Farther Along - Novella Two - 2. The Middle

Part 3: Twinkerbell and Goldilocks

I hadn't watched my show. It was a rerun anyway. I'd catch up with them next week. I had finished my muffin, though I'd eaten it without tasting much of it.

There was an odd feeling about the memory of the desert fairies now. I was eight then, and am older now. Back then, girls and boys kissing – or even wanting to hold hands – seemed gross to me. Period. Now at eleven I guess I expect that people will show affection to each other, and not care so much if anyone in the world sees it. But two guys? If that was ok, where were the TV shows showing teenage boys beach-walking, hand-in-hand; where were the 'I'll be home at 5' peck on the lips goodbyes from the family types?

There was something more too. Like that summer storm that changed the whole atmosphere by charging it, there was something tingling on my skin; something I may have felt then but never bothered to think about with ideas. What were the purposes of the way that attendant, Mike, and the blond fairy touched me? Maybe the blond guy had been there to help me. In hindsight, maybe because I am older now, it seems it was Mike whose motives were suspect. Could those two fairy guys have intervened?

I really don’t understand it all. 'Farther Along' I think.

I suddenly don’t like the way I treated Greg this morning. After my folks rolled off, and I had twisted out of his grasp, I thought there was something about him that seemed hurt. I don’t think I meant to do that. In fact, there is something down right parental about him; him and Joey too.

I stand up, switch off the TV, and scrunch up my wrapper, napkins and bag from the couch. I walk to the end of the closet where the TV sits, and a kitchen counter starts. There is a Mr. Coffee here with half a pot of brown liquid in it. The light is on. I toss my trash and pick up the glass pot. It has exaggerated daisy decals on the side. I pop the lid with my thumb and sniff the thin black gunk. Oogh. Bitter!

Just now Joey walks into the space. He sees me.

"Want a mug?" he asks; the smart-ass.

"How can you drink this stuff?" I ask with a scowl on my face.

He sets his newspaper down on the little table, and begins to take off his jacket.

"It'll put hair on your chest!" He laughs. "You'll get used to the taste; it's all part of being a mortgage-carrying adult."

Joey is different than Greg. He's taller for one, and built like he played football in high school. He has shorter wavy hair that is very dark and glossy. His skin is darker too, and I bet his chest has those coffee-drinking sprouts he promised for me.

He comes over to the counter and grabs a Ziggy mug. "Pour me one."

He holds his cup and I tip the pot. I look up and tell him, "Say when."

In the couple of prolonged moments it takes, I scan his face, and watch those sharp blue eyes of his.

"When!"

I stop, laughing.

He switches off the machine, reaching in with his free hand that bears the same zigzag band as Greg has. At the same time, he sips deep; his blue peepers smiling at me from over the top of the rim. His eyebrows flare.

He goes and sits. He snaps open his paper, then does something with his foot that is hidden from view. The chair opposite him slides out. This is his invitation for me to join him.

I do. Today Joey is wearing some tan-colored serge pants, a brown belt, and a billowy black shirt.

As I sit, I frown. My red shirtsleeves are on the table. Fashion-wise, I'm several years out of date because my mom likes to dress me in things she 'discovers' at the thrift store. I feel like I'd get a lot better clothes with…well, that's a funny thought. Maybe they'd put me in beaded headbands. I shake my head and try not to laugh.

"Are you hungry?" Joey rustles from behind his paper.

"No. I ate. I am a bit tired, though."

"Well, you can sleep on the couch. Better now while it's still quiet. Later…" He crumples the news to find his watch. "We'll be really busy. All the dryers will be on – the ladies chatting away!"

"It's hard to sleep here."

Joey lowers his paper. He swallows a lump down, which confuses me. "You're safe here, you know."

I kinda laugh: "Yeah, I know."

Joey's mood brightens. "What are your plans for the day, young man?"

"Um – my Saturday morning shows, then I don’t know."

