by Markus Zusak
Audrey's astonished. "What the hell did I do?"
I interrupt. "Anyway, not only you, Marv--all three of you." I place my cards on the table, facedown. "I need a favor."
"Like what?" says Marv.
They're all listening now.
Waiting.
"Well, I was wondering if we could all go"--I let the words hurry from my mouth--"to church."
"What?"
"What's wrong with that?" I argue.
Marv tries to recover from the shock. "What the hell do you want us to go to church for?"
"Well, there's this priest, and--"
"He isn't one of those Chesters, is he?"
"No, he isn't."
"What's a Chester?" Ritchie asks, but he gets no answer. In the end, he doesn't really care and forgets about it.
The next person to speak is Audrey, finally bringing some reason to all of this. She says, "So why, Ed?" I think she's figured out that this smells a lot like the Ace of Clubs.
"The priest's a nice guy, and I think it might be good, even just for a laugh."
"Is he going?"
Marv motions to the Doorman.
"Of course not."
And Ritchie's my savior. He might be a dole bludger and a gambler and have the shonkiest tattoo in the world on his arm, but he'll agree to almost anything. In his typically affable way, he says, "Why not, Ed. I'll go to church with you." He then adds, "For a laugh, right?"
"Sure," I say.
Then Audrey. "Okay, Ed."
Now to Marv, who knows he's in a delicate situation. He doesn't want to go, but he knows that if he refuses he'll look like a proper bastard. He finally lets the air out of his lungs and says, "God, I can't believe it. I'll come, Ed." He laughs, unhappily. "Church on Sunday." Shaking his head. "Christ."
I pick up my cards. "Exactly."
Later that night, the phone's ringing again. I don't let it intimidate me.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Ed."
It's Ma. I breathe a sigh of relief and get prepared for the barrage. I haven't heard from her for a while, so she must have at least a fortnight to a month's worth of abuse to level at me.
"How you going, Ma?"
"You rung Kath yet? It's her birthday."
Kath, my sister.
"Oh shit."
"Oh shit's right, Ed. Now get your arse into gear and ring her."
"Right, I'll--"
The phone line's dead.
No one can murder a phone call like my mother.
The only mistake I made was not thinking quickly enough to ask Kath's phone number, just in case I can't find it. I've got a bad feeling I've lost it, which proves to be true once I've scoured every drawer and every crack in the kitchen. It's nowhere, and she isn't in the book.
Oh no.
You've guessed right.
The dreaded return phone call to Ma.
I dial.
"Hello?"
"Ma, it's me."
"What is it now, Ed?" Her sigh tells me how fed up she is.
"What's her number?"
I'm sure you can imagine.
Sunday shows up, quicker than I thought.
We sit near the back of the church.
Ritchie's happy enough, and Audrey's content. Marv's hungover--drinking his father's beer again--and I'm nervous for some reason I can't pinpoint.
The church really only has about a dozen people in it besides us. The emptiness of it is kind of depressing. The carpet is eaten with holes, the pews look morose. Only the leaded windows look sacred and holy. The other people are old and sit hunched like martyrs.
When Father O'Reilly comes out, he says, "Thank you all for coming." For just a moment, he looks a beaten man. He then notices the four people up the back. "A special welcome to the cabdrivers of this world."
His bald patch glistens from a glint of leaded-window light.
He looks up to acknowledge me.
I laugh, the only one.
Ritchie, Marv, and Audrey all turn their heads to stare at me. Marv's eyes are bloodshot something terrible.
"Rough night?" I ask him.
"Shocker."
The father gathers his thoughts and scans the audience. I can see him mustering the strength to carry this out with vigor. Father O'Reilly reaches deep. He begins his sermon.
Afterward, we're all sitting outside, the ceremony gone and done.
"What was the point of all that shepherd shit?" asks Marv. He lies down in the grass. Even his voice sounds like a hangover.
We sit here under a huge willow tree that weeps down around us. Earlier, back inside the church, they handed the plate around for people to put money in just before we left. I put five dollars in, Ritchie had no money, Audrey handed over a few dollars, and Marv went through his pockets and put in a twenty-cent coin and a pen lid.
I looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing, Marv."
"Damn right."
As we sit under the tree Audrey sings to herself and Ritchie lies back, leaning on the step. Marv falls asleep, and I wait.
Soon, a presence rears up behind me. I know it's Father O'Reilly even before he speaks. It's the impression of the man. The quiet, laughing down-to-earthness of him.
He's behind me and he says, "Thanks for coming, Ed." He looks now at Marv. "That lad looks to be in an even more shit state than you." Some wickedness crosses his face. "For Christ's sake," and we all laugh, except Marv. Marv wakes up.
"Oh." He scratches his arm. "Hi, Father. Nice sermon."
"Thanks." He looks at all of us again. "Thank you all for coming. I'll see you next week?"
"Maybe," I say, but Marv chooses to speak for himself.
"Not a chance," he says.
The father takes it well.
I don't think I know exactly what the father needs, but I know now what I plan to do. Back home, I sit with the Doorman, occasionally reading and watching the picture frames above the television. I make up my mind.
