Unafraid – Novella Four - 4. Part 4: Sanctus et Benedictus & Part 5: Agnus Dei; Miserere Nobis

Part 4: Sanctus et Benedictus

I can pray no more. I make the sign of the cross, and sit in some form of shellshock on the hard wooden seat of the pew.

'Heaven and earth are full of your glories,' echoes through my hollow-feeling head. It is hard to relate to that here, locked up in this stuffy room of a church. His glories are all around us, but how many do we willfully ignore? How many do we really choose to sing our hosannas in praise of?

I seem to remember seeing something on TV where a psychologist explained the term passive-aggressive. He said a person like that will try to get to an individual by tormenting another in front of the one he can't or won't show his true hostility towards. Yes. Now I know. That was Father Strathmore when he locked Gina in the closet.

At the vestry door, a shadow turns into Stevie. My classmate has bowed head, but before he goes to kneel in a pew in front of me, he gives a nod.

As I stand, I try to sink down my fear. My shoes sound cold and insignificant on the massive marble floor of Saint Lazarus, but I must go in and face him for my second Confession since this all came to light.

˚˚˚˚˚

I don’t look up at the ceiling; I don’t look over to the vestments; I don’t look at Father Strathmore; I just sink into the chair sitting next to him.

He starts with an upraised gesture, and I cross myself. "In the name of the Father and Son and Holy Spirit."

"Bless me Father, it has been one week since my last confession."

"Simon."

He forces me to look at him, then holds out his fingers.

I do not take them.

"Let us start today with a reading from scripture." With his other hand, he picks up his bible. It falls open in his lap to a place he marked with a ribbon.

The scent of distant incense begins to touch the periphery of my perception.

"A reading from Luke, Chapter 18, Verse 18. Let us pray."

I fold my hands and lower my head.

"One wealthy man then asked him, 'Good Teacher, what must I do to share everlasting life with you?' Jesus said to him, 'Why do you call me good? None is truly good but God alone.' Here ends the reading from the gospel. Amen."

"Amen," I mumble.

"The lesson then goes on, Simon, to show that one must keep all the Lord's commandments, and break none of them. Do you see?"

"Yes, sir."

He lays his hand on top of mine. It is sweaty and hot. "Are you ready to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation?"

Staring at his grip on me, I think out loud, "Reconciliation with what? Is God not supposed to be everywhere, at all times…" I glare up to his troubled face. "…Seeing, what you do?"

He swallows once and pulls his hand away.

"God's Grace," he starts slowly. "Is a thing to be humbly begged for. It is like spiritual sustenance in the same way and degree the sanctified host is to our flesh. We must be contrite to receive it. So, I was asking you, Simon, are you truly ready to make a full confession of your affronts against His will?"

"I am."

"Then do so." His glasses glint hard in the reflected light from over my head.

"I continued to have covetous thoughts about Dylan's electronic pong game, and worse, as he also got another one with a little steering wheel – a racing game.

"I had ungenerous thoughts against Mr. Spencer when he assigned two social studies chapters as homework, and said we'd have a quiz in the morning, because 'we were behind.'

"I…I snuck into the kitchen to have two extra chocolate chip cookies after my mother told me I had had enough."

I pause.

"What else?"

"I…I…told my dad I was through reading my social studies chapters, when I wasn't."

"I see. What else?"

I am silent.

"Did you do drugs again?"

"No."

"Why, 'no?'"

"They gave me a headache, so I don’t like them anymore."

"Are you being truthful?"

"Yes."

"Good. Drugs are bad. Stay away from them."

I am silent.

He lets his frustration erupt through a sigh. "It's God's forced gift of free will that does us in, Simon."

I'm stunned, and I hope it doesn't show on my face. Didn't Monsignor Helfgott say these exact words to me, that day with Ralph?

"Simon, you are at the point where your childhood innocence is fading away."

"What happens to it?"

"Yours, like mine and like the rest of us, is either oppressed or repressed. It's an unavoidable outcome of growing in the light of God."

"What is the difference between the two?"