"Well, if you get bored, Sport, come out front and we'll put you to work." Again his eyebrows flash.

I like this guy. I decide I can play with him. After a pause, I ask, "So – which one are you? 'Twinkerbell' or 'Goldilocks?'"

His paper falls into his lap. "I beg your pardon?"

"My dad, in the car driving over this morning – he said you guys are like Twinkerbell and Goldilocks." I smirk in sheer, wicked delight.

Joey's face opens into a lopsided grin. The point of his tongue comes out to play with the tip of his left canine. "Well, did he now?"

I laugh openly, but he ignores me.

"Since Greg has the blond hair, I guess that makes me 'Twinkerbell.'"

He starts to laugh too, and Greg's voice calls from the front, "What's going on back there!"

He appears and Joey and I give each other the hush-finger.

"Well, I hope I'm not interrupting," Greg says coming to stand at Joey's side. "But it's 9 o'clock, and Mrs. Halprin is coming to see you." He adds more information for me, "Although she's 63, she insists Joey makes her look like Cheryl Tiegs."

A breathless snort escapes the man sitting down; he rocks sideways on his chair for a microsecond, exclaiming: "Well, I don’t envy you. You've got Mrs. Smyth-Burrows at nine." Then he leans over the table to tell me confidentially, "She wants to look like Brooke Shields, but that ain't gonna happen!"

My eyes wander over Joey's hair. It is really nice. I run my fingers up my temples. "My hair's too short," I say. "What can you do for me?"

Greg chimes in, "It's nice, Simon."

"But," I insist. "Joey's length is perfect." I consider Greg's Shaun Cassidy hair – too long, but Joey's is perfect.

Greg walks behind me. He runs his flattened palm over my dishwater blond. "A crew cut is nice," he fibs. "But…"

"But what?" I ask.

He massages my scalp a little, making me want to giggle. He says, "But it's a bit short to do anything with right now. Let it grow, and I'll cut it exactly like I do Joey. Okay?"

I give Joey my patented sneer, hoping he'll catch on.

"You mean," I turn up to Greg. "So, it's not too short..?"

"Or," Joey leans back on his chair with a grin. "You mean it's not too long..?"

"Or, too short..?" I add.

"No," Greg singsongs. "It's just right."

Joey and I burst out laughing.

˚˚˚˚˚

Scooby-Doo is over. It is 10 o'clock. I stand and switch the set off. On the other side of the partial height wall, the salon is alive; it's like an old people's party is happening.

I stand there a moment. The radio is on and blares over the chattering voices and hairdryers. It's that song that they play a lot of right now – Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive.

I decide to go and see what's up.

To my left as I exit the back area are a line of dryers. Three ladies are be-smocked and reading Cosmo and Ebony. I nod at the one who looks up at me.

My attention drifts right. On the other side of the wall as the kitchen cabinets, three tilt-back chairs are rooted before head sinks. In the center one, Joey dips an older-looking lady with silver-blue hair backwards. He turns on the flow of water and adds that sound to the mix as the customer continues to chatter about her daughter's 'availability.' Joey gives me a brief eye roll, and that wicked tongue of his flicks to his tooth again. I raise my brows and move on.

The song changes. The dancing rhythm, which everyone in the shop was unconsciously moving to, dips to the smooth ballad Too Much Heaven by the Bee Gee's.

The front of the salon is all glass – floor to ceiling; wall to wall. On my right, three chairs are placed before a counter with plate glass mirrors above. Some track lighting glares off the top of Greg's hair as he lightly dances around a beautiful young lady in his chair. Her hair is simple: long, but with some swooping around her sides, I guess to show off her eyes.

On my left side is a sofa with end tables and a couple of comfy chairs. One lady is there, with her purse cradled in her lap, reading a paperback novel.

"Excuse me." I hear Greg tell his client.

I thrust my hands in my brown corduroy pants pockets. He comes to me.

"Do you need something, Simon?"

"Yes, I need to do something. What can I do to help?"

