Farther Along - Novella Two - 3. The Conclusion

Part 6: Of Puppies and Prayers

After a break of lying on the sofa and closing my eyes, I am back out in the salon. It's about 3 o'clock now, and I'd like to be heading home. But instead, I pick up my broom. There is hair beneath both Greg and Joey's chairs and they are snipping away with little glances in the mirror. Sometimes I think I catch them just looking at each other for a half-moment.

I'm feeling sad. Thinking about Ralph, and how he might be blamed for some unjust thing he didn't want to be a part of, won't leave my brain. Instead, as I slowly gather hair with my rustling bristles, I focus on the noise around me. The radio is on, of course, dancing to the beat of Le Freak, but I listen for the subtle things under the beat. I hear the satiny burn of the polyester smocks as the boys move around the chairs and their thighs brush up against them. I hear a single hairdryer in the back providing a white-noise drone. And I hear a sound I suddenly wish I was experiencing for myself. Yes, I look up. I wonder if I want to feel it more from tall and dark Joey, or slender and fair Greg, but I wish they were cutting my hair. I would treasure their fingers pulling up my near-blond locks, then as I watched them in the mirror, I could hear the hard sound of the scissors' pivot as a tiny squeak followed by the zipper noise its blades make shorting my hair along the line of comb teeth. Maybe it's Greg cutting my hair; it's his silver badger ring pinging the comb as he cuts. I would like that.

The two of them look frankly at me in the mirror's reflected light. I stand with my broom glancing between them, and slowly, a knowing vibe passes from Greg to Joey; from Joey to Greg. It is like our parting last time, like they know something about me, can see something in me, maybe something like they see in each other.

I shudder. I go back to sweeping, trying hard not to think about Sister Tatiana on her knees, with her premonition about my future, but it is impossible.

˚˚˚˚˚

I was looking out my classroom window. I liked being on the east side of the school. Afternoons were nicer without the slanting sun drawing down the blinds.

About me all the kids sat at their desks, filling their book bags and chatting. We were waiting out the last moment before the end-of-day bell released us.

Today was Friday, and it was one week and a day since Ralph asked me his favor. Somehow I had expected Sister Tatiana to fulfill his prediction right away, but she hadn't. His desperate feeling of misery and fear within the church's retreat room was still with me, and distracted me. I felt like I was almost free, for if she didn't ask within a week, maybe she would never do it.

Out the window, the first blush of spring was here. The shrubbery piled around the base of the old hip-roofed house across the street was erupting in yellow buds, but there were no green leaves to see anywhere yet. This house had a big silver-painted tin roof and a central chimney. The lines of the roof pointed up like an arrow to the congregation who I often watched gather there. The birds huddling around the brick opening now were fewer than on the dark winter afternoons when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the rising column of heat and grayish smoke. I'd sometimes see it – one of their lot would finally pass out from the fumes of burning heating oil, or lack of oxygen, and fall head-first into the life-saving abyss that could also kill. When that happened, the other birds, far from exhibiting an inclination to mourn, would simply shoulder ranks, and together conserve their energy. If winged creatures dabble in any sort of metaphysical wonder, maybe the feathered faithful consoled the others that a belief in the coming of spring was a must, and that the power which had created the life-giving warmth was also the power that called the little ones back to it. And, maybe that was all true.

The school bell rang, and I jumped up in my seat banging both my knees. I scrambled to stuff books and folders into my bag. My eyes darted, as happy classmates, already packed, sprang for the door. I did not want to be the last one out again, but after I slammed my desk lid closed, complete in my task, I was about the last of three, and by far the farthest from the door.

Suddenly it seemed a long way to walk – the aisle between the row of desks by the windows, where I sat, and the front of the room. I'd have to walk to the head of the aisle, turn right and march past Sister Tatiana working at her desk.

Maggie – the last 5^th grader to exit, except me – sang out: "Have a nice weekend, Sister Tatiana!"

I swallowed hard. There was a pending crack in the air, like thunder about to snap. I pressed my book bag close to my heart and walked.

Maybe she would not see me; maybe I could sail past while she graded. Her simple navy blue habit bent over her work, and kitten stickers were at her fingertips for good scores.

