The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  But on any hot summer’s weekday afternoon, the parking lot was virtually unoccupied. The sun beat down and baked the smooth surface.

  Two boys were engaged in a nameless game of bouncing a tennis ball so it would ricochet off the ground, hit the church wall, and be fielded by the alternating player.

  The da-dum, plop, da-dum, plop reverberated against the surrounding school buildings.

  As they played, the two boys chattered.

  “Man, this vacation is goin’ way too fast,” Manny Tocco observed.

  “Yeah.” Mike Smith couldn’t argue the point.

  Da-dum, plop. Da-dum, plop.

  “Man, I wish there was a swimming hole around here.”

  Smith grinned. “The Detroit River’s just a few blocks south …”

  “And the ocean’s just a few states east.”

  “Yeah. Then there’s Ozanam.” Mike smiled at the memory of his two weeks at that summer camp.

  “You just got back, dintcha?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s on a lake, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah … Huron.”

  “That musta been great.”

  “It woulda been if the stupid water wasn’t so cold.”

  Da-dum, plop.

  “This late in the summer?”

  “Yeah, well, one of the counselors said it gets swimmable in late August. It looks great … especially when you first get there. The weather’s hot as hell and all you can see is blue water sort of forever. Canada’s across the lake, but you can’t see it. Just water. And then they let you go in …” Mike would never forget the shock of that water that turned one’s skin blue.

  “Besides havin’ a lake you can’t swim in, how was it?”

  Mike tossed the tennis ball from one hand to the other. “Too many rules”—he tossed the ball back—“and just too many campers.”

  Manny’s brow knitted. “How does that figure?”

  “Well, they had more’n two hundred kids—and less’n twenty counselors. In each season there’s five groups of kids. Each group has a two-week stay. So the groups keep changing. But the same counselors stay for the whole summer.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why they had so many rules …”

  “It sure doesn’t sound like my kinda place … ’specially not for a vacation. Man, we got enough rules in this Catholic school without gettin’ an extra bunch shoved down your throat.”

  “Oh”—it came out as sort of a sigh—“it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Besides”—Mike grinned—“the counselors were kind of neat.” He wound up and fired the ball toward the wall.

  Da-dum, plop.

  “They’re all seminarians. Older guys … not long to go before they get ordained.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “One thing I got from my stay there: Those guys—the seminarians—they’re human. I mean they lost their temper about the same as any other guy.” He grinned again. “Even used bad language once in a while.”

  “So what’s so different about that?”

  Mike shook his head. “Just that they’re almost priests. They get ordained, they don’t suddenly become plaster saints. They’re human.”

  Manny pondered that. “These guys—these seminarians—they go to school the same place we’re headed?”

  “Yup … Sacred Heart.”

  “Is that smart?” Manny turned to Mike. “I mean, we were all set to go to the Redemptorist place in Missouri. Are we makin’ a mistake? I mean, you convinced me it was a good idea to go in for high school …”

  “Instead of waiting for college? Yeah. I’m convinced we better make our move early—and make it here. Matter of fact, I was talkin’ to Bob Koesler. He just got the word that he’s been accepted at Sacred Heart. He’s goin’ in next month. He’s on cloud nine!

  “But he told me about a guy he met who got rejected on the entrance test. He said it’d be a good idea to really crack the books in the eighth grade. Especially English.”

  Da-dum, plop.

  “Well,” Manny admitted, “it does make a helluva lot of sense to stay here … I mean, I wasn’t nuts about goin’ all the way to Missouri.”

  “Yeah, I feel the same way.” Mike tilted his head in thought. “Funny how this worked out. We would all be going to Missouri if it hadn’t been for that missionary priest who clued Bob into Sacred Heart.”

  “I know. Now the joke is on the other two guys in Bob’s class: They’re packin’ to go to Missouri.”

  “Bob was barely able to get into Sacred Heart himself. He didn’t even have time to tell those other guys. He’s lucky he made it.” He turned up one side of his mouth. “I guess he’s on his own now.”

  “Until we get there next year.”

  “That’s not a lead-pipe cinch, you know: We gotta get accepted first.”

  Da-dum, plop.

  “Hey, don’t worry, we’ll make it. We’re not dummies. And we’ve got lots more time to prepare than Bob had …”

  Manny was tiring; it was just too hot to expend even this small amount of energy. He put an extra measure of smoke on his next throw.

  Da-dum … dum … dum … dum … da … da … Mike missed the rebound. The two watched as the ball bounced away. It rolled about twenty yards, where it reached a level drain in the pavement, rocked a bit, then lay still.

  “That’s eleven,” Manny said. “I win.”

  They walked over to the inert ball.

  “Wanna play another one?” Manny was definitely running out of steam. Still, he wished Mike would be willing to bet a nickel or so on another game. He sighed; he could have relieved his buddy of pocketsful of loose change in almost any athletic competition, but it was an an exercise in futility even to imagine that Mike might gamble.