Greg looks like I surprised him. I catch his profile darting over to Joey. The tall man with the football physique nods quickly and gestures with wet fingers towards the door.

"Ah," Greg says. "If you want, you could help sweep up."

"Ok."

"There's the broom. There's the bin. Got it?"

"Yes."

Greg goes back to his young lady, and she smiles at me.

I think I can feel my cheeks flush.

I go over and get the broom and metal dustpan. My dad taught me to sweep – I do it at his shop all the time – so I start in with a slow gathering. I pool the hair from around the chairs into a more-or-less regular line, and then work this over to my pan.

As I sweep, I think about what fun guys Greg and Joey are. Their salon is nice. People feel welcomed here; welcomed and taken care of. Yeah, that's how I feel too, taken care of. It's only right that I try to help them out.

The feel, almost a taste really, of the humidity in the air – from the sinks; from the dryers – reminds me again of the sudden storm in the desert. It came on so unexpectedly, as did the encounter with the guys holding onto each other.

Why did the cashier react with such a violent threat? Was it just something he said because that's how he's supposed to feel? Say it because I was there to hear it? No. It seemed much worse than that. It almost appeared as if Mike was bent on punishing those guys for being open. Like it was a personal thing for him.

It was the gift shop attendant's hatred that was disgusting, much more than two girly guys wanting to hold hands in public.

I catch a reflection of myself working in the front window. It hits me all of a sudden. Greg and Joey are exposed, in public, all day long. They don’t fear that kind of implicit threat from Mike. How could they?

And then, as I bend to sweep into my dustpan, I remember meeting the TV repairmen about three years ago. They live much differently.

Part 4: Behind Bars

"Simon," my mom said in the car. "You have to be polite. I've never met these guys before."

I rolled my head on Hubert's front passenger seat like I was tormented. "Well, all right. If you insist!"

"Yes, I know – you're always polite, but – " she trailed off. She made that nervous clicking thing again and gripped the wheel tight. "I think these men are…that…Well – that they like their privacy."

"Ok." I guessed I knew what that meant: 'Don't be nosy!'

It was a hot day towards the end of summer. Our old television set labored under the high heat to keep us entertained, but something had blown.

It had conked out and now we had to take it to get fixed.

I liked the road south out of Judas Tree. Big dairy farms soon gave way to stands of forest and wide margins of creek beds never cleared by the original settlers. The road stepped closer and the path through the woods began to twist and ford small waterways. A few miles out of town, cleared from a stand of trees, and opposite the 'T' intersection of a country road heading west, three houses stood. Not old ones; modern ranch-style, but with little yard or clearing around them, the forest sheltered them and kept them, as my mom had hinted, private.

She slowed and pulled into the third driveway. This most southernly house was different though, for all around it was a tall steel-mesh fence.

Now I was confused – this did not look like a business, and as the VW jostled over the rough gravel driveway, I asked, "They fix TV's?"

"That's what a friend said at work!" My mom sounded just as surprised as I did.

She pulled up, parked, and I glanced at the set in the backseat.

"Are we going to take it?"

"Wait." She opened her door. "Let's find out first."

I crunched the gravel walking behind my mom. You would think there would be a front door – everybody has a front door, right? Instead there was a gate. My mom pulled it. It was locked. She looked for a doorbell button. Instead there was a square speaker mounted on the gate support. She depressed a knob. Nothing happened; no buzz, no sound of a door chime or 'ding dong' from within. Nothing.

She looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Hello." A radio-sounding voice came out of the speaker.

"Um – hello!" My mom leaned in.

"Can I help you?"

"Um – Sara McGill sent me. She recommended you to fix TV's…"

As my mom was speaking, a loud buzz arose, and a bolt-click was heard. She pulled on the gate and it opened.

We walked into a little clearing before the front door, which was large, dark and paneled. A huge lion's head doorknocker was polished to an inch of its life and glared out from the center.

The door opened and a man about my mom's age came out.

