THE GOLD FISH: Communion (3.11)

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Have mercy on us all, we pray...

For the first time since Wesley’s funeral mass had begun, the sounds of anguished grief pouring forth from the multitude of mourners in the church had finally started to abate. Blessedly started to abate.

For it was a multitude. Every pew was filled, every side aisle was stacked deep with standing congregants, and even more friends and family members spilled out of the church’s double doors, behind which, no doubt, more gathered. And their sniffles, sobs, and wails had been constant and relentless.

The liturgy of the Eucharist was beginning, and it seemed as if a collective sigh ran through the entire congregation as everyone realized this torture would soon be over. For what could possibly be worse than the funeral of a beloved young man, cut off in his prime? Nothing, that’s what.

The priest raised his arms towards heaven.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

Oh boy, thought Barbie, if only that were true.

Sandwiched between Mr. Charles and Karen on the kneeling thingie (or whatever it was called), Barbie knew nothing could take away her sins. Nothing could bring her peace.

And yet, she prayed. It seemed impossible that God or anyone else for that matter, except maybe Bridge or Wes, could take her sins away, but she might as well try. At the thought of Wesley, her eyes brimmed anew with tears, but she blinked them away and continued her prayers.

It was right that she should suffer. It was right that it should be a good long time before she was forgiven.

Barbie knew she didn’t know much, but that much she did know.

She also prayed that Bridge, who was sitting in the front row of the church with her remaining (!) siblings, would sense her presence and know that she was there. Proving her love, giving whatever meager comfort she could provide, begging for forgiveness. But would Bridge actually want any of it?! Probably not!

And so, Barbie switched to praying that Bridge wouldn’t know she was there. After all, Barbie shouldn’t be there, had no right to be there. She was evil and terrible. And worse, a horrible friend.

In fact, now that Barbie thought about it, she wished she were home in bed. Prayed to be magically transported there, where she could pull the covers up over her head and no one would have to look at her. Ever again.

On the other side of Karen, Joan also prayed. Prayed for poor Ellen and Tom Sullivan. Prayed that they would somehow find some grace, some semblance of peace. Yet knowing, in her heart, they never would.

Joan knew she didn’t know much, but that much she did know.

The thought of all those years of grief waiting for the Sullivans, unspooling into the future like an infinite, indestructible ribbon that would never, ever break, was a thought that simply could not be born.

So Joan pushed it from her mind, and thought instead of how badly she wanted a cigarette. Would have gladly sacrificed her left arm for one. In fact, for a fresh cigarette out of the pack and that delicious sulfur smell of a newly struck match, she would have willingly held out her arm to a hooded executioner and had him lop it off. In one fell swoop. And not regretted a thing.

At this thought, Joan squeezed her hands in horror, only to discover that in her sorrow and anxiety, she had twisted and twisted the mass program -- the one with Wesley’s high school picture on it! -- into a damp, wrinkled baton. For godssake, look at what she’d done to Wesley’s hopeful, mimeographed face! With horrified self-recrimination, Joan set the program down and rooted around in her purse for a half stick of gum.

In lieu of a cigarette, a piece of gum might be the only thing capable of calming her nerves. But as she unwrapped it and was about to pop it into her mouth, Joan remembered the priest would soon be placing a communion wafer on her tongue. Goddamnit all to hell, she thought, what would Father think if he spotted chewing gum wadded up in her cheek?! Jesus Christ Almighty!

With all the self control she could muster, she rewrapped it and was about to tuck it back into her purse when Karen’s small hand stopped her.

“Can I have it?” Karen whispered.

Joan shook her head violently, stuffed it into her purse, and snapped the clasp shut.

Oh what she would have given, in this moment, to have the presence of a strong, comforting husband beside her. Rather than a teenager whose scowls she was just now forcing herself to ignore.

It would be so nice, she thought, to have a broad shoulder to lean on. A warm hand to reassuringly squeeze hers. But alas, Don had never provided that, even on the best of days. And certainly not on the worst of days. Like today.

Although, to be fair, Joan reflected, Don had -- in a rare moment of wakefulness and vulnerability -- told her this morning that as much as he wanted to attend the funeral, to pay his respects, he just couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, he’d said, wasn’t capable of being present at a child’s funeral, even if that child was a young man. Instead, he had offered to stay home with The Belle.

And perhaps, thought Joan, that was progress? In the past, Don would have feigned a deep sleep and/or simply refused her request. But he had actually said he was sorry and had, at least, offered to do something. Not precisely what Joan might have wanted or needed, but was it a start?

Oh who was she kidding, thought Joan. Probably not. She knew in her gut that Don wasn’t going to change, at least not in any significant way. People didn’t change.

Expecting anything else was like, well… was like asking the incoming tide to change. To stop coming. No matter what you did or said, that water was going to flow in, pulled by a primordial gravitational force more ancient and powerful than anything you could muster. You could, of course, stand in its way like an idiot and try to stop it. But you’d just get washed away and deposited on shore to decay like so much flotsam and jetsam. No, the only reasonable response, the only possible response, was to get the hell out of the way. Get to higher ground. But how exactly, Joan pondered, would one do that in a marriage?

