The H-Bomb and the Jesus Rock

by John Manderino

  “So, you know what I was thinking, Ma? What we were thinking? Me and the, you know, the children here?”

  “We should pray now,” she said.

  “Exactly. That’s what we were thinking. We should pray. First things first.”

  We could talk later on, after she came down a little.

  Walter Cronkite

  This is the point at which we are concerned there might be shooting among the ships at sea, the possibility that invasion might have to be undertaken to assure that those bases are eliminated...

  Ralph

  I started feeling horrible, like Judas.

  Judas felt so bad he ran off and hanged himself. I wasn’t going to hang myself but I felt horrible, the way Fatso’s mom was carrying on, all weepy and believing, calling the rock a sign from God—like me and Lou were saying, before I went over to Fatso’s side. And now we were going to trick her into giving us money to make money off of it. She wasn’t real smart, you could tell. We were going to trick her easy.

  She told us we should all pray now and took us down a hallway, slow, like a procession.

  Walking along I thought, Okay, so, this is the part in the story where the boy feels horrible and prays for forgiveness: “Forgive me, Lord,” he prayed. “I doubted the rock. I listened to Fatso. He tempted me with money. I’m sorry. I feel horrible, I really do...”

  Toby

  Mom led us into the den, carrying the holy head out in front of her, walking slow and religious—her, then me, then Ralph, then Lou.

  She told me to take the lamp off the little table and set it down on the floor, which I did, moving in a religious way. Then she told us all to kneel down, and we did that, Lou on my left, Ralph on my right.

  Lou was trembling all over like she was freezing.

  Then Mom stood facing us with a stupid little dreamy smile, holding up the rock in her rubber gloves like the priest holds up the chalice for everyone to bow their heads to, so I bowed my head, and Ralph and Lou bowed theirs. Then I raised my head and so did they.

  Sheep.

  Then, real slow, Mom turned around and started to set the sacred rock on the little table, on the little doily, the little clean white doily. She was bending over, slowly lowering it—but then she stopped. She stayed there like that, her gigantic rear end in our faces.

  I knew what she was thinking:

  This rock is awful dirty...

  But it’s from Our Lord...

  But it’s still awful dirty...

  She turned around and told us in a quiet voice to wait right there. Then she started back down the hallway with the rock, still moving slow and religious.

  Ralph elbowed me. “Where’s she going?”

  “Don’t be poking me, boy.”

  “Where’s she going?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “What for?”

  “Wash it off.”

  He squinted at me.

  “She doesn’t like dirt,” I told him, “okay? I know that’s hard for someone like you to understand.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked off towards the hallway.

  Some people it’s impossible to insult, they’re too dumb.

  Ralph

  The boy would wait. He would kneel here waiting until the giant mother got back...until she came into the room...until she got closer...closer...then he’d get up and grab the rock and run like mad, him and his sidekick, hollering out, For God, Pope John and the USA!

  I liked it.

  So that’s what the boy was going to do. They had to get the rock back, it was the next thing in the story, so there wasn’t any choice.

  “Give me courage, Lord,” he prayed.

  The boy was brave and bold but could use a little help from Jesus, the mother being not only gigantic but also kind of mental, out there washing off a rock. That seemed kind of mental to the boy...

  Lou

  Fatso’s Mom was acting like at Mass, like the priest. She knew the rock was from Jesus, that’s why she was moving so slow, plus being so fat. But then she left with it. I heard Fatso tell Ralph she was going to wash it off. So that made me think of John the Baptist. She was going to sprinkle the head like John the Baptist baptizing Jesus, because even Jesus had to be baptized, even Him.

  I baptize Thee...

  So that’s what she was doing out there—you could hear the water running—making the head official, making it Catholic.

  Catholic is the only true religion. All the other ones are false. My friend Marcia is a Lutheran. She goes to church but it’s not Mass, it’s not real. Jesus isn’t there. She’s wasting her time. He’s in our church. I tried to tell her. Know what she said? The Pope is Satan. She really said that. I told her she was going to Hell. She said at least her father wasn’t a drunk. I punched her in the stomach. She ran in the house screaming her head off. Her mom came out and said I should be chained up.

  Fatso was singing quiet to himself, “‘I’m Chiquita Banana and I’m here to say...’”

  I snuck a peek at Ralph on Fatso’s other side. I had to lean way back.

  Guess what he was doing, he was praying, hard. He was kneeling up straight with his eyes shut tight and his hands together perfect, moving his lips.

  Ralph was back!

  I felt like doing the Twist.

  I felt like doing the Mashed Potato.

  Toby

  I was getting a little worried about the rock, the way the faucet out there kept running. Mom’s pretty tough on dirt.

  Meanwhile next to me Ralph was working hard on his role, on his Fatima Lad.

  Attaboy.

  I checked on the little one. She’d gotten over the shakes, or anyway was only shaking her butt now. I didn’t understand this kid.

