“You are going to church, I don’t care what you say,” my ma said. She looked a little bit like she was going to hit me. But I didn’t care.
“I ain’t going to church. I hate it. You can’t make me.” I love to talk back to my ma and now I was going to get my chance. She wanted me to go to church. But I would rather eat dirt.
“Well, I think they got real good doughnuts today.” She was trying to sucker me.
“I don’t care, that church hall smells so bad of rotten perfume and old lady’s face powder that I couldn’t eat a doughnut anyway. I’d throw up.” But then I got to thinkin. Bad Kathy, with the big old huzongas, would be there. She always went to 11 o’clock mass, lookin so good and trying to be holy at the same time. Even though I was only 12, I still noticed her all the time. I didn’t get it. With those huzongas she would have to be sinnin all the time. So why did she go to church? Maybe she felt bad for sinnin? Or maybe she just wanted to show them off. It didn’t make any difference. She was 14. She never looked at me. But I looked at her. “What kind of doughnuts you think they got, ma?”
“Good ones. Plus, if you don’t go, I’ll have your pa beat you.”
I didn’t like to sound of that. Between the huzongas, the doughnuts, and the beatin I had to think about reconsiderin. “Well, I guess I can eat a doughnut outside where it don’t stink.”
She wasn’t really promising me a beaten from my pa. What she really meant was that she would tell my pa after she beat me. And she wouldn’t really beat me. She would just squeeze me with her fingers, til my skin popped. An all the while she would be cussin at me in bayou French that she learned when she was a kid. I hated it when she started Talkin French.
I’ll tell you about one time that she started Talkin French. We were in the museum and they had this mummy. I mean it. A real mummy, in a glass case, all crinkly like old newspaper. I just had to touch this mummy. So I tried to see if the case could be opened. I couldn’t find a door. But soon as I started lookin, I could hear her Talkin French from across the room, like out of the corner of my ear. Then before I could get to cover or runaway she had my arm squeezed between her fingers. I let out a squeak, then a little scream, but she wouldn’t let go. There I was in the middle of the museum next to a mummy and my ma was cussin at me in French and squeezin me with her fingers. Pretty soon my arm popped and I started bleedin. She let go and I began walkin slow out of the museum with my head down. She followed me, cussin in French, and I felt like the mummy. All crinkly like newspaper.
Anyway, I went to church. First thing I did was to run into the hall and see if there were any doughnuts. There were. I took a couple, went outside where it didn’t stink like old ladies perfume and ate quick. I needed to build up my strengths as I knew that a really boring Father was going to be sayin mass that day. His name was Ralph. Father Ralph. What a dumb name for a Father. Fathers should be named Alexander, Thompson, Callaveri, or somethin. But not Ralph. Might as well be called Father Dork. And this Father was a dork. He was round, kinda looked pregnant, and would stand in exactly the same place during the whole of mass. The altar boys, some of my more well behaved friends, would have to bring him everything. He wouldn’t walk 2 ft. to get holy water, or breads, or some gold, shiny clothes, or nothin. The altar boys were runnin around like it was basketball practice. Sweatin. Father Ralph would just point to what he wanted and keep on Talkin Latin. And he whispered the Latin. Sounded like a car that was idlin down the block. Or like there was a radio on in your neighbor’s house and the wind’s blowing toward your house. But more borin. You could hear him talkin, but you had no idea what he was sayin. And not just because it was Latin .
Then two things happened. I noticed, right across from me and down one person from the end of the pew, sat Bad Kathy. I could almost see her, and I’m sure I could smell her. Cuz, unlike the old ladies who stink, bad Kathy smelled real good. Sometimes walking down the church school hall I could smell that she had been there. And then I would look in a classroom and there she would be. Huzongas and smellin good. Dark hair that flipped up, her plaid skirt and white shirt made her look great. Like one of my sister’s dolls. But I knew better, she was Bad Kathy. The other thing that happened was that Father Ralph started the homily, what my Protestant friends called the sermon. But he didn’t preach hellfire and brimstone, he didn’t tell stories about Jesus, he didn’t tell about forgiveness. Matter-of-fact nobody knew what he said. He started up that car, started idlin, and nobody could hear a word. He mumbled with that same voice, starin straight ahead like he saw something hangin down from the ceiling of the church. Everybody dreaded father Ralph’s homily. But they knew that they had to listen, pay attention, or that they might burn in hell. Particularly since everybody must have been having bad thoughts since Bad Kathy was there. I knew I was. But I wasn’t afraid of hell, I was ready as I knew I was goin. My ma had told me so when I tried to get in that mummy case. So I wasn’t afraid of a few bad thoughts.