"Well, think of it this way: oppressed is when our access to internal things – good things, like love, loyalty, feelings of brotherhood – is closed off to us by pressure from other people. Repression is when we apply the same influence against ourselves, but…we are the only one who knows we are doing it. Get it?"

As I think about it out loud, I try to reiterate it in a simpler way: "Oppressed is bowing to other people's judgment, and repressed is deceiving ourselves about what is good and bad."

Father Strathmore removes his spectacles. Under them I can see something that looks like wonder. "It's not 'deception' if we are following His precepts. But, my goodness, you are a perceptive young man."

"I'm not sure I feel like a man at all."

"Well, the truth is Simon, that you are caught in the middle. Your body is moving quickly towards manhood, and your brain and emotions – and your soul too – are trying desperately to catch up. I know, because I remember what it was like to be thirteen."

"Is that when you decided to become a priest?"

The glasses go back on and do a quick raking in the light from above my head.

"Yes." He drifts off into memory. "Every night, with hands bent in prayer and knees pressed humbly on the cold floorboards, I would entreat Jesus to take this misery from me – to let the cup pass."

He snaps out of his daydream a bit, and locks cold, emotionless eyes on me. "I received my answer soon enough. So, yes; about your age, I received my calling to the Church.

"When I was a young seminarian, I had a difficult time. I became a priest to force celibacy onto myself. Yes, Simon." His head tilts to his hands with moist eyes. "To oppress myself, so that I may be blessed as one who comes in the name of the Lord. You may not understand it, but I had the calling to serve. So, as a young man, I allowed all personal thoughts to go, and to be replaced with the ways in which I was moved by the example Christ serves as the living ideal of how men can love and build a community based on that love. I was drafted, so to speak, to become as close to the model he showed his disciples and pray everyday humbly that one day I might achieve the worthiness to be considered by him among his select loved ones."

I mumble: "Like John..?"

"Yes. Like his beloved, Saint John."

"But, it does not sound like a joyful commitment."

His anger flares. He repositions himself on his seat, an after he bites his lip to control his tone, he asks, "Did you kiss any boys this week?"

I clench my mouth, and shake my head.

"Truly?"

"Yes, Father. It's true."

He inhales sharply. "Do you know where the word 'contrite' comes from?"

"No, sir."

"From Latin. From the Latin verb conterere; to grind down, to wear away to nothing. Tell me, young man, are you truly sorry for your wrongdoings?"

"I am sorry for all those things I did to hurt others, consciously or unconsciously."

"Do you know how bad it is to lie in Confession?"

"I am not lying, sir."

He looks doubtful, which spurs me on to gather my thoughts. "Father, you mention God's forced gift of free will, but sometimes He puts His will into us, and it would be a sin to shun it just because others are afraid and dumb."

"What do you mean..?"

"I mean, think how you'd feel if others lined up against your calling to the priesthood and said that natural instinct for you was 'evil.' You would know they were wrong, and that they were dumb, and that maybe they said just because they have hate in their hearts placed there not by God, but by their own willful refusal to let the truth in. You'd go on to answer your calling, because the love in your heart will always outshine the hate in others. Am I right?"

Father Strathmore looks miserable. I have touched him; maybe the divine in me has reached his personal darkness.

"My work for God is a transference of my private life. What I do is God's work at the sacrifice of feelings of loneliness and separation. Do you have any idea just how lonely, young man, it can be?"

I shake my head.

"So lonely, that once when I was a young priest I found a spider living in the bottom of my bathtub. I would talk to him, and I found myself just longing for the day to be over so I could rush to the side of the tub and tell him how my day went. In the mornings, I would be there too, expressing my anxieties and asking him if I could really go on."

He seems on the verge of tears from what I can see through his glasses. I don’t know what to say.

He shakes himself a little bit, his index finger comes up and he bends it before gently biting it for a long moment. "Well," he says at last. "That was a long time ago. I was a different person."

"So, you're not lonely now?"

His expression goes blank. A flush slowly rises on his cheeks, and he slides onto his knees before me.

Without a word, his hands grip my legs above the knees, and rub – rub desperately.

