Saving Sailor: A Novel

by Renée Riva

  Every Wednesday night is catechism for us kids. Our main church is St. Peter’s Parish, but that’s when we’re livin’ in town. When we’re on the island, we just go downlake to Our Lady of the Lake. It’s way smaller, and you don’t have to dress all holy to go there. We like it better than St. Peter’s. One reason is, the people don’t “shush” you when you’re whisperin’ too loud, and the other is, it has clear windows. Daddy says that way when the message goes long, he has a nice view of the water to get him through. He also said the reason they put stained glass in the big churches is to force you to look at the pulpit so the priest can’t tell when he’s lost everybody. Mama says Daddy needs to repent for tellin’ us that.

  I don’t think God minds me lookin’ out those windows at the lake. Sometimes when the sunlight is hittin’ the water just so, it looks like tiny diamonds dancin’ across the waves. I may not hear everything the priest is sayin’, but I’m sure thinkin’ about God.

  On the way to catechism, we swing by the gas dock to refill our gas tank. Buzz is a foul-talkin’ ex-sailor who pumps our gas. Daddy calls him “a crusty ol’ cuss.” He sits in a saggy wicker chair on the end of the dock with his bare potbelly hangin’ out over his belt. He also has a fat hula dancer tattooed right on his stomach. I think she used to be skinny and danced the hula when Buzz flexed his stomach muscles. Now she looks more like she’s doin’ the limbo—the way his big fat belly sticks out.

  Buzz acts all put out whenever we tie up. “S’pose you’ll be wantin’ some gas?” as though we have a choice of somethin’ besides gas at the gas dock. Then, he heaves himself out of his chair and waddles over to the pump with his cigarette hangin’ from his bottom lip. “Finally get a nice hot day, and them bleepin’ clouds gotta show up an’ turn this place into a bleepin’ sauna.”

  I’m worried this place is gonna turn into an inferno if he doesn’t toss his cigarette in the water before pumpin’ our gas.

  It’s always about the weather with Buzz. It’s either too bleepin’ hot or too bleepin’ cold, never just right. He owns the gas dock, so you’d think he’d want your business. He treats you like he’s doin’ you a favor by takin’ your money. “I s’pose yer gonna want change now, aren’t ya?”

  Sometimes I just feel like sayin’, “Good grief, Buzz, why did you pick a job you hate in a place where you can’t stand the weather?” Daddy says it would be fun to get Buzz and Grandma Juliana together sometime. Maybe after spendin’ a day with Grandma Juliana, his gas dock life wouldn’t look so bad after all.

  I love my catechism teacher, Sister Abigail. She is such a nice nun. She’s been teachin’ us all about this nun in Calcutta called Mother Teresa, who takes care of really sick and dying people. Sister Abigail says this lady really has a heart for the things of God. Sister Abigail’s favorite word is grace. She says if that’s the only thing she ever helps us to understand about God, then she’s done her job.

  Tonight she gave us a writing assignment to help us understand what grace is like. She had us pretend we were havin’ a really bad day—so bad that we turn into bad guys to deal with our sorry lives. Then she had us write down all the horrible things we could possibly think of doin’ in one day if we’d really turned into bad guys. She said to use our imaginations.

  So, here’s what I wrote,

  I stole a fire engine from the Squawkomish fire station and dressed up in all the equipment, then drove around our block with the sirens on. I turned on the loud speaker and yelled at the neighborhood bully, who always plays his dumb music too loud, “Turn it down.” But he wouldn’t, so I squirted him with the fire hose just as he reached to turn his radio up louder, and accidentally electrocuted him, causin’ sparks to catch his house on fire, which I was able to put out just in time to rescue his dog, but unfortunately the kid didn’t make it.

  Then I went to Saddlemyer’s Variety Store and accidentally drove the fire engine through their front window. Since no one was around, I took all of their candy, Fizzies, and a clown costume. I put on the costume and ran through the library as Chuckles the Clown, yellin’ and laughin’ as loud as I could, then ran out the back door.

