. He had changed out of his own black cassock into chinos, a blue work shirt, and a corduroy sport coat. It always shocked Mike to see the priest out of uniform.

  "Good job, as always, Michael." For all of his informality in other ways, the priest had never called him Mike.

  "Thanks, Father." Mike tried to think of something else to say-something to lengthen the moment alone with the only man he admired. "Not too many at the second Mass today."

  Father C. had lit a cigarette and the small room filled with the smoky scent of it. The priest stood at the narrow window and stared out into the now-empty parking lot. "Hmmm? No, there seldom are." He turned to look at Mike. "Was your little friend there today, Michael?"

  "Huh?" Mike knew few other Catholic boys his age. "You know… Michelle whatshername… Staffney." Mike blushed all the way to the base of his neck. He'd never mentioned Michelle to Father C… never really mentioned her to anyone… but he always checked to see if she was in the congregation. She rarely was-she and her parents usually went all the way to St. Mary's cathedral in Peo-ria-but on those rare occasions when the redhead was there, Mike found it very hard to concentrate."I'm not even in the same class as Michelle Staffney," snorted Mike, trying to sound casual. He was thinking, If that rat Donnie Elson told Father C. about her, I'll beat him to a pulp.

  Father Cavanaugh nodded and smiled. It was a gentle enough smile, no derision visible there, but Mike blushed again. He lowered his head as if concentrating fiercely on tying his sneakers.

  "My mistake," said Father C. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bureau top, patted his pockets for another one. "You and your friends have plans for this afternoon?"

  Mike shrugged. He had been planning to hang around with Dale and the others and then start his surveillance of Van Syke today. He blushed again, realizing how silly their little spy game was. "Uh-uh," he said. "Nothing going on."

  "I thought I'd look in on Mrs. Clancy around five," said Father C. "I seem to remember that her husband stocked the pond on their farm before he passed away last spring. Thought she might not mind if we brought our fishing poles along and saw how well the fish were doing. Want to come along?"

  Mike nodded, feeling joy rise in him like the picture of the Holy Spirit as a dove painted on the west wall of the sanctuary.

  "Good. I'll pick you up in the Popemobile about four forty-five."

  Mike nodded again. Father C. always talked about the parish car-a black Lincoln Town Car-as the Popemobile. At first Mike had been deeply shocked by the phrase, but then he realized that Father C. probably wouldn't make that joke around anyone else. He might even get in trouble if Mike repeated the phrase to someone-Mike had images of two cardinals from the Vatican suddenly appearing from a helicopter, grilling Father C. in the rectory, taking him away in leg irons-so the joke was actually a form of trust, a way of saying, "We're both men of the world, Michael my lad."

  Mike waved good-bye and went out of the church into the sunlight of Sunday noon.

  Duane worked most of the day, repairing the John Deere, spraying the weeds down along the ditch, moving the cows from the west pasture to the field between the barn and the cornfields, and finally walking the rows even though it was too early to weed.

  The Old Man had come home around three a.m. Duane had kept one of the basement windows open even though it didn't have a screen, so he'd heard the car coming. The Old Man was drunk, but not falling-down drunk. He came in cussing and made a sandwich in the kitchen with even more cussing and shouting. Duane and Wittgenstein stayed in the basement, the old collie whining even while his tail beat on the cement floor.

  When the Old Man wasn't hung over on Sunday mornings, he and Duane used to play chess until almost noon. There was no chess this Sunday.

  It was midafternoon when Duane came in from walking the rows and found the Old Man in the wooden lawn chair under the poplar on the south lawn. A copy of The New York Times Sunday edition was spread out on the grass around him.

  "Forgot I'd picked this up last night in Peoria," mumbled the Old Man. He rubbed his cheeks. He hadn't shaved for two days and the gray stubble looked almost silver in the light.

  Duane dropped down on the grass and went through the stack looking for the Review of Books. "Last Sunday's paper?"

  The Old Man grunted. "What the hell do you expect, today's paper?"

  Duane shrugged and began reading the lead review. It was all about Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and other books that might tie in to the capture of Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires the week before.

  The Old Man cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to… ah… to get home so late last night. Some sparrowfart professor from Bradley started arguing with me about Marx in a little pub down on Adams Street and I… well, everything go all right here?"

  Duane nodded, not looking up. "That soldier spend the night here or what?" Duane lowered the book review section. "What soldier?" The Old Man rubbed his cheek and nec
k again, obviously straining to sort fantasy from memory. "Uh… I remember giving some soldier a ride. Picking him up near the Spoon River bridge." He rubbed his cheek again. "I don't usually stop for hitchhikers,… you know that… but it was starting to rain…"He stopped, looked back toward the house and barn as if the soldier might still be sitting in the pickup. "Yeah, I remember it more clearly now. He didn't say anything the whole trip. Just nodded when I asked him if he'd just gotten out of the service. The damnedest thing is, I knew something wasn't right at the time about the way he was dressed, but I was too… ah… too tired to notice what was wrong."