I'm going to fill his church up.
It's just a question of how.
A few days pass and I'm going over ideas on how to get people into that church. I think of asking Audrey, Marv, and Ritchie to bring all their family and friends, but first, none of them is really that reliable, and second, I'll have enough trouble just getting them there a second time.
I do a lot of driving early in the week, turning it over in my mind.
Only when I'm taking a man to the airport do I get the idea. We're nearly there when he says, "Hey, mate, I've actually got a bit of time up my sleeve--could you just drop us off at this pub up here?"
I look in the rearview and realize.
"That's it!" I tell him.
"Just one beer in a real pub," he says. "I can't stand those airport lounges."
I pull over and let him out.
"Fancy one yourself?" he asks. "On me."
"No," I say. "I've got another quick pickup--but I can come and get you in about half an hour if you like."
"Certainly." He's quite happy with himself.
Quite frankly, so am I, because what I'm about to tell you is a fact.
In this country, there is only one thing that can draw a crowd without any shadow of a doubt. The answer?
Beer.
Free beer.
I go to the father, almost bursting through his front door, telling him we can organize something big for the upcoming Sunday. I tell him all about the idea. "Free beer, things for the kids, food. Did I mention the free beer?"
"Yes, Ed, I believe you did."
"Well? What do you think?"
He sits down calmly and considers it. "It sounds great, Ed, but you're forgetting one thing."
I can't be dampened today. "What?"
"We'll need money for all of that."
"I thought the Catholic Church was loaded--all that gold and shit in those big cathedrals...."
He laughs a moment. "Did you see any gold in my church, Edward?"
Edward?
I think the father's the only person I'd ever allow to call me that. I'm even simply Ed on my birth certificate.
I continue. "You sure you haven't got any money lying around?"
"Well, not really, Ed. I've put it all into single teenage mothers' funds, alcoholics, the homeless, addicts, and my holiday to Fiji."
I assume he's joking about the Fijian holiday.
"Well, okay then," I say, "I'll raise the money myself. I've got a little stacked away. I'll put five hundred up."
"Five hundred? That's a lot, Ed. You don't seem the type to have a lot of money."
I walk fast and backward out his front door. "Don't worry about a thing, Father." I even laugh now myself. "Just have a little faith."
Now, I must say.
It really helps to have immature friends at a time like this. You get ideas on how to spread the word very quickly about something you want done. You don't bother with posters. You don't bother with an ad in the local paper. You realize there's only one real answer. Something to burn into every mind in town....
Spray paint.
Marv is suddenly interested in going to church on Sunday. I tell him the plan and know without doubt that I can count on him. This is one area Marv excels and delights in. Juvenile behavior can be his specialty at times.
We steal both my ma's and Ritchie's barbecues, I ring up and book a jumping castle, and we borrow one of those karaoke machines from one of Marv's mates who works at the pub. We also get a few kegs, a half-decent deal from the butcher on sausages, and we're set.
Time for the paint.
We buy it from the local hardware on Thursday afternoon and descend on the town at three that morning. Marv's car staggers to a halt at my place, and we decide to walk into town from there. At each end of Main Street, we write the same thing in giant letters on the road:
MEET A PRIEST DAY
THIS SUNDAY 10 A.M.
ST. MICHAEL'S
FOOD, SINGING, DANCING,
AND
FREE BEER
BE THERE OR MISS OUT
ON ONE HELL OF A PARTY
I don't know about Marv, but I feel a camaraderie as we kneel down and do the paint job. It feels like youth as we write the words. At one stage, I look across at my friend. Marv the argumentative. Marv the tight arse with his money. Marv with the girl who vanished.
When the job's done, he smacks me on the shoulder and we run off like handsome thieves. We both laugh and run, and the moment is so thick around me that I feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.
I love the laughter of this night.
Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.
For now, just let us run.
We run straight through the laughter of the night.
With the arrival of tomorrow, everyone's talking about it. Absolutely everyone.
The cops have been around to the father's, asking him whether he knows anything about all this. He admits to knowing about the day, but nothing about the advertising techniques undertaken by some of his flock.
Over at his place on Friday afternoon, he tells me all about it.
"As you can imagine," he told the cops, "I have some rather dubious clientele. What church for the poor doesn't?"
They believed him, of course. Who wouldn't believe this man? "Okay, Father, but let us know if you find out anything, will you?"
"Of course, of course," and even when the cops began to leave, the father added one last question. "Will I be seeing you guys on Sunday?"
Apparently the cops are only human, too.
"Free beer?" they answered. "Can't say no to that."
Brilliant.
So it's all set up. Everyone's going. Families. Drunks. Complete bastards. Atheists. Satanists. Local gothics. Everyone. Free beer will do that. You can count on it. It's safe as houses.
I still work on Friday night, but I've got Saturday off.
That day, two things happen.
The first is that the father comes over to my place. I offer him some soup for lunch. Halfway through it, he stops and I see some emotion expand on his face.
He drops his spoon and says, "I have to tell you something, Ed."