I kick back my chair and stand.

"Wait!" He clambers to his feet, slightly stepping on his stole. "We are not done."

"I think we are."

"Do not compound the egregiousness of your sins with the masking of them from your Confessor."

"I have made a full confession of my wrongdoings."

"And of your thoughts too?" He stands by his chair looking pitifully scared.

"Yes, of my thoughts and intentions too."

"No, Simon. I believe you are holding back one last item to confess."

"What?"

I hear him swallow. "Do you still have feelings for other boys?"

I hold my head up high, and lie to his face. "No."

His stunned features gather into a hateful stiffness. "Have you made a complete and true confession of your sins, my son?"

I repeat the formulaic reply: "I am sorry for these, and for all my wrongdoings."

"On your knees, boy."

"What…why..?"

"You must make your act of contrition, and do it humbly and with the fear of God."

I blink in growing panic. I feel trapped, and I feel unsafe – but – I sink to my knees as commanded.

I lock my hands together, and I have to close my eyes so I do not see him, however – as I begin my prayer – I can sense his lingering presence like the stale scent of incense and stained sunlight flicking the drifting dust particles in the room around me. He circles me too.

"Oh, my God," my voice is so emotional. "I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my misdeeds, because I have offender You, my God, who are all good and deserving of love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your Grace, to be contrite for my wrong doings, and do penance to amend my life. Amen."

I open my eyes and make to rise. A rough pair of hands push me down at the shoulders from behind.

"You must make a proper act of contrition."

I look up to him, and the starry-blue vaults above his head, because I do not know what he means.

"You omitted a line."

"I did?"

His sweaty palms massage my shoulders, then slide down my back.

"The line you must say is: 'I detest all my misdeeds, because I dread the loss of heaven, and fear the pains of hell.' Now – say it."

I re-form my hands. "I detest all my misdeeds, because I dread the loss of heaven, and fear the pains of hell."

"Amen," he whispers next to my hair, while I cringe from his touch.

He moves away and I stand and am genuinely confused as to which door to use. I feel dirty.

"You have not received your penance yet."

"Sir..?"

"Fifty. Say fifty Hail Marys and fifty Our Fathers."

"I've never received that many – "

He cuts me off with anger: "Do you believe in hell!"

I do not answer.

"Fifty. Now, go and sin no more."

He makes a half-hearted sign of the cross, reciting, "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I mummer the standard response, "His mercy endures forever."

Father Strathmore turns his back on me. But, I have to know. "And that spider…what happened to him?"

The priest's body rotates in slow motion, his mouth agape. "I suppose you can guess."

"Well, if I have to guess, I imagine that instead of freeing it – you let him perish as a prisoner to your loneliness."

He casts one last glance to the starry vaults, and I leave him; I close the door behind me, while I hear him begin to sob.

Part 5: Agnus Dei; Miserere Nobis

'Our Father, who art in heaven…'

My mind recites the words in unconnected apathy. A tally registers each set of prayers to Mary and the Father in sets of twos.

I kneel again; my fingers, as before, are slipped tight over one another: my eyes are shut, and my head is bowed, but that is all.

While one part of my brain does its assigned penance, the rest considers a lack of holy feeling. It used to be, that as the prayers were ticked off in my conscious reckoning, I could perceive a warmth transpire. I would gladly do my penance to wash away my guilt and feel in its place the descent of God's Grace.

Now, in its place, images crowd on the back of my eyelids. I see the phantom drops of blood from the pierced breasts of the lambs painted by the side of the high altar. The red, the burning, searing red, that fall like teardrops into the vast waters of a world, that despite its infinity, cannot wash them away.

'Hail Mary, full of grace…"

Images of warmth too: of the loving and tender glances between my friends, Greg and Joey. I see Greg's large eyes becoming moist with sadness as he tells me the Church does not want them back, except as penitents – like this – on their knees. They'd only be allowed the status of supplicants, who are forever forced to be remorseful for having felt love for one another in this cruel world of ours.

Does that fate loom for me? Is that the fate Father Strathmore chose for himself?

