by Mark Critch
“Not really,” I said. We’d been spending weeks coming up with things to confess. I’d even formed a playground search party to look for something specific. I’d thought of all sorts of things, and all of them were sins because they were lies.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” the priest said, forcing a smile. “It will be just between you and God.” Yeah. Me, God, Father Davis, the section to my left, and Fox. No wonder they wouldn’t let me confess in the confessional. There wouldn’t have been enough room.
“I guess there is something, Father,” I began gingerly.
“Yes, my boy,” he whispered, causing a woman to lean so far forward in her seat that she nearly tipped over the front of the pew. “What is it?”
“I kicked the cat.” I don’t know where this came from. I just wanted to say something that would seem bad enough to get him off my case but that wasn’t too “sinny.”
“Why would you kick the cat?” he asked, puzzled. “Did it bite you?”
“No, Father. I just wanted to see how far I could kick it.” This never happened. Even I was surprised when I said it. And the second I did, I realized that kicking a cat was not only a bad thing to do, it was a strange thing to do.
“Where is the cat now?”
“It’s alive.” Now I was protesting too much. No one had accused me of killing the cat. If I was trying to convince him I hadn’t, then surely I had.
“I should hope so.” A look of genuine concern flashed over his face. It was not a look I’d seen when I was studying the confessions of the other boys. “Was the cat hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feigning ignorance. “I haven’t seen it since.” I thought this was a perfect answer. The cat’s disappearance would mean that he couldn’t question me any further. But the look on his face made me realize that my answer did, sort of, sound like I’d killed the cat and hidden the body.
“Well…” He paused and closed his eyes, contemplating the appropriate penance for the murder of a cat. “Is that it?” he asked, hoping it was.
“I think…” I was trying to read him to see if he knew about my page of lost green lust. “Is it?”
“Is it” was probably the strangest answer I could have given. I turned around and looked at the congregation. My mother was standing in the pew, straining for a better look. She waved at me to come back. I was taking longer than the others and she feared I was telling the priest every family secret.
“It is,” I said firmly, locking in my answer.
“All God’s creatures are his creation. No matter what we feel inside we mustn’t—” he was flummoxed. “Animals have feelings, too. We must never take out our frustrations on them or on any children smaller than us…or on anyone at all. Do you understand?” I nodded. I tried to look normal and I gave him my widest smile, which creeped him out even more. “Say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys. Now join me in the Act of Contrition.”
I said my Act of Contrition and I meant it.
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for offending you and I detest all my sins because of your just punishments, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are so good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your Grace to sin no more and to avoid even the near-occasion of sin. Amen.
I would avoid sinning with all my might, but I would find that sometimes sin comes looking for you whether you like it or not. Later, I found out that Fox had just been pointing out his many siblings scattered around the church.
“My soul is as white as that priest’s collar now,” he bragged, and my heart sank a little. Fox was a much worse behaved boy than I was, but he’d confessed honestly and now he could start over as innocent as a baby. Well, as innocent as a baby who had been given a chance to become a Catholic and accepted it.
I had lied. I hadn’t confessed a single one of my sins, and if I were to be hit by a bus at that very moment I’d go straight to hell. I felt so bad I could have kicked a cat, and if I had I would have had a free pass because I’d already confessed to it. But I didn’t. I saw the importance of confession then because I felt the loss of not having done it. I was envious of Fox’s bright white soul and wondered what shade my dirtied one was. I imagined it looking like pictures of a smoker’s lungs we’d seen in school. I had sinned. I had lusted. I had lied. I had done everything a good Catholic shouldn’t do. I’d barely had my First Holy Communion and already I was overflowing with guilt. When it came to being a Catholic, I was a child prodigy.
7
THE REAL WORLD
WHEN MY FATHER had some time off from the station he’d take me downtown. St. John’s claims to be the oldest city in North America, and Dad seemed to know the story behind every brick. And with Mike Critch being a household name in the city, we couldn’t go two feet without someone stopping him to say hello or give him a news tip.
