by Kevin Wilson
After Mass, after what felt like every member of the congregation had checked on his health, Edwin shuffled back to the sacristy to remove his alb, resisting the urge to pull the hood over his head as he walked. The other altar boy had already left, and Edwin found Father Naylon sitting on a chair, facing his open cabinet, which held his vestments. He was smoking a cigarette, a habit in which he indulged practically at all times other than during services. His brown hair was swept back in a manner that made him look like Elvis Presley. His hands were large and often bruised or bandaged from keeping the rectory in livable condition. When the priest made the sign of the cross, his hand tapped against his body with such heavy force that it seemed as if he were trying to quiet a misbehaving child.
Father Naylon had come to Saint Rose of Lima in the spring of 1985 from Nashville, having only recently been ordained. He was young for a priest, late thirties, which Edwin’s mother mentioned often, how lucky they were to have someone so young in this tiny congregation in the Deep South, where most of the parishioners were either northern transplants or the rare breed of southern Catholics or Mexican laborers and their families who had begun to fill up Coalfield, working on the farms that made up most of the town.
“A handsome priest,” Edwin’s mother said, “makes Mass easier.” With Edwin’s father out of the picture since Edwin was three, Edwin’s mother liked to mention that other men were handsome and how this handsomeness made life more tolerable. Edwin was not yet sure if he wanted to be handsome or ugly or merely unmemorable. All the options seemed to have their own specific problems.
Edwin yanked the cincture loose from his body and then tried to shimmy out of the alb, pulling it over his head. He found that the temporary darkness so closely resembled the easy way that he earlier fell out of consciousness that he felt the panic swirl around him again. His arms twisted in the gown and then he felt a sharp tug as the alb was pulled free from his body. Father Naylon, cigarette dangling from his cinched-tight lips, snapped the alb free of creases and folded it over his arm. With his other hand, he removed the cigarette and blew a holy ghost of smoke toward the ceiling. Edwin watched it dissipate, his face again burning with embarrassment. Was this life, Edwin wondered, the constant betrayal by your body, the ceaseless withstanding of embarrassment?
“Don’t worry about today, Edwin,” Father Naylon said, his voice soft and gentle. At all times, Father Naylon’s voice sounded as if he was reciting scripture.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Edwin replied.
“Not your fault at all, of course,” Father Naylon said, handing the robe to Edwin, who placed the alb and cincture on a coat hanger before placing it in the cabinet.
“I got dizzy up there,” Edwin said. He knew he should be returning to his mother, who was waiting in the car by now. He did not want to bother Father Naylon with anything as trivial as his constant fears of the future. “I hope I don’t feel it ever again.”
Father Naylon held out his hand and tapped the ashes from his cigarette into his open palm. He then spit into his palm and pestled the mixture into a paste, which he quickly, without warning, dabbed onto Edwin’s cheeks.
“This,” the priest promised, “will ward off dizziness, I believe.” The priest smiled, which made Edwin close his eyes. “Keep it on your face for three hours and you’ll be protected from fainting spells.”
“Is this a rite?” Edwin asked.
“It’s a different kind of magic,” the priest assured him.
Edwin nodded and then walked out of the room. As he made his way to the car, he could feel the light coat of ashes on his cheeks, as if he had walked through dust kicked up by a team of horses. He imagined that he was a cavalryman facing down an oncoming horde of Indians, a temporary shift into make-believe, which happened often to Edwin. His mother, of course, would draw attention to the marks, wanting to know their provenance. She would ask questions and, right now, Edwin wanted a silent ride back home, time to rest and recover, to analyze the precise moment that he sunk out of the world for that brief instant. And yet, he needed the protection of these marks. With each step, he felt the window shrinking, the sharp pain of needing to make a decision. Right after the stinging sensation of indecision, he had a white flash of understanding that perhaps the fainting had been, itself, miraculous. That someone, perhaps God, was trying to tell him something important. That he had come back to the world too early to learn the mystery that his unconscious could deliver to him. He thought that maybe, though he hated to consider it, something special had happened to him.
