by RJ Martin
COPYRIGHT
Published by
HARMONY INK PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Body
© 2015 RJ Martin.
Cover Art
© 2015 Bree Archer.
http://www.breearcher.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
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ISBN: 978-1-63476-256-4
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-258-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906694
First Edition September 2015
Printed in the United States of America
This paper meets the requirements of
ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
CHAPTER ONE
THE BLUE dawn flattered him and left the scars to the shadows. Just muscular enough without being buff, and if he played sports, it was swimming or track, not anything that made you too huge. The waistband of his old-fashioned briefs was tucked in—I guess so you couldn’t see the brand—and his six-pack was hard and tight. Eyes the color of a swimming pool glistened: an unblinking gaze that stared down from on high burning my soul.
“Jonah, what are you doing?”
“Sorry, Father Svi,” I blurted out as I spun around toward the priest like he just sprang from a dark corner or something. My heart was pounding, and as JC—Jesus Christ the risen God—kept watch above me, I tried to force myself calm by concentrating on getting the Gospel and chalice in place on the altar. On weekdays the priest liked everything ready to go. Father Svi came from Ukraine but was Polish like the late, great pope. I don’t think His Holiness had said daily Mass at Mach 1 the way Father Svi did. It made me wonder sometimes why we bothered. Not that I minded, because at least I was with JC.
I sneaked a few deep breaths while the speed-priest unlocked the main doors and then hustled back to the sacristy where they kept the vestments, the unblessed hosts (Communion wafers) that came in a box that looked kind of like breakfast cereal and would become his body, and the jug wine that would become his blood. Considering what it was used for, you’d think they might have gotten something that at least had a cork.
It was nearly seven o’clock, so I turned on the lights, the little spots that revealed the wounds on JC’s hip, hands, and feet. How could people be so cruel, especially to him? Sometimes I wondered if it was the first recorded gay bashing in human history. I knew JC was gay because he loved me and I loved him right back. I couldn’t dwell on that because we were not alone.
The parishioners shuffling in consisted of four old ladies and one man, none of whose names I knew or wanted to learn. If they came to church this much, the same shriveled fossils every day, they must’ve sinned like crazy when they were young and were trying to suck up right before the end. They were down there; I was on the altar with JC and always would be.
“ARE YOU on tomorrow, Jonah?” Father Svi scrambled out of his more ornate green vestment. We joked his name was Polish for in a hurry.
“All week, Father.” I took my time removing my surplice—the puffy, lace outer layer of my uniform that only fell to my knees. Stalling was part of my plan.
“Zat’s good.” He added z’s everywhere. Even his last name had like three of them and was nearly impossible to pronounce. No one tried.
He glanced at his watch to signal me to hurry. I played dumb and made a point of being too tidy putting the red cassock on its hanger. That’s what I wore under the surplice, and it went all the way down to my feet. Mine was two sizes bigger than any of the other altar boy uniforms. I preferred the term acolyte because I was more man than boy now, but I did plan to be a forever virgin. Altar server seemed too unisex PC. They had to special order my vestments after my growth spurt last year. My junk dropped too, and I had to give up my dream of being an angel. A sexless seraphim that would wake up one day with wings and soar up to JC. I was almost fifteen when puberty finally got me, and my parents were more relieved than I could be depressed. I guess two sickly kids were enough for one family.
“Jonah.” I could see the impatience spread across a face taught to never show strain. “I have my wisits.” W’s he sprinkled in a lot too.
“I can lock up.” I needed him to say yes but didn’t want to give it away. He had to trust me.
“Yes, I zuppose you can.” Father Svi tossed me the key ring with two keys, one big and the other small. “You know where to weave it?”
“Father Dom showed me last year.” The pastor was way ahead of Father Svi on giving me responsibility. As far as I knew, only the three of us were aware of the little crack in the masonry that was the key ring’s hiding place.
“Zame time, zame station, then.” He was never chatty or warm, and I wondered why he became a priest.
“Father.” My voice stopped him. He whipped back around and made the sign of the cross with the same swiftness he said morning Mass, but it did the trick. I was blessed for another day. He wasn’t old, like most priests—not even my dad’s age, and in his black fedora and trench coat, Father Svi looked like he was playing dress up. Then again, in my cassock, I might be perceived as the opposite, a man acting like a boy. It didn’t matter. JC understood.
In the doorway, Father Svi growled as he turned up his collar and winced against the spittle of sleet. I watched through the window as he scrambled into the used SUV the local dealership donated after the company stopped making them. Father Svi had a full day, as he always did, visiting towns more remote than ours. The parish was on its spiritual own again, that is until the pastor, Father Dom, returned from his own rounds to the northwest. The two good shepherds lived in the same rectory but rarely crossed paths because they shared three hundred miles of flock. Maybe that was why Father Svi was such an ice cube. There were too many of us, scattered all over the North Country, for him to care too much about anybody. Or maybe I just weirded him out. I did that to some people.