  "What was wrong?" said Duane.

  "His uniform. It wasn't a modern uniform. Not even an Eisenhower jacket. He was wearing heavy wool… brown wool, an old broad-brimmed campaign hat, and puttees."

  "Puttees," said Duane. "You mean the leggings the doughboys wore back in World War One?"

  "Yeah," said the Old Man. He chewed on the nail of his forefinger the way he did when he was considering a new invention or get-rich-quick scheme. "In fact, everything about that soldier was from the Great War… puttees, hobnailed boots, the old campaign hat, even a Sam Browne belt. He was real young but he couldn't have been a real soldier… must have been wearing his grandfather's uniform or been coming home from some sort of masquerade party." The Old Man focused on Duane. "Did he stay for breakfast?"

  Duane shook his head. "He didn't come in with you last night. You must have dropped him off somewhere."

  The Old Man concentrated a moment and then shook his head vigorously. "Uh-uh. I'm sure he was in the truck with me when I turned up the lane. I remember thinking that I'd sort of forgotten he was there, he was so quiet. I was going to give him a sandwich and let him sleep on the couch." The Old Man stared at Duane. His eyes were bloodshot. "I know he was still with me when I came up the lane, Duanie."

  Duane nodded. "Well, I didn't hear him come in with you. Maybe he walked into town."

  The Old Man squinted over the corn toward County Six. "In the middle of the night like that? Besides, I seem to remember him saying that he lived right around here somewhere."

  "I thought you said he didn't talk."

  The Old Man chewed his nail. "He didn't… I don't remember him talking at all… well, shit with it." He went back to reading the financial section.

  Duane finished the review and then walked back to the House. Witt came out of the barn, obviously rested from one of his frequent naps and ready to go somewhere with Duane.

  "Hey, boy," said Duane,"you see a doughboy from World War One wandering around in the barn?"

  Witt whined slightly and cocked his head, not sure of what he was being asked. Duane rubbed him behind the ears. He walked over to the pickup and opened the door on the passenger side. The heated cab smelled of whiskey and old socks. There was a depression in the vinyl on the passenger seat, as if an invisible someone were sitting there now, but that had been there for as long as they'd owned the truck. Duane poked under the seat, checked the floorboards, and looked in the glove compartment. Lots of junk-rags, maps, some of the Old Man's paperbacks, several empty whiskey bottles, a church key, beer cans, and even a loaded shotgun shell-but no clues. No swagger stick or Spanish Mauser accidentally left behind, no diagram of trenches around the Somme or map of Belleau Wood.

  Duane smiled at himself and went back out to the yard to read the paper and play with Witt.

  It was evening before Mike and Father Cavanaugh ended their fishing expedition. Mrs. Clancy, who was dying of crotchetiness as much as old age, hadn't wanted anyone else in the house while Father C. heard her confession, so Mike had waited out by the pond, trying to skip rocks across it and wishing he hadn't skipped dinner. There were few things that would have gotten Mike excused from Sunday dinner, but helping Father C. turned out to be one of them. When the priest had said, "You've eaten already, haven't you?" to him, Mike had nodded. He would include that in his confession next time under the general category of Several times I've not told the truth to adults, Father. As Mike got older, he realized the real reason why priests couldn't marry-Who would want to live with someone you had to confess to regularly?

  Father G. joined him by the pond by seven p.m.-he brought the fishing gear from the trunk of the Popemo-bile-and it seemed earlier with the June sun low but still above the trees. The two fished for over an hour, with only Mike catching something-a couple of sunfish which he threw back-but with conversation that was so rich that it made the boy a bit dizzy: the nature of the Trinity, what it was like growing up on Southside of Chicago when Father C. was younger, what street gangs were like, why everything else had to be created but God could just be, why old people came back to the Church-Father C. explained Pascal's Wager to Mike… or tried to-and a dozen other topics. Mike loved to talk about such things with the priest; talking with Dale and Duane and some of the other real brains among the kids could be fun-they had some weird ideas-but Father C. had lived. He was wise not only to the mysteries of Latin and the Church, but to the tough, cynical side of Chicago life that Mike had never imagined.

  The tree shadows had crept across the grassy bank and were well out onto the pond when Father C. glanced at his watch and exclaimed, "Good heavens, Michael, look how late it is. Mrs. McCafferty will be worried." Mrs. McCafferty was the rectory housekeeper. She had tended to Father Harrison like a sister trying to keep a wayward brother out of trouble; she babied Father C. as if he were her son.