He quickly licked his fingers and removed the ash from his face. Perhaps he did not want to be protected from whatever danger might be waiting for him. He slipped into the backseat of the car and rested his face against the window, watching the clouds hover in the air, the car now turned homeward, and he felt the small, but noticeable warmth of the sun on his face and he thought, This is a miracle, without knowing exactly what this was.
Two weeks later, again during the consecration, Edwin passed out for the second time. He was ready for it this time, the ringing in his ears like there was a phone hidden deep inside his body that he was unsure of how to answer. Just before his sight dimmed, he tensed his body, straining to hear whatever message could reach him in this dark part of his brain. He slumped to the side, as if he was inspecting a speck of something on the carpeted floor, but, almost instantly, found himself snap awake. He jerked his body upright, the flash of unconsciousness so quick that he hoped that no one else had noticed. Father Naylon was holding the host heavenward, without the necessary accompaniment. Edwin quickly rang the altar bells with a Pentecostal vigor, with such abandon that Father Naylon had to finally turn to him and nod in acknowledgment, which calmed Edwin’s hand. Edwin rang the bells again, with great composure, when the wine turned into the blood of Christ. When his mother came to the front for Communion, she touched Edwin’s arm and gave him a questioning look. As she received the host on her tongue, Edwin smiled to reassure her. She nodded and then lowered her head as she walked back to the pew. He made it through the rest of Mass, processed down the aisles when it had ended.
After they performed their post-Mass duties and were changing out of their albs, Jeremy, the other altar boy, who was fourteen years old and sometimes drank the wine in the sacristy when Father Naylon wasn’t around, said, “You looked like Mike Tyson punched you out up there.” He laughed and mimed Edwin slumping over. Then Jeremy pretended to use Edwin’s head as a punching bag before Father Naylon returned to the sacristy, having finished meeting with the parishioners. He quickly lit a cigarette. Jeremy stopped his boxing routine and shoved Edwin as he walked away. Father Naylon placed the cigarette on the counter and removed his vestments. When he was finished, he continued to smoke the cigarette and motioned for Edwin to come to him. Edwin walked over, bowing his head, prepared for either punishment or benediction.
“Are you okay, Edwin?” Father Naylon asked.
“I’m sorry again, Father,” Edwin replied.
“But are you feeling better?”
“Yes, Father. I’m sorry.”
“Edwin,” Father Naylon said, pausing to take a slow drag of the cigarette. “You don’t need to constantly say that you’re sorry when you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Edwin said before he could catch himself. He brightened with embarrassment, his skin prickly. “I’ll stop doing it.”
“Unless,” Father Naylon continued, as if he hadn’t even heard Edwin, “you have done something that requires forgiveness.” He took another drag, the cigarette more ash than tobacco now, and then said, “What I’m asking, Edwin, is if you are, perhaps, doing this on purpose. For attention.”
That anyone would believe he wanted more attention, that he wanted anyone to witness him in a position of weakness, so flummoxed Edwin that he started to stutter. He turned an even brighter shade of red, his pale skin like a fever-threatened thermometer. He imagined his actions looked like guilt, but he co
uld not stop himself.
“Maybe you want to get out of school on Monday, so you pass out on Sunday.”
“No, Father. No, I promise.”
Father Naylon stared at Edwin for nearly five seconds, his face impassive. Then he leaned toward the sink and dropped the spent cigarette into it. “I believe you, Edwin. I’m sorry I suggested it.”
“I’m sorry,” Edwin said.
“You’re a good boy, Edwin. You are kind and you are serious and I believe you are very much invested in this faith. Sometimes, sensitive people like you and me, we are prone to moments when we are overcome by the immensity of the mysteries of our religion. We understand that these are important and beautiful things—transubstantiation, heaven, saints, miracles—everything that makes Catholicism so necessary. But, Edwin?”
Edwin merely nodded, shocked that Father Naylon would mention him as being in any group that included the priest.
“Mania is not the aspect of religion that we should emulate,” he continued. “There’s such a fine line between sainthood and mania. It’s best not to try for either and simply do the best you can.”