  They had talked about what Manny liked to call “putting your money where your mouth is.” They had talked about the morality of gambling. As students at a parochial school, they had discussed the morality of a lot of situations. On the question of gambling, Mike and Manny disagreed. Manny could see no problem whatsoever in gambling any amount as long as you could cover your bets. Mike was convinced that no one should risk the cataclysm that could well occur.

  Last year Mike had asked the priest who visited their classroom periodically what the position of the Catholic Church was on gambling. It seemed to the young student that the priest waffled. Most of the time gambling was bad; however sometimes it could be a harmless, innocent recreation.

  To Mike, in his youth and with his rigid upbringing, everything was black or white; nothing was gray. His Church was the only guaranteed source of truth in life. It was one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic. He lost a bit of respect for any visiting priest who was willing to compromise.

  In a more capsulated way, Manny was confident that he could beat anyone at anything. Mike had no comparable self-confidence. Mostly, he just couldn’t bear to lose. Thus he was reluctant to wager. Even in situations where he might be reasonably confident of winning, it went against his conscience to take money from the loser. What with one thing and another, Mike couldn’t stomach gambling.

  It didn’t surprise Manny that Mike didn’t want to continue the game. It was too hot. Only a wager could have motivated him to any further outdoor physical activity today.

  They retrieved the tennis ball and walked back toward the slight shadow cast by the huge buildings. En route, Manny continued to bounce the ball as if he were dribbling a basketball.

  “You gotta play with that thing?” Mike said.

  Manny snickered. “Sore loser.”

  The two were in the same phase of development. Each was about five feet five. Each was thin. They would both grow to be adults, but not in the near future. Judging from their parents, Manny would be heavy-set; hirsute, with dark black hair; and ruggedly handsome. Mike, should he favor his father, would grow only a few inches taller than he was already. Possibly five feet nine or ten. He would remain slender; his hair would stay reddish brown until it turned gray or white. Eventually he would lose much of it
to male-pattern baldness.

  But for now both had a great deal of growing up to do.

  “Maybe,” Mike said, “I’d be sore if we’d had any money on it. But we didn’t have a bet.”

  “Yeah, that’s a snowball’s chance in hell. Or maybe a warm water’s day in Lake Huron.”

  They laughed.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Manny explained. “I don’t mind playing any game for fun. I just can’t feel the killer instinct unless something’s riding on it. I don’t know … it’s just the way I am.

  “Take you, for instance,” he continued. “You’re not bad at all. You can stay even with me pretty well. But you don’t do as well as you could. There isn’t any time that you ever go for the jugular. I’ve seen you sometimes when we’re playing: You get an opponent on the ropes— and then you back off.”

  “Winning isn’t everything.”

  “It’s something.”

  Mike shook his head. “You know, it’s a good thing you’re gonna be a priest.”

  Manny stopped bouncing the ball and stood still. “What in hell has anything we just talked about have to do with becoming a priest?”

  “Well, if you weren’t going to the seminary, you’d probably get involved with varsity sports. Certainly the major stuff: football, basketball, baseball. You’d be playing for Redeemer. And Redeemer’s in the top league.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “You said it yourself: There’s no betting on games in high school or college. That’d take you out of serious contention. You’d want to play pro ball. But you’d never get there because the amateur leagues wouldn’t pay you. So you’d never make it to the majors.”

  “How long has it taken you to figure out my future?”

  “Actually, just now. But it’s been in the back of my mind for a while. It fell into place when you were just talking about how you’ve got to have something riding on the game before you go for the jugular.”

  Manny studied his friend. “You may have something there. But I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “The question will answer itself if and when I become a priest.”

  “One step at a time,” Mike cautioned.

  “One step at a time, eh, guy? Well, what’s first on the hit parade?”

  Mike’s brow knitted. “Well … we start to gather the documents. You know, it’s not as easy as it sounded when Bob told me about it. He didn’t bring anything with him the first time he went to the seminary … things got pretty involved.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! What documents?”

  “You don’t know? Didn’t you talk to Bob?”

  “A little. But he didn’t mention any documents. It never even came up. Of course,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “mostly I was just asking him questions.” He shook his head. “Nope; it just didn’t come up.

  “So”—he looked at Mike intently—“what’s it all about?”

  “According to Bob, in addition to a pencil, and a transcript of your grammar school grades, they want three documents. Three certificates, really: your baptismal and confirmation records and your parents’ marriage certificate.”

  “I haven’t got any of these.” Down deep, Manny felt the beginning of panic.

  “I don’t have them either.”

  “Then what—”

  “You’ve got to go get them.”

  “Where?”

  “The parish where you were baptized and confirmed. And the parish where your parents were married. You just go there and ask for them. Bob said they have to have the parish seal on them. But Bob said the priest or his secretary would probably know that.”

  Manny could see his dream vocation crashing before it got in the air. “I think maybe I got a problem.”

  “What?”

  The two sat on the cement stair in the blessed shade.

