“I’m scared, man.”
“Why?”
“This shit! All this ‘I’m lovable’ bullshit. How am I supposed to accept that? How does that apply to me? If I’m so lovable, why didn’t my own mother think so?”
I truthfully don’t have an answer for him, but I realize he’s not really expecting one.
“Oh forget it! This is all homo bullshit anyway. What’s the point? Like any of this shit applies when we get back to school on Monday.”
“Maybe.”
“What, you think things will be different because some friggin’ celibint — ”
“You mean celibate?”
“Celibate, right. Some celibate asshole sticks a pin on my shirt and all of a sudden everything’s perfect? Bullshit! You think that pin will bring my mother back? How ’bout your father? Some pin on your shirt going to bring him back to you?”
I’m pissed, but manage a monotone, for safety. “I don’t think that’s the point.”
“Then what is?”
“Maybe just the fact that you and I are talking to one another like human beings, maybe that’s reason enough to have come.”
Randy’s about to answer when we hear the siren, faint at first. I almost believe it’s just passing by. But then I see the ambulance speeding up the drive, lights flashing among evergreens as it draws up to the Center’s front doors. Spiotti and I look at each other, then back to the building. There’s a commotion, a cluster of bodies in the hall, just visible through the glass doors.
We freeze, uncertain. A part of me wants to stay in the gazebo, pretend nothing’s happened. Then I picture Jeffrey, eyes empty, as he said, “I think I’ll grab some Zs.”
With a twinge in my gut, I run for the building. As Spiotti and I reach the double doors, I notice most of the guys clogging the hallway are from Saint Bernard’s.
I shove through the group to the center of the hall, wet slippers skidding. I’m about to ask what’s going on, when two EMTs round the corner. They push a stretcher, leaning to talk to their passenger. I see his face, pale, waxy; his Kool-Aid hair’s like a pumpkin nest on the pillow. The last thing I notice as they push Jeffrey past is his bandaged wrist.
They must have a written procedure.
It went that smoothly. And given the level of efficient cool with which they handled the situation, I’m guessing attempted suicide’s not exactly rare in these parts. Not that I’m surprised. I mean, take the emotional issues of your average teenage boy; multiply by sixty-six attendees; mix in the stressors of forced intimacy and dorm-style accommodations; sprinkle generously with bullying cliques; and stand back. Somebody’s bound to blow.
Seriously. In spite of the soothing poster selection — rainbows, doves, loads of smiling Jesuses — and the “man-who-stilled-the-water” musical stylings, this place is an emotional crock pot. It’s impressive we made it all the way to Saturday afternoon before EMTs were summoned.
Rolling past on the gurney, Jeff swam in and out of awareness. Still, I wanted him to know I was there. Trailing the paramedics, I called his name. As his eyes rolled my way, I said, “It’ll be okay.”
He didn’t answer, just lifted a gauzed wrist and, hand-to-ear in a phone gesture, mouthed, “Call me. ”
When I tried to follow them out the front doors, Novack pretty much body-checked me back into the lobby. He said, “Leave this to his folks, Galloway.”
Following his stretcher’s bumpy progress down the stone steps, I saw them: Jeff’s parents, at the curb. They didn’t rush to meet him or get in the ambulance; just waited alongside for the guys to load him in. Then they got back in their car and tailed their son’s emergency vehicle down the drive.
I had barely a minute to process it before we heard Father B. “We will convene in the chapel in ten minutes for a brief prayer service. Please proceed in orderly fashion.”
I expected a major change of plans: an announcement that buses would be coming to take us home; cancellation of the rest of encounter; at the very least, suspension of the remainder of today’s activities. Didn’t happen. Instead, we said a rosary in honor of “young Mister McAlister.” Funny, I hadn’t known Jeffrey’s last name, even though I’d begun to consider him a friend.
Then, after a brief free period (during which I did a little reconnaissance work, with some promising results), it was on to business as usual, though the Bernard boys had the option of calling their folks and leaving right after the prayers. I was surprised none of them did; then again, Jeff didn’t seem particularly close with any of these guys.