Everyone from a bum on the street to the mayor of the city seemed to owe Dad some kind of favour that never had to be repaid. He made his way down Water Street like a mafia don in Little Italy. My favourite part of these walks came when we reached an alley that ran from Water Street (originally known as the Lower Path) to Duckworth Street (originally known as the Upper Path). The old man called this Monster Alley. Between two ancient brick buildings ran a set of crumbling concrete stairs. Dad swore that this was where the boogeyman lived. It was home to a group of monsters, but it was also the only way up out of downtown and we had to cross it to get home. If we didn’t do it fast enough the monsters would surely grab us, taking us to be eaten by the boogeyman. We’d hold hands and run into the darkness, screaming, climbing the stairs as if the devil himself were on our tail.
I treasured moments like that because the old man was always working. Every morning, rain, shine, or blizzard, he’d make his way up the red steps and over the small bank to the VOCM parking lot. Sometimes I’d get to bring him a lunch. I took the job very seriously. I’d walk to the newsroom window and tap on the one-way glass. The window would slide open just enough for a sandwich to be passed in and a large cloud of smoke to billow out. Sometimes I’d be invited in, and those days were glorious. The news room was like an aquarium, with white men in their fifties the fish and cigarette smoke the water. One wall was all windows facing onto the road and the other was a big window facing into the hallway where passersby could observe the busy reporters. The far wall was filled with reel-to-reel machines that whirred liked a 1950s sci-fi movie robot.
Men leaned into rotary dial phones trying to convince a source to talk. “Come on, man, you gotta give me something better than that.” Another reporter might be trying to worm his way out of trouble for a news item that had upset someone in power. “I don’t know how that got on. No idea where the story came from. I’ll make sure it never airs again. I’m terribly sorry.” Dad always had the best sources. He was honest and fair. He wasn’t out to ruin anyone; he just wanted to be the one to break the news. Police officers would always call him first with a scoop. The house would often be woken up by a late-night phone call—a tip for Dad. “Now, Mike,” the cop would warn, “you can’t report it until I give you a call tomorrow, but something just happened that you should know about…” He earned his nickname “Mr. Crime.”
Even at night, Dad would watch the TV news to see what the rivals were covering before heading off to the bedroom. He’d get the day’s newspaper and lie back on his bed. When he came across an article that he thought was worth saving he’d take the scissors and clip it out, carefully placing it in one of the overflowing folders in a trunk at the foot of his bed. It was his version of “the cloud.” Then he’d listen to the late-night news broadcast to see if anything new had broken, and then finally go to bed. He never stopped thinking about the news from the moment he woke up until he went to sleep.
The pressure caused stress, which led to smoking and ulcers. The old man always had ulcers. When I was in grade one he started to undergo a series of operations for them, each one more complicated than the last. I could feel the weig
ht of change pressing down on my family. There was a heaviness in the house I’d never experienced before. Mom stopped bringing me to the hospital with her, and I spent more and more time at home alone or with my brother. Mike was a teenager then. The last thing he wanted around was me. He’d disappear into his room, listening to blues music loud enough that it could be heard out in the hallway despite his foam headphones. I’d leave him to his cultural appropriation and retire to the kitchen to watch TV and play with my GI Joes.
One day, sitting alone in the house, I found myself unbelievably bored. I lounged in the big orange chair with my feet slung over the arm, wondering what to do. Finally I wandered into my parents’ bedroom and spied Dad’s clippings scissors. I dug out the Sears catalogue and started to make clippings of my own. These were things that interested me: the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars, the GI Joe aircraft carrier, a Dukes of Hazzard car. The snip, snip, snip of the scissors was addictive. I wondered what it would sound like if I cut just a small piece on my cords. Snip. It sounded satisfying. Hmm, maybe just a little more—snip. My pants were beginning to look like what the Hulk wore on TV. Mom wouldn’t notice. She didn’t watch The Incredible Hulk.
