|
WF Supporter!
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: Vancouver - Canada
Posts: 8,904
|
Novel excerpt - Blood of Christ
When children reached high school age, the community’s cultures collided. Just a few blocks from my home was the town’s only secondary school. Kids would be bussed up from the subdivision below and the nearby native village. The Roman Catholics came. Italians, Portuguese and Irish left the cloistered confines of their elementary school and easily integrated with the rest of us. They were delighted with the prospect of co-educational classes. We merged at a time when we were reaching, with rampant hormones, the puberty phase of life. The influx of unknown elements added to the excitement of reaching a milestone.
People who moved to my home town from Italy and Portugal had an especially hard time of it. They had to learn a new language, currency, forgo their penchant for pinching, but the climatic change must have been the worst hardship. While summers could have spells of hot sunny weather and we often had a dry warm fall, the weather was nothing like their home. Some would attempt growing grapes for wine like they’d had back in the old country. This led to straggling bits of foliage rather than robust vineyards. They would ship in grapes to maintain their traditions. Wine making wasn’t to be surrendered just because they lived in the north. There were a large number of them living there right from the first stages. They were a close knit, happy and easy going bunch of people. Their children went to the Roman Catholic elementary school. My first exposure to them was when I began high school.
I was Anglican and aware my religion began due to an annoyed English king named Henry the VIII. Because of King Henry, Anglicans could use birth control, get divorced and not be excommunicated. Our minister was married and there weren’t any black bat nuns. We didn’t have rosary beads or go to confession. The thought of going into a cubicle and telling someone about all my sins was appalling but I admired the beads. The whole Christianity topic intrigued me. The troubles in Ireland were raging too and Roman Catholics were killing Protestants and vice versa. I felt sort of in limbo because I was Anglican. All because King Henry the VIII wanted to have a son. I’d read about what happened to the wives of the king and wondered why my catechism didn’t include this. When I brought it up, I was met with an icy stare. Religion was confusing.
There wasn’t a lot of conversation about God in our home. We didn’t say grace. While I was curious and attended church regularly, I never thought to bring the subject up at home. Our indoctrination was relegated to the sabbath. Bringing up other denominations during church didn’t occur. We had our service mapped out and a discussion period wasn’t included.
Alcohol in our home was something to be consumed on special occasions, not daily. When I discovered these devout Christians drank every day, outside of the sacraments, I was surprised. Having a sip of wine at communion signified the blood of Christ spilled on our behalf to redeem us Sinners. The blood and body of Christ were doled out to us as we knelt at the railing. We didn’t drink wine any other time. Just on Sunday and only if we’d been confirmed. Now I discovered that Roman Catholics not only drank Christ’s blood every day, they made it too. I was convinced they possessed more holy potency because of it. I eyed them curiously when we began attending the same school. The boys were more macho and expressive, the girls had a maturity I seemed to lack. The sprinkling of Irish in their population matched me fairly closely, except their families were larger. I rationalized that it was because they didn’t make wine.
I wasn’t the only one who was interested in the wine making. A number of boys found this to be enthralling. The Italian and Portuguese boys made fast friends with the other males. This seemed to annoy both sections of the female population who were dating them. The boys would lounge around the lockers, in whispered conversations. Their girlfriends stood, at opposite ends of the corridor, waiting impatiently for their beaus.
One Italian boy was especially sought after. His locker was a gathering place. If he hadn’t arrived, they’d wait for him. There would be a furtive shuffle of transactions at the end of the day. If you watched carefully you’d see a paper bag being shoved quickly inside a jacket. Then there would be a quick nod and the crowd would gradually disperse. I figured he’d set up an illicit canteen and wondered if he belonged to the mafia. I’d read about the mob by that time too. The whole thing was exciting but I wondered about his Christian principals. I remembered Christ and the money lenders and doubted that the selling of his blood would be condoned. I knew liquor wasn’t allowed in school but so were a lot of other things. Breaking the rules wasn’t as scandalous as profiting from icons.
The Italian boy’s name was Mario. He was a swarthy, curly haired, charming and outgoing person. His car was the fanciest in school. Early in the school year, there’d been a fight between three Italian and four Canadian girls because Mario had dated one of the Canadians. It broke out in the girl’s washroom then spilled out into the hall. There were ripped blouses, pulled hair, slaps and shrieks. One of the girls took off her shoe and rapidly pummeled another with it. The teachers showed up just as another spat a huge wad of gum into a girl’s face. As they were hauled off one of the Italian girls screamed indecipherable language and then burst into loud sobs. By the time the battle was broken up there was a crowd of kids, mostly male, watching, spellbound.
All the girls got sent home and two were banned from school for a week. The boy’s reaction was to cluster around Mario in admiration. He just shrugged, and asked another non Italian girl out who hadn’t been involved. She accepted happily and was beaten up, off school grounds two weeks later. The adult’s reaction to the carnage heightened Mario’s visibility levels. He had enough good sense to shut down the off license sales and be more discreet with his social life. When the hubbub died down, Mario went back into business.