Confession came next, and it was a “Bless-me-Father” blur. I seriously can’t even recall what I said. I was just relieved it was some priest I didn’t know. I’d been dreading getting Father Brendan. It’s impossible to withhold anything from the guy, and I really didn’t feel like divulging everything I’ve been going through these past few weeks.
Now we’re back in the cafeteria, and suppertime brings a small concession to the awful events of this afternoon. Father Cal clinks a spoon against his water glass, wedding reception style, and stands to announce, “In order to lift our spirits, and get encounter back on a positive track, you’ll be receiving your palancas a day early.”
Apparently this is a big deal. Father explains the strict protocol governing dispersal of palanca letters. They’re traditionally handed out on Sunday afternoon after the Promise Ceremony, prior to closing Mass.
“But,” he says, “I think Jeffrey would want us to forge ahead with spiritual growth, to recapture joy. And one way to do that is to hand out those babies. A palanca,” he explains, “is an act of sacrifice: fasting, abstinence, or prayer. The letter or gift is NOT the palanca; the letter or gift is a physical representation of the sacrifice. The palanca means someone has promised to join with you spiritually, to partner with you through prayer. The palanca shows you are not alone; you are part of a community.”
He says we should head back to our rooms, promising we’ll find the “physical representations of sacrifice” there. Wow, I’d have settled for a mint on the pillow.
We file out of the cafeteria. When I enter 214 it’s apparent the encounter elves have indeed made a delivery. A cardboard box sits on the desk with “Galloway: RM 214” scrawled on the side in black Marks-A-Lot.
Hefting the box, I swing up to the top bunk. When I pop the lid, I discover a bunch of envelopes inside. I can tell who most of them are from just by the size, color, and handwriting.
Flower Fairy: Mom, obviously;
Neon green, SpongeBob sticker: Aunt Reg;
Large manila, Little Sisters of Infinite Hope logo: Aunt Ro;
Plain, white #10 utility: Gran and Gramp;
Purple craft paper, silver ink: Has to be Lex;
Square, green vellum: Could it really be Mister P?
Heavy buff with an S B C monogram on the back flap.
It feels like Halloween, dumping my pillowcase, surveying booty. All in all, a decent haul. I decide to open the Anonymous Three first. One’s just a folded and stapled sheet of pebble gray paper. I pull the staple free, drop it in the trash. Unfolding the page, I see the return address: Office of the Archbishop. Printed in laser jet script below, it says,
Dear Candidate,
A Mass is being offered in your honor. Wishing you success in all you encounter this weekend and always.
May God bless you,
Archbishop L. J. Donaldson
Great. Nothing like the warm fuzzies that come with a form letter from the archdiocese; “… success in all you encounter,” who knew the Archbish was a punster?
The next one’s from Mrs. Teague — really, Mrs. Teague! I expect another form letter, and it is. It says she’s dedicating her daily prayer to the intentions of the young men on encounter. Very nice. But at the bottom, she’s written a personal message. In her precise hand, it says,
Evan,
I know a bit about what you’re going through. My older sister took her own life in college. You never quite get over
it, but in time, you will find some peace. I’m praying this weekend helps you do just that.
Love & Blessings,
Mrs. T.
“Oh my God.” I’m not sure why this hits me so hard, but I just sit for a few minutes, my stomach souring. Who’d have guessed we had such a weird connection?
The third envelope contains two sheets of paper. I unfold them, and a prayer card and “I’m lovable” bookmark drop on the bed. It’s a rate-your-encounter-experience survey. Quick-scanning, I see questions like, “Was support staff approachable and receptive?” and “Did you find any elements overwhelming?” Ugh. Wondering if Jeff will get one of these, I toss it aside.
Okay, on to friends and family. I put Lex’s envelope aside; whether because I’m saving the best for last, or out of fear of what’s inside, I’m not sure. I start with Mrs. S-B-C.
Dear Evan,
You’re a smart kid and, too often, brains and sensitivity don’t cohabit. In your case, you’ve got perhaps too much of both. Your father was a special kid too, and I can never shake the sense that I failed him. Come see me when you get back. We have some things we should talk more about.