What sound would the orange chair make when cut? I lay on my stomach, looking for an edge of the fabric flap along the bottom of the seat that would go unnoticed. The material was thick and coarse and I had great difficulty cutting through it, but with grit and determination I was able to make the incision. It didn’t make much of a sound at all, and the payoff wasn’t worth the aggravation. Perhaps the curtains would be more satisfying.
Soon, the only things left unwounded in that room were the cat and me, and that was about to change. Misty hid under the protective bulk of Dad’s stereo, staring at me while I took the scissors to my hair. I pulled one of my curly locks down into sight and trimmed off about a quarter of an inch. Sssst went the seductive sound of the silver scissors. Misty sat down protectively on her tail. There was something relaxing about the sound of a haircut. As I snipped I completely zoned out, imagining a barber’s life.
I’d open the shop early. Maybe sit in the chair and have a cup of coffee as I gazed out the window onto the street and watched the city wake up. “Morning, Joe,” I’d say to the first of my customers as he walked in to the sound of the familiar jingle-jangle of the bell on the door. “What’ll it be?” I would ask, although I knew what Joe wanted. He wanted it tight over the ear and short in the back. A salesman had to look honest and reliable. This wasn’t Shaun Cassidy’s hair I was cutting. Maybe I’d offer Joe a belt from the bottle I kept hidden in the drawer under the mirror. “Or would you prefer a shot of that?” I’d joke, gesturing toward the combs soaking in a jar of blue Barbicide. We’d both laugh, even though I made that joke every time he came in. “How’s the wife?” I always asked, though I’d never met her. It was only polite.
“She left me,” he would answer, too tired of lying, of making up a new banality for yet another nosy acquaintance. I’d open the drawer unprompted and take out the bottle of Jack Daniels.
“They all do sooner or later,” I’d say, and Joe would nod. I’d snip away in silence then. After all, a barber is part bartender and part priest. He was there to listen.
I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of a car door slamming. Mom was home. The screen door squeaked open and I could see the taxi edging its way out past a dump truck onto the highway. The cat ran out of the room, thankful to still have her fur, as I rushed to brush my pile of clippings under the chair.
My mother stood in the doorway, her silence rendering her unrecognizable. I shoved the scissors under the chair with my foot, toes sticking out from where there had once been a full sock. “Oh, hi Mom,” I said casually. “Back so soon? I didn’t even hear the cab. That car is really running smooth. The driver should be commended.”
“OhMyGodMarkWhatAreYaAfterDoingToYourHair?” How could she know? Did the cat say something? I glanced down at my pants. I looked like a cartoon character that had been left holding an ACME bomb. At least she hadn’t mentioned my jigsaw-puzzle trousers, but tufts of curly brown hair clung to the little corduroy that was left. Busted. Caught red-handed. There was only one thing left to do: deny, deny, deny.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never cut my hair,” I said, immediately realizing that she hadn’t accused me of cutting it. For a moment I considered blaming my brother, telling Mom that Mike had held me down and cut my hair because he’d always been jealous of my beautiful curls. But that would be wrong. “It’s Mike’s fault,” I said half-truthfully. “He wasn’t watching me. He’s been in his room listening to music with the door closed.”
“Miiiiiike!” Mom bellowed, banging on his bedroom door. The problem with having a child who’s always wearing headphones is that he can’t hear you when you’re banging on his door to tell him to take off his headphones. But Mom was part banshee and could easily out-howl Howlin’ Wolf. My brother opened the door unfazed, headphones still covering his ears. He looked at Mom and then shifted his gaze to me, shook his head, and rolled his eyes so far up into his skull that I was sure we’d have to take him to the children’s hospital to have them surgically brought back down. Then he disappeared back into the Mississippi Delta bliss of his bedroom like a disgruntled groundhog that refused to look at his own shadow.