  “My dad. He’s not a Catholic. Will he be able to get a marriage certificate?”

  “Were your folks married in a Catholic church?”

  “Yeah. My mom told me all about the wedding a long time ago. Actually, they were married at a side altar. Because my dad wasn’t a Catholic.

  “So what’s that got to do with getting the damn certificate?”

  Mike thought about that briefly. “I don’t think it has anything to do with it. Remember in our Religion class when we were studying the seven sacraments? If one party is Catholic and the other isn’t, they call that a mixed marriage.”

  “Yeah.” Manny brightened. “ A mixed religion marriage.”

  “Well, if your folks got married in a Catholic church like you said, then it’s a valid marriage.”

  “Even if they did it at a side altar?”

  “Why not?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Manny hesitated. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I mean, don’t they have to get something?”

  “Get something? What something?”

  “Something about … uh … permission … no? Permission to get married even though both of them weren’t Catholic?”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “You mean a dispensation?”

  “That’s it: a dispensation.”

  Mike’s memory faltered. “From what?”

  “I don’t know. I just remember the word.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mike said thoughtfully. “It’s simple. They can’t get married ’cause one of them is not a Catholic. It’s prohibited. So,” he said triumphantly, “they get a dispensation from the prohibition. Then they can get married in a Catholic church … even though it’s at a side altar.”

  “Man,” Manny exclaimed, “you got some memory!”

  Mike smiled. “Not for everything. I figure we ought to know all we can about the Catholic Church … after all, it’s gonna be our entire life.”

  Manny was uneasy about the Church being his “entire life.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to make that total a commitment. “Is that all there is to it?” He sensed there was more than merely getting a paper that said his parents were dispensed so they could get married in the Catholic Church.

  Mike thought. The Brother who taught their Religion class was pretty thorough about Church stuff, especially about the sacraments. Brothers were more demanding than nuns. At least it seemed so; they hit harder. “Seems to me there’s something people have to do before they get their dispensation.” He looked up as if the answer were somewhere in the sky. “Something they have to promise. Promise … oh, I know: They have to promise to raise their kids as Catholics.”

  He turned to Manny. “Your folks certainly lived up to that. Heck, I see your dad at Mass practically every Sunday.”

  “Yeah. I never thought much about it, but Dad does go to church every Sunday … and so does my mom. But”—he sighed as he tilted his head and pursed his lips—“she has to go or she’ll go to hell.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t think my dad has to go. He says we ought to go together—like the family we are. Even though he can’t take Communion.

  “I never thought about all he had to go through to marry my mom.” Manny thought about it now, then, eyebrows raised in recognition, he nodded. “That was pretty neat.”

  “Do you think your ma would have married him if he hadn’t made the promise or just refused to do anything to get the dispensation?”

  “Man, I don’t know.”

  “If your dad didn’t get the dispensation, they wouldn’t have been able to be married in church. Would she have married him anyway? I mean, then she would’ve been excommunicated.”

  “Man, I don’t know what she would have done,” Manny repeated.

  “It’s just that I think that if that had been the case, then you would have a real hard time getting in the seminary.”

  “Because she’d’ve been excommunicated?”

  “I think so. I heard my folks talking about it a long time ago. One of my cousins married a lady who was divorced. Then they had a son who wanted to be a priest. But the seminary wouldn’t accept him … just because of his parents.”

&n
bsp; “Man, that’s miserable. Why pick on the kid? I mean, just for something the parents did—or didn’t do?”

  “That’s the law. And you’re right: Now that we’re talking about it, it doesn’t seem fair.”

  “No, it don’t!” Manny said in emphasis.

  “But …” Mike shrugged. “ … it’s the law of our Church. It must be right.”

  They continued to sit still. It was cooler in the shade. It would have been more tolerable if there had been a breeze. Not only was there no wind, but it was humid. Languidly, they bounced the tennis ball back and forth to each other.

  Across the parking lot, a couple of boys appeared in the car entrance.

  They walked with purposeful direction. There could be no doubt they were headed toward Manny and Mike. They didn’t appear to be in a mood to play games. Their demeanor was downright menacing.

  Each set of boys focused on the other.

  FOUR

  TO MIKE IT WAS CREEPY.

  The two strangers were advancing toward him and Manny with deliberation. They were now near enough to be identifiable.

  “Do you know them?” Manny asked, out of the side of his mouth.

  “No,” Mike said in a faint voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

  Manny grunted.

  The newcomers had halted and now stood some ten to twelve feet away. Each was considerably larger than either Mike or Manny. “What’s your names?” the taller one demanded.

  Mike’s impulse was to tell them. What harm could come from answering a simple question? But before he could respond, Manny spoke. “What’s yours?”

  The newcomers looked surprised. They had obviously expected to instill fear, whereas they were being defied.

  “I’m Switch,” said the taller one. “And my friend here is the Blade.” The two laughed humorlessly.

  “Cute,” Manny said.

  Switch, though the taller, was by no means well developed. The Blade was slightly better built.