  They stowed the gear and headed back to town. Driving south on County Six, a cloud of dust rising behind the Pope-mobile on the gravel road, Mike caught a glimpse of Duane McBride's home off to the right, then Dale's Uncle Henry's place on the left just before they descended the first steep hill and climbed again to pass Calvary Cemetery. Mike saw the graveyard empty and golden in the evening light, noticed the lack of any cars in the grassy area along the road, and suddenly remembered that he was supposed to have checked out Van Syke today. He asked Father C. to stop and the priest steered the Popemobile onto the grass parking strip between the road and the black wrought-iron fence.

  "What is it?" asked Father C.

  Mike thought fast. "I… uh… I promised Memo I'd check Grandpa's grave today. You know, see if the grass's been cut, if the flowers we left last week are still there. You know, stuff like that." Another lie for Confession.

  "I'll wait for you," said the priest.

  Mike blushed and turned to look out at the cemetery so Father C. wouldn't see the blush. He hoped the priest wouldn't hear the lie in his voice. "Uh… I'd rather be done for a while. I want to say some prayers." Good Mike, hat made a lot of sense. You want to say prayers so you tell a priest to get lost. Is it a mortal sin to lie about praying? "Besides, I may have to pull some flowers in the woods and it'll be a while."

  Father Cavanaugh looked west across the road, toward the sun that hung like a red balloon low above the cornfields. "It's almost dark, Michael."

  "I'll get home before dark. Honest."

  "But it's at least a mile to town." The priest sounded dubious, as if he suspected some mischief but couldn't figure out what it might be.

  "It's no problem, Father. Us guys hike and bike it all the time. We play in the woods out here a lot."

  "You're not going into the woods after dark?"

  "Naw," said Mike. "Just do what I promised Memo and walk home. I like walking." He was thinking, Could Father C. be afraid of the dark? He rejected the idea. For a second he considered not lying, telling the priest about their hunch that something was wrong with Old Central-something involving Tubby Cooke's disappearance-and all about how he was planning to check on the toolshed behind the cemetery where Van Syke was rumored to sleep sometimes. Then he rejected that idea, too-he didn't want Father Cavanaugh thinking he was a nut.

  "You're sure?" said Father C. "Your folks will think you're with me."

  "They know I promised Memo," said Mike, finding the lie easier now. "I'll be home before dark."

  Father Cavanaugh nodded
and leaned over to open the door for Mike. "All right, Michael. Thanks for the fishing companionship and conversation. Tomorrow, early Mass?"

  It was a rhetorical question. Mike served every early Mass. "Sure, tomorrow," he said, closing the heavy door and leaning forward to speak through the open window. "Thanks for…" He paused, not knowing what he was thanking the priest for. Being a grown-up who talks to me? "Thanks for loaning me the fishing pole."

  "Any time," said Father C. "Next time we'll go down to Spoon River where there are real fish." He saluted with two fingers, backed the Popemobile out, and disappeared down the next hill to the south. Mike stood there a minute, blinking away dust and feeling the grasshoppers leap away from his legs in the low grass. Then he turned and looked at the cemetery. His shadow merged with the black and barbed lattice of the shadow of the iron fence. Great. Jeez, what if Van Syke's here?

  He didn't think the part-time custodian, part-time cemetery handyman was there. The air was still, rich with the corn and dust smell of a humid June evening. And the place looked, sounded, and felt empty. He pulled back the knobbed bar on the pedestrian gate and walked inside, conscious of his shadow leaping ahead, conscious of the tall headstones throwing their own shadows, and especially conscious of the hushed silence after the hours of conversation.

  He did stop by Grandpa's grave. It was about halfway back in the four-acre cemetery, three headstones left of the gravel-and-grass lane that bisected the rows of graves. The O'Rourkes were clustered in this area-his mother's people nearer the fence on the other side-and Grandpa's grave was the closest to the road. There was a wide grassy space here that Mike knew was reserved for his parents. And his sisters. And him.

  The flowers were still there-wilted and dead but still there-from the previous Monday, Memorial Day, and so was the tiny American flag the American Legion had set there. They replaced the flags each Memorial Day, and part of Mike's sense of what season it was depended on how faded the flag was on Grandpa's grave: he had enlisted during World War I but had never gone overseas, merely spent fourteen months in a camp in Georgia. When Mike was very young, he had listened to Memo's stories of Grandpa's friends' adventures overseas in the Great War and received the definite impression from Memo that Grandpa's failure to see action was one of the few things the old man wished had turned out different in his life.