"Where is it?" he asked, leaving the door stand open.

My mom gestured, saying, "I'll show you."

They went off to the car together and I was drawn inside.

The room off of the short entry hall was wide open. A full run of windows along the opposite wall opened onto a deck suspended amongst a curtain of trees. There was a fountain on the tiled floor, rising up and made of the same mud-red squares. The breeze through this sheltered house was cool and I heard birdsong. I rudely let myself have free rein, and found the birdcage in the corner by a stone fireplace.

I must have been smiling like a fool as my finger poked the bars and I head someone say, "Who are you?"

I spun around, my hands flying back to my butt to brace me against the cage, and I saw a second man standing there.

He was in his sixties, I guessed. His hair was all gray, and his darting glance between the open front door and me was frightening.

"My mom…" I stammered. "Brought our TV."

"Oh!" he said relieved. "Jim's with her?"

I nodded my head, and he seemed to warm a bit. "You like finches?" he asked.

I blinked. "I suppose so," I swallowed.

"Those yellow ones." He gestured behind me with a growing smile, "Are called finches."

"Ah." I turned to watch them. As the man came up to the cage, the 'finches' seemed to recognize him and gathered with hopeful eyes on his hands.

"Where are you from?" he asked me.

"Judas Tree."

"Oh, just up the road."

"Yeah."

"Do you like school?"

I swallowed hard; sometimes to be polite, and please an adult, one must lie. "Yes, sir." I'd have to remember this for Monday morning Confession. I couldn't receive the consecrated host with this on my conscience.

"Jim is the repairman. I don’t know a thing about electronics."

"What do you do, sir?"

"Call me Pete, ok Son? I'm retired, so I do what I want to."

"Oh."

"What do you say we go find your mom and Jim?"

"Ok, sir – I mean, Pete."

We walked to the front door. Looking out, I could tell the gate was closed and secure. Beyond the bars, Hubert's green shell glimmered in the summer heat, but his doors were closed. There was no sign of anybody.

"They must have gone to Jim's repair shop. Come on." He closed the paneled door jostling the lion's head knocker, and then he threw three bolts. "I'll take you down."

There was a small door in the hall. He opened it and switched on a light. Then Pete disappeared.

I went up to the door and saw it was a stairway leading down. Pete was nearly halfway to the bottom, so I followed with one final, and awe-inspired look at their beautiful living space.

At the bottom of the green-carpeted steps, I rounded the edge of the doorless wall, and was stopped dead in my tracks.

In a space as large as the living room above, a fully outfitted bar glimmered and sparkled. Pete was marching his way across the room, so I followed, letting my eyes trace the transparent shelves filled with glasses and bottles, and dotted with various signs. Some were familiar, like the Anheuser-Busch eagle, but others were new to me, like a giant blue badge with two cut ribbons hanging off.

Pete went through another door, and I followed into a sort of garage space. Two steps down, my mom and Jim were busy peering into the back of the TV from which Jim had already removed the cover.

They hardly acknowledged us, so I tugged on Pete's shirtsleeve elbow.

When he bent down, I asked, "Can I see your bar?"

This made him smile.

"Not many little boys are interested in our bar, but ok. Let's go."

He led the way, and I felt giddy; I wasn't like other boys, that much I knew.

In the room, Pete ducked behind the counter, and a few clicks later, I was floored.

First the track lights came on to wash the glasses and different colored bottles on the shelves in brilliant sparkle. Then the neon signs lit up in multi colors – beer names of many kinds, followed by whirling fans of color wheels within shadowboxes. Now the countertop itself was bright, and so too were spigots with fancy handles, including one with a blue and white grid and a golden lion's head.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it..? I love it."

At the far end of the bar from where he was, a large suspended plastic bubble caught my eye. Pete came out from behind the wooden counter to join me. I was too short to see what it was, but I desperately wanted to.

I swallowed. "Can you…lift me up, please?"

Pete bit down on a smile. "Sure."