It was summer, hot outside, pretty hot in the church. When it was hot and Father Ralph gave the homily the same thing would always happen. He would go on and on, nobody knew what he was sayin, and the altar boys would fall asleep. This was like a signal to everybody in the church that they could fall asleep. So the altar boys would fall asleep one by one till they were all asleep up their on their benches. There was a lot of ’em as they always put on more help when Father Ralph did mass. ‘Cause he never moved, there was a lot more work to be done up there. It was so borin that some people in the pews would even faint. It was like Father Ralph sucked up all the oxygen in the room and the old and infirm couldn’t take it. So, with their minds numbed by Father Ralph’s homily and all the air sucked out of the room, they had no choice but to faint. And that day was my lucky day. The old lady sitting next to bad Kathy, on the isle side, fainted right into the isle. Since I was across the isle I went and helped her up and put her in my seat. There was a little commotion, Father Ralph kept on Talkin and peerin at that thing hangin down from the ceiling, but the lady said she was fine and wanted to stay and listen to Father Ralph. I said okay, went across the isle, and sat down next to Bad Kathy. I tried to look straight ahead and at Father Ralph, but I couldn’t. So I started tying my shoes so I could move my head a little and get a good look at Bad Kathy. She looked good, she smelled good, and she was wearin white gloves. Wow, smellin good and white gloves!
After awhile Father Ralph stopped idlin the homily and waited a little bit for the altar boys to wake up. Finally they did and mass went on. Father Ralph started mumblin Latin and pointin. I sat next to Bad Kathy trying to cop a look at her and sniffing her. The rest of the mass seemed to go by in 30 seconds. When it was over I moved out into the isle, waited for Bad Kathy to come out from the pew, and followed her out. It was a great sight. More than worth pretending that I was listening to Father Ralph’s homily.
I jumped in the car with my folks to drive home. The car was an old yellow Ford. My dad always bought Fords. I could never figure out why. Particularly when we bought this car from a dealership, stopped at a stoplight, and when we went to go the car would only go backwards. My dad drove all the way back to the dealership in reverse. Went down the street the right way backwards. I was laughing so hard I nearly fell out the car through the open window when we went around the corner backwards. It was so funny even my dad cracked a smile. But mostly he cussed, not in French. Just cussed in regular English. So anyway we drive on home from church, front ways. I’m thinking that I had the best day ever. I hoped that we would have a good lunch, my mother wouldn’t speak no French, and I would go find my friends and tell them about Bad Kathy.
As we started to drive up the road to our house I saw smoke. I couldn’t tell what it was. Looked like the neighbors house was on fire. I asked my dad “What’s burnin up there pa”?
“Don’t know, son.” He didn’t ever have much to say on any subject. My mom did the Talkin.
As we pulled up to our house I could see that it was at the neighbor’s house, but the fire was in the back. I jumped out of the car. My parents looked at me like I was crazy. I made it into the backyard next to our house. Standing there was my dad’s oldest best friend spraying water on the weeds around our Playhouse. Our neighbor’s kids and myself and my kid sister had a nice playhouse back there. We built it with our parents’ help and it was first-class. And it was on fire. Beck, my dad’s friend, was not trying to put it out. He was just trying to keep it from spreadin. “What are you doin?” I asked him, real loud.
Then I realized what was happening. The neighbor had set fire to the Playhouse, while I was in church, while I was peerin at Bad Kathy. My mom had made me go to church so I wouldn’t be there when he lit the match. I went nuts, tryin to stop them from finishing the job. I was jumpin around, swingin a broom to beat the fire out. I even got a bucket filled with water, but ended up just standing there lookin at the fire. It was too late. My dad was there, my mom was there, the neighbor kids, my sister. We all just watched as it burned down. “Why’d you guys do that? I asked everybody.
“Cause I need to space to make a garden,” said Beck. That was it. The Playhouse was done for to make room for corn, melons, and tomatoes. I didn’t understand it. Was God punishing me for paying more attention to Bad Kathy than to the Father during mass? So what if I wasn’t using the Playhouse anymore? It didn’t need to be burned down. What was I goin to do?
Go to church next week, I reckoned, to see if Bad Kathy would show up. Who knew, it might be hot again.