Mike was going through a moody phase. In winter months, when annoyed by the rest of us, he would declare he couldn’t stand it here anymore, brooding like James Dean. He’d leave the house, but having nowhere to go and no way to get there, he’d take out his frustration on the elements, shovelling away his teen angst in the driveway. This was an unfulfilling act of rebellion, however, as it was extremely useful to his parents. We had the best-shovelled driveway for miles. In the summer months he’d mow the lawn with such emo-fired fury that the owner of the radio station next door noticed his efforts. He fired his landscaper and hired my brother to tend the grounds of the VOCM compound. Mike would mow from morning to night, aggravating his allergies and setting off his asthma, making him even more miserable. He loved it.
Mike closed the door to his lair, leaving my mother to deal with me. “Told ya,” I said, hoping to bring Mom back to my side. She pulled me into the bathroom so that I could get a look in the mirror. The haircut I’d had given myself did not at all resemble the one I’d imagined. I’d envisioned a collegiate coif like the one John F. Kennedy had worn. Instead, it looked like Mia Farrow’s famous pixie cut in Rosemary’s Baby. This would not go ever well on the playground.
My mother marched to the telephone table and called another cab. Soon I found myself hurtling down Kenmount Road in a hair ambulance. Mom hurried me to the mall’s Central Barbershop, led me to an empty chair, and told the man to “FixThatForTheLoveOfGawd.” He sized me up cautiously, then offered me a booster seat.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said, climbing up to adulthood. “How’s business?” I was hoping to avoid any embarrassing questions.
“What the heck happened?” he asked. “Did your mother do this to you?”
“Why, yes.” I was seeing a perfect way out. “Yes, she did. You know how it is with mothers. Always trying to save a few bucks. I tried to tell her that a barber has skills. You can’t just pick up a pair of scissors and go. It takes years to master. But you know women!”
“Well, you got that right, young fella,” he said, smiling. Here was someone who really got him. “There’s a lot to it.” Clearly, this man liked to be appreciated. I took an inventory of his stock and trade and noticed that everyone in the shop had the same haircut. There didn’t seem to be much to it, but I enjoyed the banter.
“At least she didn’t get out the bowl.” That got me a commiserating laugh. “I hope you can help me out here,” I confided. “I’ve got my confirmation coming up.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, the rhythmic snipping scoring his speech. “There’s not much I can do, but I’ll do my best.�
� He trimmed away my hair until it looked less pointy and haphazard and more like the hairline you’d see painted on a marionette. I now looked more like Davey from the Christian stop-motion animation show Davey and Goliath, but I could live with that. Mom returned from her latest loop around the mall to collect me.
She was delighted with the results. “OhMyGodThat’sBetter. ComeOnNowMarkWeHasToGoBackToTheHospitalToSeeYourFatherNow. IDidn’tWantToTakeYouLookingLikeThat.” Mom paid the barber and I gave him a knowing wink, which he returned. We now shared the sacred bond of the barber’s chair confession and it felt good to be a man.
“Oh, and missus,” he called after my mother, “next time, remember it’s not worth trying to save a couple of bucks by doing it at home.” So much for the sanctity of the confessional, ya arsehole.
“Don’t mind him, Mom,” I said. “I think he’s after dipping into the Barbicide.” Mom continued down the mall, happy to believe for gossip purposes later on that anyone she met was “half-cracked.” We made our way to a card shop to pick up a card for Dad. Mom brought me to the stuffed animal shelf and told me I could pick out anything I wanted. This seemed strange to me. Something was up. She’d been unusually quiet all day and surprisingly calm when she’d discovered me with the scissors. She didn’t even notice that her curtains now looked more like the strips of material you passed through at the end of a car wash.
“GetSomethingThat’llCheerYouUp,” she said. Cheer me up? But I wasn’t down. Was I going to be? What did she know that I didn’t? I chose a big stuffed Bugs Bunny wearing a yellow T-shirt that read “What’s Up Doc?” I figured the old man would get a laugh at that since there would undoubtedly be a doctor there. We got a cab to St. Clare’s, which surprised me. Normally we’d get the Route 2 bus. I wondered what the rush was, but I didn’t want to ask. Mom seemed lost in her thoughts, and maybe I wouldn’t want to know the answer.