  I wore the costume over to Buzz’s gas dock where he was sleepin’ in his old chair, and I painted a big red smile on his face. Then I stole a fancy yacht from the gas dock with the keys in it and drove like a madman in my clown costume all over the lake ‘til I crashed it into …

  “Okay, class, stop writing.”

  Sister Abigail pretended to be the judge and had each of us tell our offenses to the classroom jury.

  I got to go first: “Stealin’ a fire truck, murder, breaking and entering, stealin’ goods, disruptin’ the public, annoying someone, stealin’ a boat, destruction of … I didn’t get to finish that one.”

  “Okay,” Sister Abigail said, “now let’s hear from the jury.”

  The class all yelled, “Guilty, guilty, guilty.”

  “Now,” Sister Abigail said, “write what you think the sentence and punishment should be for your crimes, and save them for when you go privately to the judge’s chamber. While you’re waiting to be called out, I want each of you to think of all the things you will no longer be able to do if you are convicted of your crimes, places you will never go and loved ones you will never see again … family, friends, pets.”

  We all sat there thinkin’ it over. It felt kind of real when I thought of leavin’ Sailor and my hamster, Ruby, forever. Who would feed them, who would love them like I do?

  Sister Abigail called us out one at a time, then sent each kid off to confession afterwards, so we didn’t get to hear what she said to anyone else. My turn finally came.

  “Angelina Degulio, how do you plead to the charges you’ve been accused of?”

  “Guilty.” I did feel kind of bad.

  “What is your sentence and punishment?”

  “To rot in prison with no parole, forty lashes right off the bat, then solitary confinement on Alcatraz, surrounded by sharks—in case I ever try to escape.”

  “Angelina, as the judge, I agree that you deserve your stated sentence and punishment, however … an innocent man has just informed me that he will be serving your sentence and taking your punishment for you, in full.”

  “Who?” I gasped. I looked around wonderin’ who would ever volunteer for this.

  “His name is Jesus. You, Angelina, may go free.”

  That is why I like Sister Abigail better than Sister Mary Ellen at St. Peter’s Parish.

  Sister Mary Ellen is really into this whole suffering thing. Her favorite saying is, “Until you have something worth dying for, you have nothing worth living for.” She reads us these stories from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. I think she’s hopin’ to turn some of us into good little martyrs when we grow up. I’m not sure I want to be quite that holy. She says she wants the stories to spark passion in our souls, but so far all they’ve sparked in me is nightmares. Mama says if I have any more dreams of bein’ fed to the lions, she’s gonna have a talk with Sister Mary Ellen.

  Before we came to the island this summer, Sister Mary Ellen gave us her writing assignment. She said to write about the things in life that stir our hearts and what kind of saints we might become if we follow our Calling. The winning author would get to ride the float in the St. Peter’s Parish Patron Saint’s Parade when Bishop Bartholomew comes to visit at the end of summer. (Daddy calls him Bishop Bart, because he is really short and should have a much shorter name for someone so small.)

  I wasn’t sure if this was the kind of contest I even wanted to win, but here’s what I wrote,

  One thing that stirs my heart is the poem ”If,” which has been hangin’ above my bed since before I could even spell it. When you have words like that hangin’ over you day and night, how can you grow up expectin’ to be a nobody?

  And, the other thing that stirs my heart is watchin’ a Billy Graham crusade on TV when they sing ”Just as I Am,” and all the people get up from their seats and go forward in front of everyb
ody to say, “Hey, I’m a big fat sinner and I know it, and, boy, could I use a Savior right now.”

  I would like to become “The Patron Saint for Stirring Up Boring People.” Life should be more than just pumpin’ gas and complainin’ about the weather. Some people really bother me because they just sit there and never wonder about these things. It just makes you want to shake ’em and say, “Wake up. Don’t just sit there. God gave you a brain … do something. Make something of yourself so the rest of us don’t have to sit around and watch boring people like you. But if all you want to do in life is sit around and never look for your Calling, then go ahead, but don’t come to our church or you’ll just mess it up for the rest of us who have better things to do than listen to you whine about your dumb, boring life.”