I wanted you to know I’m praying especially for you this weekend and, in your honor, I’m limiting my reading to the Psalms. Some would say I’m doing this simply to avoid freshman comp papers.
While there may be some truth to that, I want to focus my prayers and energy on you, Evan, because — corny as it sounds — you deserve it.
You are lovable.
All good gifts!
Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs
What could she mean by “I failed him”? It must have something to do with those poems. What if he did show them to her, like he said in the note alongside “Lazarus Eyes”? Would she have reported it — or did she fail him by not telling?
Pettafordi’s palanca’s next. I carefully fold back a vellum flap and examine the contents. It’s like a riddle. After repeated readings, I’m still not sure whether he’s trying to be philosophical and enlightening, or just plain confusing.
He’s sent four postcards: each a famous image. He’s numbered them. First up: The Annunciation by some Flemish Master. I remember it from Art History — the badly skewed perspective of Mary’s tabletop, Gabriel’s shiny wings. On the back, he’s written: Miracles must be measured in contrast with the ordinary. Knowledge resides in the small things.
Card two is a Hopper painting, that famous one of folks in an all-night diner. Night Owls? No, that’s wrong. I check the title: Nighthawks. This time he’s written: The human heart is capable of both extraordinary love and uncommon loneliness.
The third one’s a Muppet parody of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, but with Miss Piggy on the half-shell. Bizarre. And I have no idea what the notation’s supposed to mean: There is beauty in all, that which is given and that which is taken away.
Finally, card four shows a huge waterfall. It’s a black-and-white shot by that famous photographer, Ansel Adams. On this one, Pettafordi’s written: And your tears shall purify you. Fascinating, but I’m getting a major headache. I tuck his philosophy flash cards back in their packet, wondering what he was smoking when he crafted this little care package.
Next, I open Aunt Rosemary’s. This I’m prepared for. An enormous Mass card from the Little Sisters, it looks like a diploma folder. The outer cover’s sky blue leatherette. Inside is this poem: “An Encounter Prayer.” She must’ve done some major searching; it’s the perfect accessory.
An Encounter Prayer
I’m praying for your precious soul,
That God will make it soar.
And raise you with His gentle hands
To guide you through love’s door.
The time you spend with Him today’s
A special time for you.
And as you pray and talk and share,
Please know I’m praying, too.
I’m praying for your wisdom, that
It blossoms like a rose;
I’m praying for your doubts and fears
That you’ll be healed of those.
But if dark thoughts should come your way,
Like clouds to make you blue,
Just think of me at home in prayer,
For God to see you through.
Copyright 1998 by Jaqueline Joakitis for The Little Sisters of Infinite Hope
Published by Saving Son Ministries, a division of Perpetual Life Publications
Opposite the poem, a page details my enrollment in The Little Way Society. She’s also written a note on the bottom: “You will be remembered in their daily Masses — in perpetuity. Love, Aunt Rosemary.”
“Wow, perpetuity.” That’s a long time. It’s sweet, especially knowing how important she considers that stuff. It’d be like Gramp enrolling me in the Young Republicans, or the Elks.
Thinking of Gramp leads me to the next envelope. I know it’s from them; it’s the type Gran uses for coupons. They buy them in bulk at Big Box. Probably have a case of 20,000 in the pantry next to the twenty-gallon jug of mustard.
The writing on the front clinches it: Personal for Evan G. Galloway, Junior, Saint Sebastian’s High School — DOB: Jan. 22. Yup, that’s Gran. Nothing if not thorough. I’m surprised she didn’t list my shoe size. Opening the envelope, I slide out a sheet of lined paper. In Gran’s slightly irregular, sloping script, it says,
Evan,
Honey, I can’t believe how grown up you are. My God, you look so much like your dad! Gramp and I hope you know how proud we are of you.
They told us to be sure and say you’re lovable. Like I need to be reminded! Besides, you know that, don’t you? I hope you do. You are my world, honey. You’ve lifted so many clouds.