I turned around and raised my arms up.

Pete bent down and wrapped his left arm around my chest. He went: "Alley oop," and I latched onto what was holding me tight. In a moment I was pressed against his chest and my eyes were looking in the plastic dome.

Inside a winter scene of tiny figures rode a slow-revolving circuit. Snow was everywhere – men and women were dressed for caroling, others were frolicking in horse-drawn sleighs, and then the showpiece drifted into view: eight prancing Clydesdales drafting a massive Budweiser beer wagon. On the top seat was Santa! At his side sat a Dalmatian puppy, while its mom and dad, and four other puppies, ran with the horses.

"It's wonderful!" I said.

As he sat me on the counter, Pete said, "You can stand there and watch."

I did. He added, very slowly, "I think it's wonderful too."

In a couple of minutes, he patted my tush and said, "Ok, let's get you down again. I don’t want your mom to worry, and yell at me."

I slid into his arms and he deposited me on the floor. "Thanks!" I smiled.

"You are welcome," he said just as Jim and my mom walked in. They were still talking about the details of the repair job.

"Mom, mom!" I ran over to her. "Look!"

"Oh…" She split looks between the men. "Very nice! You must entertain quite a lot."

"Well." Jim hesitated, "Yes, sometimes."

That seemed a bit odd to me. Go through all this effort, build something so wonderful, and then just keep it to themselves?

I blinked towards Pete, hoping he'd explain, but he did not.

˚˚˚˚˚

Later in the car, going back to town, I asked, "Can he fix the TV?"

"He said it will take about a week."

After a pause, I added, "Mom..?"

"Yes, Simon."

"Who are those guys?"

She made that sound again. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, they live together?"

"Yes Simon, they are together. Do you know what I mean?"

"Friends? Like Bert and Ernie?"

She sort of laughed. "They are friends, yes, but also together..."

"Oh," I said. "But, why do they live behind bars and gates?"

She stopped laughing. "Because some people are dumb and think Pete and Jim should be afraid of them."

"Why?"

"I can't explain it, Simon." She sounded annoyed. "Some things I can tell you when you are older, for then you will be able to understand better, but why others think they have anything to fear from folks like those two guys, I will never be able to explain, 'cause I don’t get it myself."

˚˚˚˚˚

As I sweep hair in the dustpan and dump it in the trash, the reason I'm thinking about them becomes clear. The TV repair guys and Greg and Joey have both made nice settings for themselves. For some reason, maybe having to do with the way the cashier acted, Pete and Jim bury themselves behind intercoms and iron bars, enjoying the shaded view from their back deck privately. These salon guys though, they live before a glass curtain, and make their environment open for all to enjoy.

Last month, after all the customers had gone, and I was waiting to be picked up, Greg and Joey stood still a moment. They both had a grave expression, and an odd vibe passed between them. I think I know now what they were thinking about me. I think it is the same thing that Sister Tatiana was trying to warn me about.

Part 5: Confirmation

I'm sitting at the lunch table with Greg. He's gone out and gotten sandwiches and chips. Um – sour cream and onions, yum!

I crunch into one open-mouthed and wide-eyed to test if he cares.

Crunch; crunch; crunch; all he does is smile and bite into his turkey and bacon. He takes his own chip – barbeque, yuk – and crunches along.

After a sip of Mr. PiBB from a somewhat greasy can, I ask him, "Do you like animals?"

"Yes." He seems surprised. "We have a golden retriever at home – Liberty. You should meet him sometime. I know you'd like him, and he would love you!"

Now I was excited. "Did you ever see a picture of that new type of Chinese dog called the Shar Pei? They are all wrinkled."

"Yes. You like dogs?"

"Love 'em! I have a puppy poster of some Shar Pei. I'll bring it next time."

"Cool." He smiles and flashes some chip crumbs stuck to his teeth. "Maybe we could bring Liberty to the shop for you."