  By A. J. Degulio

  I didn’t win. That’s okay. It kind of scared me to think of ridin’ the float with Bishop Bart anyway. What if I tripped and fell off right in the middle of the parade when I was throwin’ candy to all the little kids? Besides, we’ll be right here at our cabin during the St. Peter’s Parish Patron Saint’s Parade anyway, and I wouldn’t want to go just to embarrass myself like that in front of the whole town.

  4

  True Confessions

  I’m waitin’ my turn for confession when Sister Abigail comes and sits in the front pew beside me. I’m kind of afraid to ask, but I need to talk to her about a family matter.

  “Excuse me, Sister Abigail, can I … um, ask you something?”

  “Yes, Angelina, what is it, dear?”

  I lean in real close so no one else can hear me. “Sister, I was just wondering … is speakin’ with a Southern accent a sin?”

  She looks at me with her headdress cocked to one side, and says, “Why, child, I don’t believe the Lord would consider any accent a sin if that’s the language He’s placed within you.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” I whisper, with the highest respect in my voice. That’s one less sin I’ll have to confess tonight. I didn’t tell her I wasn’t from the South or that I was a late bloomer in acquiring my Southern language.

  I don’t want to dishonor our family or drive Mama insane like she accuses me of, but I will still talk Southern in my head for fear of losin’ my accent entirely. If I can secretly hold onto it ’til I have my own family, I can raise all my children with that beautiful language and hear it all around my house. We’ll just have to put the kibosh on it when their Grandma Sophia comes to visit.

  Confession is like my least favorite place to go. I get so scared in that dark closet waiting for the little window to slide open. I’m just shakin’ like a jackhammer, rehearsin’ my sins over and over. My worst sin by far is Ruby Jean. All because I walked into that pet store just to look. That’s when I spotted her, the most beautiful albino hamster I’d ever laid eyes on. She was pure white, just like she’d been bathed in Clorox bleach. I even considered namin’ her Clorox, but she also had these ruby red eyes to die for. That’s why I decided on Ruby, and I added the middle name Jean for the Southern effect. I begged my daddy to let me get her, but the answer was, “No, I’ve got seven mouths to feed already, and I don’t need a rodent to add to it.”

  I figured it wouldn’t put Daddy out in any way if I just rode my bike back to the pet store, paid for Ruby and her food with my own allowance, and rode her home in my pocket. I didn’t see the harm in just smuggling her out to the island with me and keepin’ her out in the shed. It can’t be a burden to them if they don’t know she’s here. Besides, I’ve already named her, and I don’t think pet stores will let you return pets once you’ve named them.

  Father Patrick is taking confession from Jorgan Junker on the other side of the confessional. He must’ve done a lot of sinning lately ’cause it is takin’ forever. I am dyin’ to know what kind of sins Jorgan Junker’s been up to, so I lean my ear up to the wall to see if I can hear anything. Zippo. At least I know no one can hear mine either.

  I get real antsy and start to tinker with the knotholes in the wall. I find a hole where the knot’s loose and push on it with my pointer finger. Holy smokes—the knot pops right through into the priest’s chamber. I have a ring on my finger, and when I go to pull my finger back out, the ring shimmies up my knuckle and I can’t, for the life of me, get my finger back outta that hole. I just start prayin’, You gotta help me here, Lord. My finger’s stickin’ right through into that chamber where Father Patrick will be takin’ my confession any minute now.

  I tug and pull, but it just won’t budge. Then I hear Father Patrick shift over to my side. He slides the little window back.

  Oh dear Jesus, make that darkness in there so dark it hides my finger; make my finger invisible.

  Then in the quiet, clear as day, comes the thought, Lay your finger down and keep it still. My finger is pointing straight out in front of Father Patrick’s nose, so I just bend it down, lay it to rest, and begin my confession: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.…”

  Father Patrick seems pretty bored with my usual list: sneakin’ Kool-Aid, plotting revenge on my sister, makin’ fun of Tommy Jacob’s buckteeth. He doesn’t even flinch over the candy bar story. But when I get to Ruby, that seems to get his attention. I tell him I smuggled a hamster home after my parents told me no. This is the first time he’s ever turned his head over something I’ve confessed.