I started to walk by her desk. I was going to make it. I resisted the urge to bolt for the door, which was now straight in front of me. And somehow, for some reason, Ralph's teary and relieved eyes close to mine as he knelt by my side came to me. It was like a memory, but also like a warning.

I mumbled as low as I dare: "Night, Sister T."

I made it past her.

"Simon?"

I stopped. "Yes."

I held my breath.

She stood up. I heard the hard leather soles of her nun shoes punishing the vinyl tile floor. She was coming to me, her looming shadow on the ground transitioned to her full figure standing before me.

Her face was taut. Maybe 50; maybe 40; she had that make-up-free visage that is hard to gauge. Only the flesh on the lower half of her face was loose. The upper part was dominated by a pair of glasses in thick black frames. Her form was slight. She folded withered hands over each other at her abdomen.

"Do you have your social studies assignment?"

I grinned. Was that all? Social studies was one of my best subjects. I happily fished it out for her to see.

But.

When I looked up again, the classroom door was closing. She must have just kicked the stopper. She was coming back up to me, but her left hand gestured to the back of the room.

"I want to have a word with you."

"Yes, Sister."

I followed her to the small table in the back where four chairs waited for small groups.

She pulled out one for me. "Sit."

I dropped my bag in the chair next to it, and sat.

She slowly, and thus noiselessly, drew out the chair right next to me. My book bag was picked up and deposited away from us. I never imagined she'd want to sit anywhere but across from me – the power position.

"Simon…"

I blinked in surprise. Her tone was kinda soft.

"…I have to ask you about recent events, and – and, situations. All right?"

"Yes, Sister."

She inhaled, like she did not want to do this; her eyes dashed to the nearby tack board. On it was her song; her Farther Along song. My puppy posters were down the wall, towards the door.

I thought I might lighten the mood with a temporary distraction: "When is this month's new poster catalog coming out?"

She sighed; turned a scornful scowl on me. Then, a moment later, she folded her arms and inhaled a skyward breath.

"Don’t you think – " she started. "Simon – that eleven year old boys should be developing interests other than glossy posters of puppies and kittens?"

"Just puppies for me, Sister. The girls can have the kittens."

Her hands came down on the table. She didn't like my answer. "Tell me this, do Stevie or Brandon, or Dylan have any interest in puppy posters! No, they like basketball; softball; they like car magazines, and other things."

I swallowed hard. I wished Mrs. Clarkson, the old 5^th grade teacher were here this year. I wished Sister Tatiana would go back to wherever she came from.

I must have been looking down or something. She heaved a big sigh, adding, "It's effeminate, Simon. Do you understand? – Too girly."

I really didn't know, so I asked her: "What's wrong with puppies?"

Her mood changed. Maybe she sensed I was coming to the point of getting up on her. She turned teacherly; I think she knew that would engage me at my best level.

"What do you think puppies stand for, Simon? Symbolically, I mean."

I blinked a moment. "Um, loyalty, fidelity, love…"

"No. Those are 'Dog' attributes, and good ones, but puppies, specifically puppies, what do they mean?"

My eyes scanned the three tacked-up I had gotten last month: one of a white fluffy breed – Maltese?, I think – a single Saint Bernard, and a wheelbarrow full of fox terriers.

Sister Tatiana went on, "Puppies are symbols of being curious, trusting, sensitive, honest, and good companions. Maybe they are girly for a boy your age to like so much, but Simon, all those attributes fit you. You are like a wide-eyed puppy who does not know he is about to fall into a pit. Do you understand?"

Not really. She called me good things, then said I was dumb to have those qualities, like those things meant I wasn't watching where I was going.

"Yes, Sister," I said.

The one thing I liked about my teacher without any question was her sense of the fair. She promoted social justice in her class by listening to, and then blaming both sides of a quibble, but at that moment she seemed anything but fair to me.

She asked out of the blue, "Do you like Father Strathmore?"

"Yes, Sister."

"What about Monsignor Helfgott? Do you miss him?"

I thought about it a second. Would a white lie be well received? Did she want to hear that I had not missed the only priest I had ever known? The one I had grown up with?