  She noticed me looking and quit bopping around—in fact she turned into a statue, hands together just below the chin, gazing straight ahead. I was thinking, all she needed was a First Communion dress to go with the veil, with some little white socks and shiny black shoes. Have her kneeling in the tent like that, off to the side as you walk in. That would be a nice touch.

  I leaned over and whispered I forgave her for twisting my tit. “You were just helping out your big brother. And you know what? I’ll tell you a secret. I wish I had a little sister just...like...you. I’m serious.”

  I actually was kind of serious. I’d clean her up, scrub her down, show her what a knife and fork is for—maybe even let her help me with my cards, you know? Teach her how to organize them, calculate trade value, all that. She could be my little—what’s the word—apprentice.

  I leaned in closer. “Maybe we’ll order some pizza after this, how’s that sound? Some Damiani’s pizza—with pineapple. You like pineapple on your pizza, Lou? Ever try it?”

  Lou

  Please, Jesus, get him away from me? His breath smells like pickles, it’s making me woozy. Why is he talking to me like this, calling me “Lou,” wanting to feed me pizza—he doesn’t want to be friends, Lord, does he?

  He probably doesn’t have any. How could he? He’s so fat and mean and jolly about it.

  But maybe not.

  Maybe down deep, under all that blubber...

  Toby

  “A lot of people think pineapple on a pizza sounds weird,” I whispered, “and I’ll tell you a secret, I did too. But then I tried it. And guess what, it was delicious, it was out of this world. And now? I wouldn’t dream of pizza without pineapple, wouldn’t go near it. See what I’m saying? Do you see?”

  She just kept kneeling there like a statue.

  Stuck-up little Fatima brat. I felt like smacking her.

  Lou

  Get him a friend, Lord—not me though, please? Ralph either. Somebody else. Or even a dog. Or no, a pig! A little pink pig. That would be nice for him, like a baby sister. I can picture it. Get him a pig, Lord.

  Ralph

  I couldn’t hear what Fatso was whispering to Lou and was just about to poke him and ask, in
case it was something bad, but then he went back to singing TV commercials to himself: “‘Ajax, the foaming cleanser...’”

  The water out there kept running.

  I sat back on my heels.

  The boy sat back, resting up.

  There was a window, part of a tree showing, the leaves winking, blue sky behind it. Down at the park right now they were probably all still playing, maybe in another close one:

  Come through! Come through!

  I wish I could have come through. I wish I could have got a nice little base hit up the middle and won the game, everyone crowding around, whacking me on the back: Way to go, Ralph! Way to come through! Wait’ll your dad hears!

  Fatso was singing about Pepsodent now: “‘You’ll wonder where the yellow went...’”

  The water out there just kept on running.

  She better get back pretty soon. I was starting to get this feeling I get when a story starts petering out, like a balloon losing air, going all floppy. I hate that feeling. I hate that feeling worse than anything there is.

  “‘See the USA in your Chevrolet...’”

  Lou

  I should’ve quit when I was gonna. I should’ve went to Marcia’s. She has a swing set. I like to stand on the seat and have her twist it as tight as she can, then let it go so I whip around and around and when it stops I jump off and try and walk but I can’t, I’m too dizzy and fall over. I could be doing that right now.

  This was worse than church.

  What’s she doing out there? How long’s it take to baptize a rock? I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost and that’s it, you’re done, let’s go, turn the water off and get back here, this is boring.

  Toby

  We were all three of us sitting back on our heels now, kind of slumped, kind of sunk there, you know? Losing sight of the dream, that’s how it felt. And I was running out of jingles to try and keep my spirits up.

  “‘Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya...’”

  But then, finally, the water out there quit running—and you should have seen those two, the way they came back to life, kneeling up straight as soldiers, God’s little soldiers. I knelt up too. I even pressed my hands together like theirs.

  “All right,” I whispered, “here we go, back in business—and I just want to say, you kids are doing great, both of you, I mean that. So keep it up. Keep that attitude, that—”

  “Here she comes,” Lou hissed.

  She was coming all right, pounding down the hallway—boom, boom, boom—not walking religious at all.

  I had a bad feeling.

  She didn’t even come in. She stood there in the doorway, out of breath, holding up the head in her rubber glove. It looked bald and a lot smaller. “Get this...out...of my...house.” She tossed it at me. “Get it out.”

  I almost dropped it. Like I said, I don’t play sports.

  Ralph

  Just like that, the story was over. The rock was just a rock, the mother was hollering her head off, and we were running for the door, all three of us. We quick got into our shoes. She kept shouting about us bringing false idols into her house.

  “Pagans!”

  Lou was making little whimpering sounds.

  “Gypsies!”

  I took her hand and got us out of there.

  “Trash!”

  Walter Cronkite

  If invasion is undertaken, the Russians have said that they would retaliate with rocket fire. We have said if there’s rocket fire from Cuba, we will retaliate. And there goes the whole ballgame.

  Toby

  I didn’t get a good look at the rock until we were out on the porch again, sitting on the bottom step, Lou on my left, Ralph on my right. They both right away started tying their shoes, looking over their shoulder, making sure Mom didn’t follow us out.