  I was worried I might run out of Rosary beads doin’ my penance for Ruby, but turns out, it only costs me three Hail Marys. He must think I’ve already been found out, but it might become more clear to him when I make the same confession next week.

  For the moment I have a bigger problem deciding whether or not to confess that my finger’s stuck in the hole. Just as Father Patrick is turning away, I give it one last tug. I have worked up such a sweat worryin’ that the ring flings right off my finger into Father Patrick’s chamber. I wonder if he will somehow put it all together one day when he finds my ring and that pine knot layin’ right beside one another on his floor. I just thank the Lord for givin’ me mercy.

  I will tell you, when you go in there with your soul all filled up with black spots and come out white as snow, that’s about the best feelin’ in the whole world.

  It’s the same feelin’ I had when I took my First Holy Communion. I felt like I’d been dunked in Clorox from the top of my lacey white veil, down to the soles of my ruffly white socks. I appeared at that altar like a vision out of heaven. If someone had stuck a pair of wings on my back, I’d have looked like an angel in patent leather shoes. But confession makes you feel that way on the inside, too.

  Mama says goin’ to confession is like puttin’ Clorox on mold. Zap. She says Clorox is a cure-all for just about anything dirty, but when it comes to sin, the only cure is Jesus. And don’t I know it.

  When I get home, I tell Mama that Sister Abigail said speakin’ with a Southern accent is not a sin.

  “Listen up, toots,” she says, “if you want to play hardball with me, I will go to the pope in Rome if I have to in order to prove that a full-blooded Italian, Roman Catholic nine-year-old girl, born and raised in the Northwest, who insists on speaking with a Southern accent and driving her mother to the brink of insanity, is dishonoring to the family. Which, in my book, makes it a sin.”

  I’ve decided to just let it go for now.

  My sins range from bad, to really bad, like Ruby. The most common one is sneakin’ the Kool-Aid out from the kitchen to eat straight out of the package. Mama has forbidden us to touch it unless we put it into a pitcher of water the way it was intended. But that’s not half as fun as eatin’ it straight and makin’ your mouth pucker. The only thing that beats Kool-Aid, hands down, is Fizzies. You’re supposed to put one tablet in a big glass of water, and it makes a nice fizzy drink. Now, you put one of those tablets in your mouth straight, and you feel like your tongue is gonna explode right through the roof of your mouth.

  We used to have Fizzie contests to see who could keep the Fizzie on their tongue the longest. That was ’til Ma
ma caught on. She wondered why she couldn’t keep those things in the cupboard for more than a day. Then she walked in on our last Fizzie contest. There we were, all five kids, with our tongues hangin’ out and bright red Fizzies sizzlin’ all over them.

  “That’s it,” she yells. “This must be another one of those dominant genes from your father’s side of the family that causes bright red tongues and insanity among its offspring. Now stop this idiotic behavior before I drop the whole bunch of ya off at the zoo—and I don’t mean for a visit.”

  That was the last we saw of the Fizzies. We’ve learned to be more careful with the Kool-Aid. We also take turns sneakin’ it so we can spread the sins out a little and they don’t all fall on one soul. Sometimes when the guilt is weighing heavy, I will bury half of the package for a guilt offering. When that doesn’t help, I just resort to eating red blackberries. The pucker is a little too strong, but at least it’s guilt free.

  One of my bigger sins was takin’ pop cans around the neighborhood collecting money for the Bluebirds of America, then goin’ to the store to buy candy with it. My conscience won’t let me get away with that kind of thing. It was over a year ago, but sometimes I still lay awake at night thinkin’ about it. When I’m older and have a good job, I may just go back to all of those sweet old people who gave us money and pay them back. I hope they live long enough to see that day. They deserve restitution for trusting children who were not worthy of their trust. We’ve been learnin’ about restitution in catechism. Restitution is about sins you can be forgiven for, but sometimes you still have to pay the price for what you did. The sins of consequences. I think this may be one of those kinds of sins.