"Cool!" I cry out, and then I ask Greg honestly, "Do you think it's girly for boys to like puppy posters?"

"No. Some like black, some like white, it's all a matter of taste. Did someone say you were 'girly' for liking them?"

I ignore the question.

I sort of zone in on Greg's badger ring.

"Can I see that?" I ask, pointing.

Greg drops his food and wipes up with a napkin. He takes off the ring and puts it in my hand. I see a tiny sheen to it – from Greg's chips as he took it off. An expressive little badger twists his spine as if to confront the observer. Details of fur and paws with long claws are incised. The flank of his body is inlaid smooth with lapis and mother-of-pearl. Two eyes of jet stare up at me.

"My dad says lapis is good luck. He has a little one in his wallet."

Greg laughs. "Well, I guess it works. He's sure piling it in on Indian jewelry. That one's from him."

I slip the badger over my middle finger for a sec; it's way too big. I hand it back. "Thank you."

I don’t know, maybe I look sad or something, because Greg says to me, "You can tell me, Simon. What's on your mind?"

"Are you into animal symbols? You know, what they mean, and all."

"Don’t be afraid to be yourself, Simon. There is nothing wrong with liking what you like. The person who says anything about it is, is, just projecting their own fears onto you. You tell them to mind their own business! OK?"

I nod. These guys are really nice, just like my dad says.

"You and Joey have know each other since school?"

"Yes Simon." He dabs at his face with a napkin. "We've known each other for many years – " I guess it just hits him. "For more years than you've been alive."

"You guys…" I really don't know how I am going to finish the question. "Really, like, each other, huh?"

"Yes, Simon." He pulls himself a little bit across the table towards me. "What did your folks say about us?"

"Well, I know you're Gay, if that's what you mean."

Greg leans back on his chair, all smiles. His brown eyes sparkle, as he says, "Oh, a smart little boy, eh?"

I take a pair of chips and crunch with crumbs falling out through my grin. "I like you guys. You are fun, and nice, and – I don’t know – special."

Something in Greg changes. His blond hair seems to dim a moment, the corner of his mouth sags. He snaps a blink and swallows.

"We like you too, Simon. A lot." Now he laughs: "Except when you don’t chew with your mouth closed!"

I crunch louder, but this is my last chip, so I suck the salt and garlic loudly off my fingers as a substitute. Then I have a sad idea I want Greg to tell me isn't true.

"Do you guys, I mean, are you guys Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Did you get confirmed in the Church?"

"Yes. We both did when we were thirteen. Why?"

"I don’t know," I fib. "Just thinking about mine in a few years. What's your confirmation name?"

"Patrick."

I laugh and sing out: "You an Irish boy?"

"Yes."

"My dad's mom was Irish, so I'm quarter."

Then I come to the bleak heart of my question. "Do you guys still go to church?"

"The Church doesn't want us anymore, Simon."

"Why? Because you’re Gay?"

"Not exactly. They don’t make room for us because Joey and I are a couple."

I must be showing my 'I don’t get it' thought, because he goes on more softly, "It's like this. They would take us back, but make me say I do not love Joey, and ask him to say he does not love me. Could you go back to a place that says you can only enter if you renounce the love you feel for your mom, or for your dad? That would be unfair, right? That would be impossible, or wrong. And since Joey and are not going to say our love is some kind of mistake, the Church does not welcome us anymore, not because we are Gay, because we are happy together."

I have to think about Ralph. I have to feel sorry for him, although he's not Gay, as far as I know, I think he's suffering just like all these guys are.

˚˚˚˚˚

Last month the 7^th grade class was preparing for Confirmation. I remembered the church services from years past – how the candidate, wearing a white sash around the neck, would go up to stand before the priest. The sponsor would come up and place a hand on the candidate's shoulder while the initiate vows to be a faithful member of the Church and help everyone to be a better Christian – that is, live more like the man of the cross.