'Our Father, who art in heaven…'

The lamb of God is supposed to take away the sins of the world – but, is love among those wrongs for which he bled?

Suddenly I feel claustrophobic in the wide-open space of this church. And in my own head, I smell the enclosed logs of the play fort's upstairs room.

I waited for Terry every day of last week, and on Thursday evening, the day of Father Strathmore's Religion Class, I desperately wanted to have someone to talk to, but he never showed up.

On Friday, finally he did.

˚˚˚˚˚

"Then sometimes it seems I should pray

Humbly upon a bended knee

To hurry up the long Judgment Day

That from my mind will clear the debris –

That will rend my heart most holy.

So until that time, I'll just betide

And pretend that I can flee

The shadow's pace that I long to hide.

But it's hard to feel so astray

And in every face only see

Lingering mistrust; ideas run away,

Where no truth that no one can see –

Where every soul's a refugee.

What they can spy on the outside

Only confirms that they can see

The shadow's pace that I long to hide."

I sat learning Terry's poem from my green notebook. It seemed so sad, yet I committed it slowly to memory; somehow it seems the right thing to do. Terry had headed it Ballade, whatever that means.

My back leaned against the rough wall of stacked logs. This place was stale and hot feeling, while little blue patches of sky taunted me about how nice and fresh the evening was just out side this room. But, I could not be lured away, not until I saw him.

My mind was a tumult. I had so many questions. What did he tell Jodie? Was he just laughing at me behind my back, and pulling a person he cared about – Jodie – into his 'Let's laugh at the fairy' joke? But, still, there was the nagging belief that the kiss Terry and I shared could not have meant nothing to the high school sophomore. I knew through a deep-seated act of faith that it signified as much to Terry as it did to me.

There was a sound: a creaking board on the steps.

I stood, and watched the back of Terry's head rise gracefully, effortlessly, above the line of the floor. He hadn't seen me yet, but in a moment, he paused and rotated his head.

He stopped climbing the steps, and I thought he might actually turn around and go down them again.

Into his stare, I said, "Hey."

He glanced around nervously, like maybe he expected to see someone else with me.

He came up, and stood with hands in his pants pockets.

"I don’t have any redballs with me."

I shrugged. "I don’t want speed."

"Then why you here?" His tone was ice-cold.

I stood up with pleading hands reaching out to him. "To see you…to talk to you."

"'Bout what?" He shrugged and averted my gaze.

I came out with it, walking towards him, "Did you tell Jodie that we kissed?"

Anger washed over Terry. He stormed up to me with a tightly contorted mouth, and before I knew it, his punch landed open-palmed on my chest. The blow reeled me back on my heels, but as I stumbled, Terry grabbed my shirt double-fisted and slammed me against the logs of the wall.

He sputtered in my face: "I'd never tell her that. I mean – NEVER – so, don’t tell me you did!"

His pupils were so fierce, but behind them, behind the shadow of that passion-fueled fire, smoldered stone-cold fear. I could see it plain as day.

"I thought we were friends." I told him as calmly as I could manage.

He removed one hand from my shirt, and drew it back as a fist. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing, man. Terry. I thought you trusted me. Don't worry; I'll keep your secrets. You don’t have to beat me to silence."

He deflated, and I stepped out of his clutch, telling him, "As I said, I thought we were friends."

Terry moved away from me. He paced the room with hands on his hips and his neck craned back.

I didn't know what else to say.

Finally, he went into one corner, placed his open palms over his eyes and squatted down on his haunches.

"Terry, what is it?"

There was no response.

I thought of what I could do. I remembered my notebook. I searched quickly on the floor for it, because Terry had knocked it out of my hands when he grabbed me. I stooped and picked it up. "I memorized it, mostly."

"What?" he mumbled into his palms.

"Your Ballade. Do you want to hear?"

There was no response, so I started anyway.

"I seek the light shining its ray

From top of sky in apogee

When no shade is cast that's not at bay

And no one looking can disagree –

And they must themselves oversee.

If such a place exists flip-side

It's only there that I will free

The shadow's pace that I long to hide."