"Yes," I said truthfully. "I miss him."

"Well…" She looked satisfied. "If you liked him, I need you to tell me the truth. Do you know why he was reassigned?"

"No."

"There's a certain boy, in the 7^th grade, who seems to stir up trouble. Perhaps you know who I mean."

I was shaking my head even before she finished.

"If you know anything, Simon – if you can confirm or deny anything – it is your duty as a good Catholic boy to tell me, lest you be forced to tell Father Strathmore your sin of a horrible lie in Holy Confession."

"I do not know anything, Sister Tatiana."

She stood up. If she had had a ruler in her hand, I'm sure she would have pounded her palm with it. She paced before me.

Behind her, my darting vision caught the lyrics:

Sometimes I wonder why I must suffer,

Go in the rain, the cold, and the snow –

While there are others living about us,

Never molested, though in the wrong.

"Simon!" She pounded on the table in front of me. "I have my fears for you! You, child, are in mortal danger. I can feel it; feel it in you spiritually. Pollution, child. You have a latent evil about to erupt in contemptible carnality."

I could feel me biting my lower lip. 'Carnality,' what did that mean? And 'latent?' – But 'evil,' that I knew, and a little piece of me shut off access to the nun at that moment. 'Evil' I was not.

She went on grasping with those withered hands at the table's sides, as if clawing their way to get to me. "Ralph has that evil in him, and I fear you do too. Simon, fight it. Come to the light."

"I do not know what…"

"No!" She cut me off. "Do not deny it. Instead, pray with me!"

Her hands pulled at my upper arms; pulled me down to the floor to kneel with her.

I folded my hands, and closed my eyes, closed them because I was frightened. If in this moment of entreaty to God I was supposed to feel connected to the great inner peace promised by our act of communication with Him, all I felt was a shivering rise from the cold tiles through my pant knees and rise along my spine in trepidation.

"Dear Lord, our holy Jesus Christ, let this cup pass from your servant Simon. Let him not suffer this trial of spirit and damnation of carnal excess. Guide him to know you in ever more pure forms of loving devotion, and turn his eyes away from evil. Amen."

"Amen," said I, not having any idea what I was wishing for.

She stood, pulled me up and latched onto my shoulders. "Now. Is there anything you saw between Ralph and Monsignor Helfgott?"

I swallowed hard. "No, ma'am. Nothing." This time, I knew I was in the right; it is what Christ would do. 'Evil' from Sister Tatiana was a projection. It tried to shine dimly on me, and cast about for my condemnation of a redheaded boy, but as innocent as I knew I was, I also knew the projection of 'sin' onto Ralph would be the only wicked thing I could do.

I got my book bag. "My mom is waiting outside. I have to go."

One last lie to smooth things over; one more thing I could confess to Father Strathmore with a clear conscience.

Part 7: The Obsidian Badger

Hate of 'the other' is fear based, and love is only an act of recognition. My soul is but a piece of the universal truth distilled into each of us to use for a lifetime. To see it, and feel it in others; what else did Christ ask us to do, if not that? And maybe he also asked us to help protect those who need protection.

All the customers are gone now. The salon radio is off, and the space strikes that quiet and hopeful chord it had when I first arrived in the morning. Joey is on the other side of the front window. He is retracting the awning that Greg had let down hours ago. I stand near that door, jacket in hand, ready to bolt as Hubert rumbles up alongside the curb – but I am glad to still be here too.

Greg comes up slipping into a blazer. As he does, his sliver badger ring flashes in the salon's track lights, and I am suddenly struck with a piece of forgotten knowledge.

That day at the desert zoo – after the fairies, after I set the obsidian figure down – I wandered over to a revolving rack with small printed booklets on it. One said Native Animals, A Symbols Guide. I was curious, and read about two of them. First – the bear. Why? Because the young man who was in physical contact with me had picked up and sighed over a grizzly and cub carved in lapis.

'The bear' it read 'is a totem of mystic power. It is the perfect balance of apparent contradictions: male and female; of the sun and moon; of hibernating introspection and fierce outward action. The bear is symbol of tranquility and warrior power, and of nurturing protection. She is the symbol of rebirth and resurrection.'