The talk we had the other day was a long time coming. Even though it hurts, it’s for the best, knowing the truth. Thank you for helping me face it.
We’re leaving for Atlantic City, and you can be sure that car ride will be spent in prayer, sweetie, sending you so much love!
Okay, your grandfather wanted to say something too, so I’m turning the pen over to him. Xoxoxoxoxo, Gran
BUDDY BOY,
DON’T LET THE TURKEYS GET YOU DOWN. LEFT THE HOUSE KEY WITH YOUR MOTHER. TAKE CARE OF THINGS WHILE WE’RE GONE.
GRAMP
P.S. LOVABLE, MY ASS. HA HA
He’s too much. I laugh out loud. Then picturing him in the Tahoe, stone-faced and struggling, I stop, refold the page, and slide it back into the envelope.
Aunt Reg is next; let’s hope the message is in keeping with the Sponge on the front, because I could use a laugh. This whole palanca thing’s a bit twisted, like a premature eulogy. It’s nice in theory, to know how people feel about me, but what’ll it be like seeing them? Will we treat each other differently now that they’ve revealed this stuff in print? Then again, I’ve always known they love me. Well, except for Mrs. Teague. That was a surprise.
Aunt Reg’s envelope has a center bulge. When I open and tip it upside down, a Reese’s Cup falls onto the bedspread. It’s a little worse for the wear after its journey, but I don’t let that stop me. I pop it in.
Candy + laughter = near-death-by-choking. She Photoshopped her face onto a picture of the yellow fry cook. Above it, a banner says, “Our Main Ingredient Is LOVE!” The rest of the card’s set up like a menu:
Breakfast Saturday: fat-free chocolate chip muffin, 1/4 cup raw almonds; sugar-free Swiss mocha gourmet coffee
Lunch: turkey Reuben, baked chips (sour cream/onion), large Diet Birch Beer, mixed berry FF frozen yogurt
Snack: bag low-fat Cheesy Puffs, caffeine-free diet cola
Dinner: chicken enchilada combo from Señor Pablo’s, cinnamon sopapillas, diet raspberry soda
Dessert: nonfat carrot cake ice cream with caramel topping
TV snack: pudding cup (fat-free devil’s food)
As evidence of the deep love I have for you, I’ll be foregoing some of my favorite things (see menu above) as I FAST all day Saturday in unit
y with your spiritual quest. You’d best appreciate it, pal. It’s only Friday night and I’m already regretting this decision.
No, seriously, love you buckets, Evan-bo-bevan. And I hope encounter brings you peace and clarity. ((((((Evan)))))) = BIG, SQUISHY HUG!!!! Aunt Reggie
Two to go. Not sure which I’m more nervous over, Mom’s or Lex’s. Ordinarily, Lex would be the safe bet. But based on our last exchange, I’m leery. I weigh an envelope in each hand. Mom’s has a plumped-out quality, a bit like Aunt Reg’s, but I doubt there’s candy inside. Lex clearly took a lot of time on hers, so chances are she’s overlooked my stupidity and there’s no anthrax inside.
Okay, no more delay. I opt for Mom’s, pull out the card. It’s a Lily of the Valley fairy kneeling in a prayerful pose, gazing up at a stalk of the tiny white bells. A rubber band around the card secures it to a small manila pouch.
Pulling the band free, I read the card, the briefest palanca note so far.
Ev,
There are no words.
No way to tell you how proud I am. ~ x. o. ~ Mom
P. S. I’m praying so hard. And believe me, I won’t sleep all weekend. I hope that counts as a sacrifice!
Well, that was pretty painless. I turn the pouch over, see a note on the front:
Don’t know if you’ll remember this, but thought you should finally get to see it.
Tearing open the pouch, I squeeze it in my hand and look inside. A mini plastic bag holds a bubble-wrapped lump. This wave of unease makes me hesitate. The packet has a familiar weight, like a memory, in my palm. I carefully unwrap it, surprised when a thin, gold chain slips out, swinging between my fingers.
Last time I saw the locket I was about six; I’ve never seen her wear it. I remember:
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