Edwin did not entirely understand what Father Naylon was telling him, probably because Father Naylon did not entirely understand what Edwin was actually feeling. The fainting was not, he had decided, from his own desire to talk to God. Perhaps—Edwin was still formulating this theory in his mind—something (and perhaps that something was God) wanted to talk to Edwin.
The priest turned away, his lesson imparted, and lit another cigarette. Edwin stared at the cracked nail on the priest’s right thumb, the dark blood bruise at the center of the nail. It made him think of stigmata, and he suddenly felt the urge to run out of the church, knowing that, once he returned home, he would find so little evidence of God that he could make it another week without too much worry.
Edwin’s mother kept him out of school the next day. “Once seems like something any kid could do,” she told him on the way to the doctor’s office. “Twice seems like it should be checked out.” Edwin did not resist the trip; he was not against the idea of a pill or shot that could be administered to prevent future fainting spells. That way, if the medicine failed him, he would be certain of the miracle-related possibilities. This seemed like the best way to proceed, Edwin decided: to treat the miracle with science and see how it responded.
Dr. Cameron did some preliminary work: stethoscope, blood pressure, tongue depressor, eyes and ears, a tender examination of lymph nodes. During all of this, the doctor kept up a steady conversation with Edwin and his mother, his voice unworried and tender. Finally, everything as it should be, Dr. Cameron sat on a rolling chair and wheeled himself close to Edwin.
“So you’re passing out at church?” he asked. Edwin merely nodded. It felt good to establish this fact, to set forth the essential problem and wait for it to be solved.
“Forgive me because I don’t know much about Catholics. I’m a Methodist myself, but I imagine there are enough similarities that I can understand the basics. So you’ve been passing out during a pretty important part of the service?”
Edwin nodded.
“Well, everything checks out. You’re in good health. You’re a healthy young man. The next step would be blood tests and maybe a heart monitor. But I don’t think we need it. You guys kneel and stand up during church, right?”
Edwin again nodded.
“Take it easy when you stand up or kneel down. Go slow. The main thing, I think, is to make sure you keep breathing. See, in exciting moments, sometimes our brain forgets to keep breathing. We hold our breath, waiting for something good to happen, and then we get dizzy, and then, if you’re not careful, you’ll pass out. Since you aren’t passing out at home or school, I think this is probably the case. Just keep breathing. Tell yourself to keep breathing.”
Even at this young age, Edwin believed that every doctor’s visit that didn’t end with medicine was a failure. He wanted something that would assure his good health, which his own body could apparently not guarantee. To simply keep breathing seemed like ridiculous advice, but, even as he considered the mechanics, he found it incredibly difficult to enact. “Keep breathing,” he whispered to his body, but he was not sure his body understood the command. Already Edwin was figuring out that it would take vigilance to keep himself out of harm’s way.
Edwin and his mother walked back to the car. His mother shook her head. “You have so much going on in that head, Edwin,” she said. “Only a kid like you would have to be reminded to keep breathing.” The tone of her voice was such that Edwin could not entirely decide if she was pleased or annoyed by him.
On the way to McDonald’s, she told him that he would need to take a few weeks off from serving Mass, which made Edwin, for the first time all day, feel a little dizzy. The task of being an altar boy had never entirely appealed to him, with its possibilities for mistakes. The only reason he had done it in the first place, and continued to do it, was the simple fact that the congregation of Saint Rose of Lima was predominantly made up of old people. There were fewer than a dozen boys who were of age to serve Mass. There were some Sundays when there was only one altar boy. Edwin had felt that he was among the last of a dying breed, that there was something noble in the dwindling numbers, that he was a part of something special that might not exist much longer. This was one of his main fascinations, the way in which some people held out against the inevitability of life for as long as possible.
When Edwin expressed his worry about his importance to the mass, his mother shook her head. “I think Father Naylon would rather have only one altar boy up there if the other one was constantly passing out during the service,” and Edwin found that he could not argue with this logic.