Once the truck, and its grimy tailpipe cough, disappeared beyond the leafless trees that lined the driveway, I knew I was alone. Our church was not that old, and the sacristy looked kind of like a kitchen. Yellow, with a small window over double sinks, it was lined with cupboards, had a fridge and microwave, no stove, and a large center island. There was a stacked washer and dryer that were never used because all the vestments were dry-clean only. I hurried the surplice back over my head, took the priest’s stole (a sash with crosses at both ends) kissed it the way they did, and placed it around my neck.
On the far wall was a fake painting of the real Saint John Berchmans. Not one of the A-list, but he was the patron saint of altar b… acolytes. He was holding a crucifix and a book of rules. St. JB was big on following them. I think it’s why
they put him up there. He died before he finished seminary, but when he was a kid, St. JB worked two or three masses a day. He did the stations of the cross barefoot too, while the other kids were out partying on Friday nights. “If I don’t become a saint when I’m a kid,” St. JB said, “I’ll never become one.”
Amen, brother. Preach!
The church was empty and the lights again off, but the nave was not dark. The arches of stained glass caught the soft winter light of the all-star saints, those everyone had heard of, and sent glimmering shadows down across the pews. The windows were old, ornate, and the pride of the parish. The rest of the church screamed new. Back in the ’70s, when my father was an altar boy, the steeple had been hit by lightning, and most of the church had burned. Holy Redeemer 2.0 looked more like a giant kite of tan bricks had landed next to the stone fortress of a school.
While the church’s windows had miraculously survived the fire, nothing of the original altar had. The replacement had green-and-white marble steps, cut just over the border in Vermont, and a giant mosaic wall behind the glass and timber table. The two-story Messiah wasn’t on a cross, but in that position, and he looked more like he was about to do a high dive. Of course it would be scored a ten. JC was attached to a million little tiles of blue and gold by thick iron bolts in his back. I knew because from my acolyte seat, I could see his taut delts and firm butt. The statue had come from Montreal, made by a famous artist no one local had ever heard of. It was her gift to the town where she “summered,” except she got paid to do it.
Alone again, just the two of us, and I took in a deep whiff of the smoky, fragrant mash-up of snuffed candles and burned incense. I would’ve stayed forever if I could. There with him, I was special.
The goose-like horn of Mom’s Korean station wagon startled me. I gave him a quick bow and sprinted to the tabernacle that sat on a small altar, off to the side of the big one. I eased aside the red velvet curtains hung across the front of the gold cylinder with a crowned top. My breath was fast through my nose and got picked up by acoustics designed to resonate from the front to back. I must’ve sounded like a colt after a run. Mom honked again, two quick blasts now. She would get out of the car soon, try the sacristy door and find it locked. Wait. Did I?
No time to spare, I slipped the smaller of the two keys into the tiny lock and slid open the little door to reveal the chalice of Communion wafers inside. These were extras from Sunday we used up all week. Once they were transubstantiated (made him), you couldn’t throw them away ever. I pulled out the Ziploc bag that yesterday held my ham and cheese sandwich and shoveled in a few bodies of Christ. I was way too old for this and no one would dismiss it as a kid thing anymore. I remembered why I started in the first place, and knew it wouldn’t go on too much longer. I took a couple extra. I didn’t want to risk it again anytime soon. Three honks now and I locked the little door quick, Father Svi style.
I’d just gotten the stole rehung when my mother banged on the window of the sacristy. I had locked it; thank JC’s father. She held her “frosted” hair with one hand and pointed at her watch with the other. After another morning of too much coffee, she looked mad but relieved at once: her a.m. Mom face. I shrugged, acted way dumber than she would ever believe, and made a big show of putting on my puffy coat that made me look like a blue Michelin man.
Once I got outside, my mother was already behind the wheel and had the passenger door open for me. I slid the sacristy key into its secret crack. Not a great hiding place, but who would break into a church?
“What took so long?”
“I was praying.” True, kind of.
“Pray faster.” A hint of a smile formed in the corner of her mouth. Mom’s eyes sparkled just a little, and I could see a flash of the fun-loving girl she once was.
“Jonah! Jonah!” Mark and Luke wheezed in unison from the backseat.
“Tragic, Magic.” I smiled at them both and took my rightful place up front.
“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”
“They love it. Don’t ya?” I glanced at them in the rearview mirror. Mark wiped a booger on his sleeve while Luke ran a Matchbox car along the backseat. Identical twins—miracles or accidents, depending on if you asked or overheard.