I also stop. "Yes, Father?"
"You know, they say that there are countless saints who have nothing to do with church and almost no knowledge of God. But they say God walks with those people without them ever knowing it." His eyes are inside me now, followed by the words. "You're one of those people, Ed. It's an honor to know you."
I'm stunned.
I've been called a lot of things many times--but nobody has ever told me it's an honor to know me.
I suddenly remember Sophie asking if I was a saint and me replying that I'm just another stupid human.
This time, I allow myself to hear it.
"Thanks, Father," I say.
"The pleasure's mine."
The second thing that happens is that I make a few visits around town. First up, I see Sophie, very briefly. I ask if she can make it on Sunday, to which she says, "Sure, Ed."
"Bring the family," I suggest.
"I will."
Then I go to Milla's and ask if she'd allow me to escort her to church on Sunday.
"I'd be absolutely delighted, Jimmy." In short, she's thrilled.
Then.
The last visit.
As I find myself knocking on Tony O'Reilly's front door, I don't feel too optimistic.
"Oh," he says, "you." But he appears happy enough to see me. "You give that brother of mine my message?"
"I did," I say. "My name's Ed, by the way."
I'm a touch embarrassed now. I hate telling people what to do, or even asking. Still, I look now at Tony O'Reilly and talk. "I was kind of..." The rest of the sentence breaks off.
"What?"
I pick it back up but keep it. I use something else instead.
"I think you know what, Tony."
"Yes," he agrees. "I do. I've seen the spray paint."
I look down and back up. "So how about it?"
He opens the flyscreen, and I'm worried he might be coming out to abuse me, but he asks me to come in and we sit down in his lounge room. He wears a similar outfit to last time. Shorts, a tank top, and slippers. He doesn't look too mean, but I'm a firm believer in men in that sort of gear. All the best criminals wear stubbies, tank tops, and flip-flops.
Without asking, he brings out a cool drink. "Orange cordial okay?"
"Of course." It even has crushed ice in it. He must have one of those brilliant fridges that do everything.
I hear some kids running around in the backyard, and soon I see their faces appearing now and then, rising and falling from a trampoline.
"Little bastards," Tony sniggers. He has the same humor as his brother.
For a few minutes we watch a very interesting special on tug-of-war on some kind of Wide World of Sports show, but when a commercial comes onto his big-screen TV, Tony turns his attention back toward me.
"So tell me something, Ed--I guess you're wondering why my brother and I have a rift between us."
I can't hide it. "Well, yes."
"You feel like hearing what happened?"
I look at him.
Honestly.
And I shake my head. "No, that's none of my business."
Tony breathes out heavily and takes a sip of his drink. I hear him crush the ice even more inside his mouth. I don't realize it, but I've given him the right answer.
One of the kids comes in the room, crying.
"Dad, Ryan keeps--"
"Ah, stop whingein' and piss off!" Tony shouts.
The kid contemplates crying a bit harder but straightens up almost immediately. He pulls himself together. "Is that cordia
l, Dad?"
"Yes."
For a moment, I think the kid's asking if his dad's being friendly and approachable. Then I remember the drink.
"Can I have some?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please?"
"Right. In a sentence."
"Can I have some cordial, please?"
"Yes. That's better, George. Now piss off to the kitchen and make some, will you?"
The kid beams. "Thanks, Dad!"
"Bloody kids," Tony laughs. "No manners these days...."
"I know," I say, and we laugh.
We laugh and Tony says, "You know, Ed, if you look hard enough, you just might see me there tomorrow."
Inside, I rejoice, but I don't show it.
This is good.
"Thanks, Tony."
"Oh, Da-ad!" yells George from the kitchen. "I spilled it!"
"I bloody knew it!"
Tony gets up, shaking his head. "Can you see yourself out while I sort this shit out?"
"No worries."
I leave the big-screen TV and the big house, relieved. A pleasing result.
I sleep harder than I imagine possible and wake up early. I'd been reading a beautiful, strange book called Table of Everything last night. I search for it but realize it's fallen between my bed and the wall. Halfway through looking for it, I remember that today's the day. Meet a Priest Day. I abandon the search and get up.
Audrey, Marv, and Ritchie arrive at my place at eight o'clock and we head over to the church. The father's already there, pacing up and down, going over his sermon.
Other people show up.
Marv's mate with the kegs and the karaoke.
The jumping-castle people.
We've got the barbecues, and we arrange for Ritchie and a few of his friends to guard the beer while the sermon's on.
By quarter to ten, people start showing up in earnest, and I realize I have to pick up Milla.
"Hey, Marv"--I can't believe I'm doing this--"could I borrow your car for ten minutes?"
"What?" I can tell he's going to make the most of this. "You want to borrow my shitbox car?"
I don't have the time. "Yes, Marv. I take back everything I've ever said about it."
"And?"
And?
I realize. "I'll never say anything bad about it again."
He smirks in victory and throws me the keys. "Look after it, Ed."
Now, that wasn't called for. Marv knows I'll have to restrain myself from saying something. He even waits, the bastard, but I say nothing.