Now that he was back home, the entire afternoon open to him, Edwin retired to his room and harnessed his imagination to quickly establish the particulars of his favorite game. The room became a fort, while everything outside the room became an invading army. He grabbed his toy rifle, which had a bolt action that made a pleasing schkkk-tunk sound as he reloaded, and then stripped to his underwear and socks. Edwin had decided that, if he didn’t have an exact replica of the necessary costume for his games, it was better to not be clothed at all.
For the past six months, he had been obsessed with this scenario, a small battalion against an overwhelming army, death all but certain. It had begun when he read about the Alamo in the encyclopedia, the doomed soldiers holding off the Mexican army for as long as possible, knowing they would most certainly die. Edwin did not care to think about this fascination other than to simply acknowledge that there was something wonderful about accepting death and then moving into the unknown, the way this impossible action made you invincible.
For hours at a time, he would roll around his room, firing at the invisible army, dodging bullets, before leaning against the wall, his only protection, taking a deep breath, and then firing again, uselessly, into the crowd of oncoming soldiers. It was not important that he kill a single enemy, only that he manage to stay alive for as long as possible. All around him, his comrades would fall, riddled with bullets, slashed open by bayonets. Finally, when Edwin was the only one left, he would allow himself to be overtaken by the enemy, the destiny he had known all along, his body convulsing with each shot, now using his unloaded rifle as a club. He fell to his knees, felt the life shake itself out of his frame, and collapsed in a heap, still holding his rifle.
When the game was over, he would simply begin anew, changing the parameters of the scenario just slightly to account for variations in his doomed circumstances. He would die, over and over again, until it was time for dinner.
The next week at Mass, Edwin sat beside his mother in a pew seven rows from the altar. When it came time for the consecration, the congregation kneeling, Edwin’s mother leaned close to him, placing her hand on his back. “Breathe, honey,” she said. He nodded and took a deep, lung-expanding breath of air. He took another breath, held it for two seconds, and then exhaled,
feeling his heart tingle, and he watched Father Naylon calmly recite the lines that made everything change for the better. As the priest raised the host heavenward, Edwin narrowed his eyes and stared at the round wafer. The bell began to ring, the jangly chime, and his mother again pressed her hand against his back and whispered the word breathe. Edwin did as he was told, took his eyes off the host, and felt giddy to be in this moment, just after the ringing bells had faded, to be awake and whole and ready for what came next.
When Mass had ended, Edwin walked with his mother to the entrance of the church, where Father Naylon was waiting for them. He gave Edwin a thumbs-up gesture and smiled. “I have to admit that I was thinking about you, Edwin,” the priest said, his hands itching themselves in anticipation of his next cigarette. “I’m glad that you made it through Mass unscathed.”
“He just needed to breathe, Father,” Edwin’s mother said, and the priest nodded thoughtfully.
“That is good advice for all of us, Ms. Rutherford. I have to remind myself of that very thing from time to time.”
“You are very kind, Father Naylon,” Edwin’s mother replied, smiling with such warmth that Edwin wondered, for just a second, if she was in love with the priest. He decided that his mother appreciated being around another person who had forgone companionship, that there would be no trace of pity in their interactions.
Father Naylon shook Edwin’s hand and said that he hoped to see Edwin serving Mass once again in the near future. Edwin merely nodded, feeling as if he had lost a specific power but become more of a real person in the process. God had determined that he was not special, and Edwin decided that this was a benediction that he would, in the long run, appreciate.
Three days later, Edwin had finished his homework and his reward was to be killed once again by an unjust but overwhelmingly large army. He had rug burn on both of his knees and moved in hiccups, having lost an alarming amount of blood from all his gunshot wounds. When his mother opened the door to his bedroom without knocking, he was kicking at a toppled chair, having run out of ammunition, holding a spent toilet paper roll as if it were a knife. Edwin immediately stopped his violence; he understood that, even if his mother didn’t prevent him from his game, she did not entirely approve. Violence in underwear was not for a mother to witness, he was quite sure. He felt like a soldier who had been neglecting his duties just as a sergeant entered the barracks, and he snapped to attention.