Just after the Christmas break, something happened to bring his enterprise to a halt. It was all because of the Irish Roman Catholic boy, Neil. Neil had met Mario at his locker, at lunch time, and talked him into selling a bottle before the end of school. Neil was almost as popular as Mario but for different reasons. Neil was handsomely hapless. He was tall and slim with a pallid face, an aquiline nose, scruffy eyebrows and sleepy lids. His long, thick, black eyelashes framed woeful blue eyes. While Mario would bustle, Neil would shuffle. He wore loose, fray cuffed sweaters which slouched to his knuckles. His black hair was tousled. Neil was always misplacing things. The girls adored him and were there quickly to help him look. No one fought over him because he never chose any of them but was always grateful. His voice was soft and he read aloud elegantly. The boys never seemed to mind the attention he got. He was excused from gym because of some ailment and would do artistic pencil sketches of them playing sports. They liked Neil too. So did I, until the French lesson in January. Neil went through a transformation that day.
He arrived late. When he ambled to his desk, he tripped over nothing and sprawled along the aisle. The class watched him lying on the floor and he began to giggle. When the teacher told him to get up, he went into gales of laughter. No one tried to help him as we were transfixed in fascination. His laugh was maniacal as he crawled past my feet and kissed my shoe. When he reached his desk he hauled himself up into the seat. Triumphant, at conquering the summit, he yodeled. Even the teacher was agog. Neil looked around the class with glazed eyes until he reached my face. Then he pointed at me. “You!” he declared in a slurred voice. Ack! Me? Why me? “You! I was warned about you.” You were? By who? I began to blush. “A red headed angel told me you are evil.” ACK! How does he know about the red headed doll? The girl across the street moved away. No one else knows. I could feel the eyes turn to me. They were waiting for me to respond. What should I say? Nothing? Neil’s eyes had the glare of retribution as he continued. “You are a demon! You abuse the power the Lord gave you. Repent! Fall at God’s feet and beg for mercy! Call upon Holy Mary, mother of God for forgiveness! Confess!” Neil’s sermon provoked the teacher to speech. “Neil! This is not the Catholic school. You can’t pray in class. Stop it!” Thank you! Yes! Shut up Neil!
The student’s heads spun around back to the front of the class. “She is a demon! She has been possessed! The red headed angel told me.” Neil argued with the teacher and pointed to me. The teacher responded by walking down the aisle, past me to Neil’s desk, and leaned towards him. She recoiled. “You are drunk!” she said in a disgusted voice. “Where did you get liquor? Who gave it to you?” Everyone else in the class knew where Neil would get liquor at school and they looked over at Mario. He looked the picture of innocence when the teacher followed their eyes. The distraction was a huge relief. Neil sobbed and flung himself onto the desk. When his chest hit the desk, there was a clunking sound. The teacher cupped her hands around Neil’s head and lifted it. She stared into his eyes. “Tell me where you got the liquor.” she demanded. Slowly, Neil sat upright and gazed into her eyes. Red wine was seeping through his dove grey sweater in a spreading stain. It bled out in a large splotch on the left hand side of his chest. “Oh my God. He’s bleeding!” gasped one of the girls. The teacher touched the sweater with her index fingertip, and then brought it to her nose. “It’s not blood. It’s wine. Neil, give it to me. Give me the bottle.” As she spoke, she ran her hand over Neil’s chest. A shard of glass got imbedded in her fingertip, she retracted and involuntarily sucked on it. “I’m not going to ask you again. Give me the bottle before you get hurt too.” Neil slid the frayed loose right cuff of his sweater up to his elbow methodically. He then slid his right arm up under his sweater and retrieved the bottle. The teacher seized it. The pale green bottle’s top had been sheared off. At the base, a few dregs of must splashed up as she tilted it to inspect it. “This is home made wine. Where did you get it?”
Neil beamed at her with a beatific smile. His face lit up with the joy of discovery. “Madam.” Neil addressed the teacher in a cultured, concise, elegant voice, “This is the blood of Christ. It is a gift from God. He who shall drink of it will have everlasting life.” Neil then began to chant in Latin. We gasped as she stared at him. “Well, you, me and the blood of Christ are going to take a little walk to the Principle’s office. Class? You are to remain quietly in your seats until I get back. Come along Neil and stop the requiem immediately. I’ve heard enough Latin to last me a lifetime.” She grasped Neil’s elbow and he ungracefully unfolded himself and stood up, teetering. Propelling him gently up the aisle, the teacher followed behind keeping her hand on his elbow with a firm grip . As they passed my desk, I fervently prayed. Please God, don’t let him mention the red headed doll again! Please! Neil was so focused on keeping his balance, he was oblivious to his surroundings.
When the teacher left the room, it erupted in a flurry of whispers. All of them were directed at Mario. The girls were admonishing him for giving wine to Neil. The boys were contemplating on whether Neil would fink or keep silent. It was the only time I ever saw Mario look worried. His black brows knit together as he deeply frowned. His lips pursed in thought. To avoid the recriminations and speculations, he glanced around the room and came to look at me. With a wink and a flash of a smile, he made the sign of the cross and then his eyes continued to travel.
Neil never confessed. He resumed school the following week. Mario voluntarily stopped operating the booze can out of his locker and it never reopened. Occasionally, he’d cross himself when our eyes met and he’d smile. Whenever I saw Neil, I’d avoid looking at him. I’m doubtful he remembered his accusation. He went back to being the object of motherly teenage girl’s attentions. When I left town, Neil still wasn’t dating anyone. Neil drifted away and I heard he opened up an art studio in the city.
|