He interrupted me by rising, and gently taking my upper arm.

"Look. Ok, Simon? I'm sorry."

Was he about to cry?

"It's all right. I'll never tell if you don’t want me to. Ok?"

"Yeah. Ok."

He unhanded me, and I tried to change the mood by laughing: "Know what I'm doing this weekend?"

He shook his head, like I had puzzled him profoundly.

"I told my mom I want to go to the mall."

"Oh yeah, why?"

"Suddenly, I feel my clothes are a little old-fashioned."

Terry chuckled, and I dare not tell him I planned on making a beeline to the Gap to hunt down his specific chinos and mesh belt with a friction slide.

"Ok, Simon. Let’s, just, sit a while. I'm sorry."

Terry went to the place we had sat at last week and slid down to the floor. He motioned to the spot next to him, and I sat with a good six inches between us.

"You really learned my poem, didn’t you?" His embarrassed gaze rotated to me.

"Do you mind?"

He shrugged like he had a tick, and somehow I knew he did mind. Maybe not in a way that he thought I was going to claim authorship, but minded in a way that it moved us closer together. Perhaps this display of connectedness made him want to reject it. Some things are too real for us to easily deal with, and so maybe Terry is in danger of simply shutting down; it's fresh air, and Terry's reaction is to shut and lock the window.

He admitted quietly, "I do have speed, if you want it."

"No thanks. Not right now."

"Ok."

It was his left hand that was closest to mine, and after he flattened his legs, it fell on his upper thigh, and I wanted to slip my right hand between those fingers – the same fingers that had written his poem – but I did not. Terry was too down, and I wondered if I could reach him, but there was something I had to know once and for all.

So I said, "You know People magazine?"

"Yeah."

"Mr. Spencer – our 7^th grade teacher – has a subscription to National Geographic and People."

He started watching me with piqued interest. "So?"

"So, he leaves old issues laying out on top of the book shelves below the windows. About a year ago, I first saw an issue of People with Lee Majors on the cover."

Terry chuckled: "The Six Million Dollar Man?"

"Yep. And that's how I always knew him, with a little kid's view. But, a few months ago, I was looking through the old stacks and pulled it out again – only this time, it was different."

"Different, how?"

"Even as a kid, and watching the show, Lee had that calm, self-centeredness…" I thought to myself that it's like Terry's vibe too. "But, not the cocky mask of someone like John Wayne. You know what I mean? That guy is like the propped-up, cartoon image of manliness. No. Lee is centered, never belittling others to raise himself higher. He would never scoff at the weaker guy who asks for his assistance, like Wayne who always uses the 'sissy' word. The greatest contrast is that Lee Majors is approachable. His manliness is his openness, and this letting his guard down only makes him seem stronger."

Terry thought it over with a quick smiling flash. "Yeah, I guess I know what you mean. Did you hear? He's supposed to be getting a new show."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Buck Rogers."

"Oh," I said in deep admiration. "That will be cool."

"Yeah, but dude – why are you talking about him anyway?"

"Well, when I found that old magazine, I couldn't look at him in the same way. It was different; I guess, I was different. I just held it up, and on the cover, Lee is standing with his shirt open, a downward tilt to his head, with his eyes to the camera and hands down on the waist of his jeans. And, and, I don’t know. He was so amazing. Ah, man. It was all so different."

"How so?"

"At the beginning of the school year, I felt nothing. But by wintertime, it seemed I had crossed over an invisible river, some sort of personal Rubicon. I swiped that mag, and lay in bed, just, just – I don’t know – dreaming with my eyes open. Does that sound weird?"

Terry tried to shrug, like he didn’t care, but I could tell he was deeply interested in what I was saying, so I went on.

"I'd just feel a certain way looking at him. A tender and mysterious passion to be with him; to just spend time with him. I had a feeling that he would know what to do, even though I didn't, and I just wanted to be with him."

"Why are you telling me this, dude?"

"Because I think you can relate. I suspect you have something very similar to tell me in return."

Terry tried to shoulder another non-committal shrug, but I persisted.