˚˚˚˚˚

The school bell rang. It was the end of another tiring day in Sister Tatiana's 5^th grade class. She was a tough nun. 'Firm but Fair' she liked to say, but we kids wondered sometimes about the 'fair' part of it.

Our new priest, Father Strathmore, and Sister Tatiana had arrived fresh with the new school year. At first it was hard to imagine life at church without Monsignor Helfgott, but Father Strathmore was fair, and seemed to look on us kids with some kind of compassion. We all wondered what had happened to Monsignor Helfgott, but Sister Tatiana said he was tired and needed a 'rest,' so – ok.

I grabbed my book bag. I was one of the last to leave.

"Good night, Sister Tatiana!"

"Simon, did you take your math homework?"

"Yes, Sister." My eyes drifted to my new puppy poster on the tack board – three little Labradors. I loved to share them; I smiled.

She snapped at me: "Puppies later, Simon! Show me your homework."

I undid my satchel and drew out the assignment. I caught sight of her tight collar that made her chin look flabby.

"Good." Is all she said, followed by, "Good night."

I went out the door, something in me wanted to like her, but she was hard to relate to. Her eyes were steely.

The hall was still pretty crowded. Kids helped their younger brothers and sisters tie shoelaces, and buckle straps. I was walking down the passage – see the 5^th and 7^th grade classrooms are next to each other on the same side of the building – when a hand came out and grabbed my arm.

"Meet me in the church."

It was Ralph from the 7^th grade, a redhead boy with big freckles, and pretty large teeth too.

"Now," he added and walked away. There was a frightening urgency in his voice. I watched him shoulder the strap of his book bag and flow with the kids down the hall to the school's main lobby, our statue of Mary, and the turnoff to the front door.

At that moment, I had a weird prickling on the back of my neck. I turned around. Sister Tatiana was standing outside our classroom door, watching me.

I left the school. I walked the long way round the block to the side that Saint Lazarus' front doors faced.

I glanced over my shoulders before turning towards the church. There was no one to see, although I knew the 5^th grade windows looked this way.

I began to jog, stopping only at the steps of the church. Glancing skywards, I saw the dark pointed triangle of roof slate piercing the blue sky and the clouds rolling high above the steeple.

Inside, it seemed really dark. The narthex smelled good, and I wanted to get to the holy water font. I stepped towards the open doors to the main church.

"Pseest," I heard.

I looked around. The place seemed empty.

Ralphie jerked an anxious hand at me from the baptistery.

I went over to him. He hush-fingered me and went to the basement stairs. I followed him down, getting more nervous with each step.

He stepped up to the activities room – where little kids play during services, or noisy babies are brought by their moms – and walked in. Now, as he switched on the lights, I could see the tables were pushed together for some big project.

Ralph closed the door behind me. "Sit down," he said.

I walked to the table, seeing the tack boards of this windowless space were fitted with posters of saints. Several were featured on each one: dates of lives; patrons of this or that – and most importantly – what they could offer if a candidate chose him or her as a Confirmation model.

It made me think. In our 5^th grade room, Sister Tatiana allowed me to put up my newly arrived puppy posters, which we ordered in class from a catalogue once a month, but she sat me across from a poster with the words and music of an old song – Farther Along. I looked at that poster a lot and knew it all by heart.

Ralph went to a shelf. He took down a metal tray with high sides, and brought it over. Curious, I peeked in as he set it on the table. I recognized the contents right away. It was his Confirmation stole, a strip of white felt to drape around his neck. There were several red felt letters loose in the tray too. I saw an 'S' and an 'A.'

Ralph sat heavily with a sigh. He looked weird.

"What Confirmation name did you pick?" I thought I'd change the subject before he even said why we were here.

"Ummm – " started the redhead boy. "I think I'm going with Thomas."

I almost smiled. "Thomas? The doubter."

Ralphie's steel-cold eyes were not laughing. He leaned elbows on the table, and brought those blue piercers closer to me. "He had his questions. He needed a push to believe again, but Christ was there when he needed him."