  She didn’t. She was probably laying across her bed with her face in the pillow, boo-hooing away. Poor thing.

  I asked Ralph how about tying mine while he was down there. He didn’t even act like he heard. I didn’t bother asking Lou.

  I had zero leverage left with these people.

  Anyway, the rock. It didn’t look like Jesus anymore. It didn’t look like anyone anymore. Most of the stuff that made it look human must have been dried-up dirt, and now the only thing left was sort of an eye, the right one, staring straight up at that blank blue sky.

  Lou said something I didn’t hear.

  “Speak up.”

  “Can I have it?” she asked.

  I told her, “Sure.” I’m not a very good thrower but I reared back and heaved the thing all the way into the street.

  She jumped right up and ran straight after it—between two parked cars, like you’re always hearing about. And sure enough, here comes a black Fairlane. Ralph stood up, making sounds in his throat. I covered my face and peeked through the fingers. It looked like a sure thing. But just as she ran out, the Fairlane was already swerving away from the rock and he missed her, barely.

  I don’t even think she noticed. She picked up the rock and went trotting on homeward, that goofy-looking veil all cockeyed, fluttering around.

  Ralph sat down again, slow. Then he looked at me. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

  “What,” I said.

  He whispered, “Did you see?”

  I said, “Yeah, that was pretty close.”

  He kept staring at me.

  I told him, “Hey, I didn’t tell her to go running—”

  “It was a miracle.”

  I said, “Excuse me?”

  “Didn’t you see?”

  “See what? Why are you whispering?”

  “The rock,” he said. “It saved her life.”

  “How do you get that?”

  “You saw.”

  “Yeah I saw. I thought she was roadkill.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding, all bug-eyed. “But then she wasn’t.”

  “And? So? What’s your point?”

  “The rock saved her life. That’s proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  He shook his head, slow. “It’s not...just...a rock.”

  I hate religious people.

  I said to him, “What...are you...talking about? The thing almost got her killed. God you’re dumb. Get off my property.”

  He did. He got up and went walking off.

  I called him a moron.

  I called him a halfwit.

  I called him an imbecile.

  He just kept walking away, swinging his arms.

  Ralph

  I didn’t even hear him. Well, I did, but I didn’t care. He could call me anything he wanted, him and his mom. I just saw a miracle, an actual miracle.

  The Miracle of the Rock.

  It saved Lou’s life.

  I had no doubt about that.

  No doubt at all.

  Hardly any.

  Little bit.

  I mean, let’s face it, Fatso had a point: the thing almost got her killed.

  That’s what happens when you get goofy. Lou would never run out in the street without looking both ways, but she was goofy over that rock. She had a crush on it or something.

  I forgot I still had that stupid hat on. I yanked it off.

  But still, you know? The way that car all of a sudden swung away from her? Before she even ran out? Like the rock was making the car turn away. Let’s face it, no ordinary rock could do that.

  Or else...maybe the guy was just trying to miss the rock so he didn’t get a flat tire. Maybe that’s all it was.

  Maybe that’s all anything was.

  No.

  That was the devil in my ear, that was Satan. He’s always doing that, whispering in my ear like that, trying to make me doubt stuff.

  I told him, Begone, you.

  And he was, he was gone.

  All right. So. Here was the story, The Miracle of the Rock, the way it went:


  The boy and the little girl find a rock that looks like Jesus.

  And so on.

  Then the giant mother washes away the sacred face, kicks them out, and they’re all three sitting there on the bottom step. Looks like the rock was just a rock after all. Oh, well. Fatso throws it out in the street.

  But the little girl still believes and runs out into the traffic, trying to save it. And so? The rock saves her.

  Because it wasn’t...just a rock...after all.

  The End

  Not as big a story as I’d had in mind, I mean with the Pope and the Russians and all that, not even close. But still a pretty good story, pretty good ending anyway, pretty happy one, wouldn’t you say? I would. It made me feel good, like we probably weren’t going to get blown up today after all, or even tomorrow.

  But just in case, I headed towards the church, for confession. There was that toast we stole.

  Lou

  My mom was watching the news on the couch. I tried to get past her, quick, so she wouldn’t see the rock and make that face of hers.

  But she saw it. “Is that the...”

  “Jesus. Yeah. Got Him back.”

  She made the face.

  I went in our room and put the rock on the dresser again. It wasn’t really Jesus, I knew that. But it still had one eye, like Garfield Goose this morning, and a little bump underneath. “Aw, don’t cry,” I said. Then I felt embarrassed, talking to a rock.

  I took off my veil and put it back in the bottom drawer and closed it.

  Ralph thought the rock really was Jesus, or anyway from Jesus. He gets goofy. One time we were peeling potatoes and he thought one of them looked like Ed Sullivan and started going crazy. I told him, So it looks like Ed Sullivan, so what?

  I went out and sat on the couch, up close to my mom. I was glad I had her for a mom and not Fatso’s. She lit another Lucky with the one she already had—that’s called chain-smoking, when you do that.