"Well, do you? Terry? You can tell me – you can talk to me."

He drew in a sharp intake of air, which came out as a moaning sigh. "In the locker room." He looked so sad telling me. "In the 8^th grade, in the locker room, suddenly the horsing around became more for me. I started to get erect, and then later on – like you, at night – I'd think about those boys, and dream about just hanging out with one, and being able to tell him how I felt."

His shy glance, that was split between the fingers spread flat on his legs and my probing gaze, morphed into peevish anger again. He raised his knees to his chest, asking, "Are you happy now? Now that we shared our secrets."

I so wanted to just grab his hand, as if physical contact could shake him out of the doldrums, but I knew it was unwise to try. I told him, "I can't say 'happy,' but thank you. I expected you had something similar to my experience to share."

"Yeah…" an exhausted cry escaped through his frustration.

"Then tell me," I pressured him. "Why did you give Jodie a promise ring when you feel this way? Who are you deceiving, her or yourself!"

A wave of controlled rage washed over his face. "Simon, I asked you not to mention her to me."

I suddenly felt sorry for him. "I know, but…" My voice broke into pure emotion. "…Terry…"

His mouth quavered; tears appeared. "Just cuz I have those feelings, don’t mean – "

"Terry! We kissed, and it was, wonderful – "

His fist came crashing onto the floor between us.

"That don’t mean I'm queer." He wiped tears and snot with his now bloody knuckles.

"I don’t understand." I tried to reach him, "Remember, I said my fuzzy feelings of wanting to just hang out with Lee were strong and real?"

"So?"

"Well, I did not feel that sort of vague and two-dimensional image of tenderness come to life in me towards any real boys I know, none of those day-to-day guys I see all around me, until…until…I held your hand, Terry. Until…we kissed." My heart was beating so fast, I felt sure he heard it pounding against my rib bones from outside of my chest.

He glared at me with no sign of give-and-take honesty.

I moved to kneel in front of him.

"It's just…" I stumbled over my own thoughts. "That's how I feel about you. Tell me, is that feeling so bad? Is it how you feel about me?"

It looked like I had jabbed him with a fork. His spine shot up like a spring, and his two splayed palms came slamming like a Mack truck onto my shoulders.

I fell backwards. My skull crashed on the floor with a ringing echo, and I had a fuzzy sense of the older boy leaping to his feet.

Instantly, I drew my hands and knees up to my body, because I really thought he'd follow his punch with a kick. Instead, he bent himself at the waist, like a folded piece of paper. He shot arms stiff and straight out along his sides, and as he danced a nervous fury above me, I could barely make out the words he spat in rage.

"Shit NO! I want nothing to do with you. Noth-thing!"

He straightened up, caught his breath, and this gave me time to roll out from between his feet.

I got to my knees, and then stood cautiously as he paced and glared at me.

I panted through my tears: "You're fucking mean, Terry."

He reared his fists. "Say that again!"

I just walked to the ladder, and towards the way out. I snatched my book bag by the strap and started to go down. I had no intentions of looking back.

Halfway down it, I heard the high school boy's heavy footfalls shake the structure over my head.

He stomped to the opening and shouted after me: "Keep your mouth shut, Simon. Or else!"

He came down the top two steps, and shouted again. "You don’t get it. I made a mistake, that’s all."

When I reached the bottom, fresh air hit my face, and felt like mercy.

From the ladder, Terry continued to yell: "I like girls, Simon – girls only! So leave me the fuck alone!"

After a pace or two, and me getting onto the grass, I heard Terry go back up the steps, and I knew I was leaving him to his self-imposed isolation.

As I pulled in a big lungful of blossom-scented air, the springtime sweetness of the park returned to me, and along with it, my only thoughts then were how to help Jodie.

Don’t worry. I'll keep your secrets, Terry. But your girlfriend is the innocent one here; Jodie is the one who needs protection, not me. It's potentially her heart that will get broken, not mine – no, definitely not mine. Terry is fooling no one except himself and the one who potentially loves him, and it makes me pity him more than I could ever fear him.