I guess I blinked a few times. I hadn't thought about it that way before. 'Tempted and tried,' the opening line of that song ran through me 'we're oft made to wonder.' I guess that was Thomas – and Ralph too.

"You want me to help? Glue on the letters?" I reached for the tray. His hand clamped onto mine. It was hot and sticky-wet.

"Simon, I need to know something from you."

I pulled my hand back, swallowed and nodded.

He asked slowly, "Do you like Father Strathmore?"

I must have missed the real question. "He's nice, I guess. Not as nice as Monsignor Helfgott."

"Do you miss our old priest?"

I nodded. "Do you?"

"No." He was adamant; it seemed I pissed him off.

"I'm sorry," I added. "I just thought…"

"Do you know why Monsignor Helfgott was transferred away from here?"

Now I was getting frightened. I really had no idea, so I shook my head. The room seemed very closed-in all of a sudden. Its purpose seemed odd. Why have a protected area within a holy space – an escape room within a church?

'Farther along, we'll all know more about it.'

"Your homeroom teacher, Sister Tatiana," Ralphie continued. "She's tough."

"Tell me about it," I chortled.

"She…" He hesitated. "She looks at me funny, kind of suspicious. You know she arrived with the new priest, after Monsignor Helfgott was reassigned."

"Yes."

"She doesn't like me."

"Don’t say that."

"It's true."

Suddenly Ralph stood and took out his sash. He fingered it a moment and put it on. One red 'T' and one 'H' were glued to both sides near the top. He looked really emotional. It was all confusing.

'Sometimes I wonder why I must suffer,

being accused by those of our loved ones.'

He sat on his haunches by my knees. His eyes were blurry, his freckles faded against the flushed ground of his cheeks.

"Simon, I need for you to tell me one truth. I won't be angry, or upset. I know you are a good kid, But – did you tell anyone, tell Sister Tatiana – about that day in the vestry? Did you blab?"

It seemed like a huge puzzle piece being jammed into a small cutout. It did not make sense to me. "No," I said strongly. "I haven't told anyone." Frankly, I didn't know what there was to tell: just a boy – Ralphie – crying and telling me to stay away from our parish priest, or at least not to be alone with him.

Ralph put his elbows on my knees. He seemed near a panic. "Well, don’t tell her. OKAY, buddy? If your teacher asks, don’t tell on me – got it?"

Like that day in the vestry, his desperate attempts to sound reasonable were terrifying. I nodded. "Yes, but I don't know what there is to tell."

Ralphie's freckles went ashen. His eyes and lips sagged. Then he slowly said, "I believe you. You don’t know what happened. And that's good. You are good; a good boy; you don't want to know." Then he blinked, thinking I suppose that he was about to explain something even an eleven-year-old child could understand.

Instead, he asked, "You ever get blamed for something you didn't do?"

"Yeah. I guess we all do."

"Yes, that's my point exactly. Sometimes the innocent are the only ones singled out for punishment."

I could feel my eyes grow round as saucers. "What would they blame you for?"

"Something Monsignor Helfgott did to me, something that I didn't want. Help me out. Okay, buddy? Just don’t tell on me. Please."

And as that day in the vestry, tears welled and a glistening of snot appeared in his nostril. I had no idea what was going on, but who could deny a simple request for protection; for shelter like the purpose of this room, if accompanied by a tear?

"Of course, Ralphie. You don’t have to worry about me."

Slowly, this gawky Wendy's Hamburger girl of a red-headed boy hugged me. His whole upper body latched onto mine as I sat there, his arms tightening on the side of my arms and back, and then he squeezed so hard, and in such relieved spasms, that I heard my back pop in a couple of places. His felt Confirmation stole pressed into my face with the full force of his embrace.

'Farther along, we'll know more about it,

We'll understand it all by and by.'

The roughness of a cutout red letter 'T' began to rub up and down on my cheek. Behind me, it sounded like Ralph had begun to sob.

(to be continued…)