I must be smiling or something, for Greg stops and pats my shoulder.

"Did you have an ok time here today?"

"OK?!" I ask, hearing my own disbelief. "I had a great time with you guys!"

"Do you know," I went on in a different tone; a more caring one. "What the badger means as a symbol?"

"No, Simon. I do not."

"I read that it is small but fierce. It is a unique creature grounded to the Earth and armed to meet all challenges. The badger may look unorthodox to the majority of animals, but he doesn't care what others think or say about him; he has faith in himself and knows what he must do, and does it!

"He is a sign for us to come out of hiding. He is a symbol that it's time to let the world know we are here, and that we mean business!"

The bell on the door behind me jostles. Joey is coming in. Greg must have appeared a bit odd to him, because he immediately asks, "Are you ok, honey?" Joey goes to him, and for the first time I see them touch each other at the same time; they hold each other. Joey wraps his arms around Greg's back and puts his hand on his far shoulder. Greg's right hand slips around the taller man's waist.

It does look like Greg is about to cry, or something.

"I'm OKAY." Greg laughs at our concerned faces, and then says, "But, this Simon is one remarkable young man."

And there it is again. That look I had seen them share last time, and by the way it glanced over me, I knew it was about me. I have my suspicious I know what they think, and this time I am going to find out.

"Is being 'together' for you guys like my mom and dad being married?"

Greg answers, "Yes, Simon. Your dad and mom fell in love and got married, and that's exactly the same as Joey and me. We love each other like your parents, and want to spend our lives together."

"We're like them," Joey adds. "With our ups and downs and our struggles and the rewards of just being an ordinary pair."

I see Greg tighten in on Joey's waist and it makes the tall one smile a bit more.

"But…" I hesitate. "When you look at me, do you think you see how you were at my age? You do, don’t you?"

They let go of each other.

"Yes Son." Joey is honest, "We do."

I don’t know if I looked sad or what, but next thing I know, Joey is next to me, sitting on his haunches. He puts his warm hand on my shoulder.

"Will I grow up to be like you guys?"

"No one knows," Joey says quietly. "One day in a few years, you will wake up one morning and feel something – something different. If that's towards a girl, or towards a boy, just know, it's ok. It was meant to be that way, and nobody but God put that feeling in you. So don’t throw it away – that's not what He wants."

˚˚˚˚˚

My mom's green Volkswagen is heading west, towards Judas Tree, and home, and school, and towards the sun turning orange and large on the horizon.

If I had my piece of volcano glass with me, I could hold it up to that disc. What's it like to look through obsidian? It's a lens that lets you see, but changes what you perceive. Hold it to the brightest southwestern sky, and the volcano glass can tame even the fieriest of starlight. So too I suppose is thought working on the memories of what happened – the harsh realities can be filtered into a manageable field of experience.

My dad asks me, "Did you learn anything today?" Then he goes on with a lisp: "Like how to tease hair, for example."

My mom's hand flicks out to swipe at him.

I answer in all honesty. "Yeah, I learned a lot."

The muskrat coat is by my side, and although it is getting chilly. I do not even consider snuggling into it. I think maybe 'baby Simon' is ready to give it up. Maybe it is a security blanket I no longer need. Maybe I am more secure in the faith of who I am, and what I am as a person – grounded; independent; maybe even a little fierce.

In the backseat of Hubert, I listen to his engine purr, and I think it almost provides the perfect white-noise melody for my mind to sing Sister Tatiana's song:

Tempted and tried we're

oft made to wonder

Why it should be thus

all the day long;

While there are others

living about us

Never molested,

though in the wrong.

Farther along we'll, know more about it,

Farther along we'll, understand why;

Cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine,

We'll understand it, all by and by.

Sometimes I wonder why I must suffer,

Go in the rain, the cold, and the snow,

When there are many living in comfort,

Giving no heed to all I can do.

Tempted and tried how often we question

Why we must suffer year after year,

Being accused by those of our loved ones,

Even though we've walked without fear.

Farther along we'll

know more about it,

Farther along we'll

understand why;

Cheer up my brother,

live in the sunshine,

We'll understand it

all by and by.

~