Mom skidded the car across the slick parking lot from the church toward Holy Redeemer School. My brothers had just started there in the fall. Stone and old, it had been my second home since kindergarten until last year. It was super convenient because I could serve Mass all the time and just walk to school afterward. Sometimes I got let out for an hour in the middle of the day to work a funeral or holy day special. Walking back in to see all my classmates dozing along made me feel cool, like I was important.
“I don’t know about these morning masses, kiddo.” The high school was five miles up the road—why I needed a ride—and that meant more burdening my mother. A drive that in summer could take a traffic-choked half hour, we would now make in ten minutes. There were not many of us locals, residents of the great Adirondack Park: a vast territory at the top of New York’s key and bigger than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined.
“Aren’t you getting too old for this?” She pointed to the console between us. There was a doughnut and hot chocolate waiting for me. It was part of my self-designed training to never eat or drink before morning Mass.
“Most mothers would be proud,” I replied with my mouth full. “I’ll be able to drive myself soon anyway.” I would be sixteen in less than a month and had already signed up for driver’s ed as well as getting the paperwork for my learner’s permit.
“Can you drive us, Jonah?” Luke grabbed the back of my seat.
“Take us to swimming!” Mark chimed in before letting out a snot-filled cough.
“Ball house!” The local fast-food place had one of those glass boxes filled with colored plastic balls. It kind of gave me the creeps just imagining what all the little germ factories did in there, but it was their favorite place in the world. Then again they were five years old.
“All you’ll need is a car.” Mom rattled her coffee-pot-sized, grown-up sippy cup before letting it fall into the chasm of junk that was the console. Unreturned library books of the romantic variety fought for space there with nearly empty Kleenex boxes, more Matchboxes, several almost-empty packs of gum, and a bottle of children’s cough syrup. “Insurance, gas, oil, snow tires.” She hit the brakes, and we all went forward just a little.
Sister Helen, the principal, was outside waiting on the steps. She still wore the old-school penguin look and seemed to sneer at their being late. It did happen a lot; my fault, but I knew it was worth it for them. I just couldn’t tell why. They talked for like a second with frozen smiles before my mother grabbed one boy, then the other, leaned down and gave each a blast from the same inhaler.
As Sister Helen led them inside, Mom slid back into her seat and slammed the door. “She asked me if there was anything she could do to ensure the twins got to school on time.”
“What did you say?”
“Tell God to fire my son.”
“Mom, you are so funny.” I tried to be as sarcastic as possible without unleashing her wrath. “You should YouTube!”
“Sanctimonious penguin.” Mom gunned the engine just a little as we both fought hard not to laugh. “Don’t tell me to go to confession, Jonah. Not today. I mean it.”
“I suppose I could light a candle.”
“I’ll give you a dollar tomorrow.” Mom peeled out of the lot, and I watched in the side mirror, Holy R rapidly disappearing in the morning fog that sifted through the trees.
CHAPTER TWO
“I DON’T know why you can’t use a clip-on.” As she did every morning, my mother knotted my purple tie, slipped it off her head, and put it on me.
“Those are for kids.”
“Right.” She kissed my cheek.
“Mom, please.”
“Hurry up, you’re late.” She held out a brown-bag lunch. I would have rather bought a hot one at sch
ool or just not eaten at all, since going without was now cool for some reason. I was like the last kid my age who still brought a sandwich, baggy of chips, two knockoff-brand chocolate chip cookies, and an apple every day. I didn’t make a stink. The twins’ crap lungs cost a fortune, and money was always tight.
“Be good.” I think she might’ve liked it better if I weren’t—less holy, more normal. Of course, she had no idea my normal wasn’t for most people.
“Always.” At least I hoped so as I started up the salt-stained steps.
North Country Catholic Central High School—N-Triple-C as the cheerleaders called it—was even more ancient than Holy R, and carved into the stone above the two entrances were GIRLS and BOYS. The school was now totally coed and had been since before I was born.
“Sister Matilda?” Too far-gone to teach, the ancient nun still served JC by working in the office. Except now she was not at her desk and the phone rang off the hook. “Sister?” I peered over the counter to make sure she hadn’t fallen and couldn’t get up. She was way small. Not a midget or dwarf, Sister Matilda was the first adult I passed in height when I started to power-grow last year.
The phone rang itself silly. No nun there. I debated just leaving my note on the counter and heading to class. I was all set to do it, but I wondered if some kid’s mom or dad was flipping out because no one was answering. Maybe they were crapping their pants thinking something bad was going down. Like one of those school shootings that seemed to happen in places where people owned a lot of guns to keep their family safe. Ring, Ring Ring! I swung my legs over the counter and became part of the solution. “Good morning, North Country Catholic Central High School.”
“Who is this?” The caller had a pissed-off-parent voice.
“Jonah Gregory, ma’am.” I tried for chipper.