Joan’s reverie on stoicism, however, was interrupted when a clatter arose around her. The priest had invited the congregation to approach the altar to receive Communion. One by one, congregants in the front rows had begun to file out. So Joan stood, tapped Karen on the arm, and began to make her way to the center aisle.

But Barbie and Mr. Charles, who sat on the aisle side, blocked the way.

“Move,” Joan hissed.

Mr. Charles, who was -- as he put it -- “no damned Catholic,” and therefore, unfamiliar with the many rituals of the church, still understood the context clues and stepped aside into the aisle, getting the hell out of the way.

Barbie followed his lead, despite a stern look from her mother. Even though Barbie would have liked to claim that she was “no damned Catholic” either, she couldn’t quite erase the indelible ink stamped on her by six years at Immaculate Heart of Mary. She knew she was a sinner, a big sinner, but without the cleansing rite of confession, it would have been an even bigger sin to accept Communion. If she remembered one thing from making her First Holy Communion, it was that! And honestly, how many giant sins could one girl rack up before being damned to hell for all eternity?

After everyone in the row passed, Barbie and Mr. Charles headed back into their seats. As they sat, Mr. Charles gave Barbie a little pat on the knee in solidarity, and Barbie went back to her silent vigil of Bridge, who had received communion and was now heading back to her own seat.

As if sensing Barbie’s gaze, Bridge, hands still held before her in the prayer position, scanned the multitude of mourners gathered in the back of the church. Bridge’s eyes, it seemed to Barbie, hesitated ever so slightly on her row, but didn’t stop. She simply turned and sat back down with her siblings.

Barbie let out a strangled breath.

:::

Joan pulled her butter yellow Galaxie 500 up to the curb and turned off the engine.

No one moved.

Not Mr. Charles, who sat next to Joan in the front passenger seat, or Barbie and Karen who sat in the back. They all just stared dumbly ahead, listening to the tick of the cooling engine.

The end of the mass had been brutal. Ellen Sullivan, who had spent the duration of the mass huddled and weeping into her husband’s shoulder, had come to life when the pall bearers had come to wheel the casket out of the church. With the pure, shattering, relentless agony of a woman burying her first born child, she had screamed and flung herself across Wesley’s coffin, refusing to be torn away from it.

It had been horrible.

How could anyone recover from such a sight? It seemed no one in the car could.

But clearly, they couldn’t stay there forever.

So finally, with a sigh, Joan grasped the door handle, elbowed the door open, and hauled herself out.

Everyone else followed.

Once they were gathered on the pavement outside of 2115 and 2117 Pitney Road, Joan turned to Mr. Charles.

“Thank you, Charles. I’m glad you came with us.”

Mr. Charles nodded. “Honestly, you did me a favor. I’m not sure I could have faced that on my own.”

Joan closed her eyes. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the sight of Ellen… She… I…” Joan stopped and put a hand to her mouth in a silent howl.

“Now, now,” Mr. Charles began, moving towards Joan. “No need to go there.”

Joan put out a hand out to stop him, but then almost against her will, grasped the sleeve of his suit jacket. Her fingers desperately clutched at the fabric, simultaneously pushing him away and holding onto him for dear life.

Mr. Charles reached out and patted her hand. With a pained grimace, Joan finally got ahold of herself and let go.

Mr. Charles then turned his attention to Barbie and Karen. They stood in the chill autumn air, their bare legs reddening below their short dresses, their bare feet squeezed painfully into hopelessly outgrown patent leather Mary-Janes, the only dress shoes they owned.

“You okay there, Red? Stretch?”

Karen, wrapped her arms around herself and shrugged, but Barbie got a wild look in her eyes and began banging her fisted hands against her sides.

“It’s not fair,” she moaned. “Wesley was so good. So good to me. He asked me to take care of Bridge. And I DIDN’T!! I didn’t LISTEN. I ignored HIM. I ignored HER and sewed pants for Donna Nichols! And now she can’t even LOOK AT ME. She HATES me. AND WESLEY’S GONE! AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT!”

“No… honey, no…” Joan staggered forward, trying to grab one of Barbie’s arms.

But Barbie spun away, and instead fell into Mr. Charles, who caught her and held her. “Shhhh, shhhhh,” he crooned, stroking her hair.

In his embrace, the fight seemed to drain out of Barbie and she sagged against him.

Mr. Charles, next-door neighbor, friend, and a man who was, in reality, a few inches shorter than a twelve-year-old, was the one person with whom, at that moment, Barbie found the most comfort. Because he was the only adult in her life who actually listened to her, who actually heard her.

It was everything. And made her want to stay in his strong arms forever.

But gradually, as often happens, the very act of being held brought Barbie back to herself. Her sobs began to recede.

Mr. Charles gently pushed her away, but kept a firm grasp on her arms. “You listen to me, and you listen to me good, Red. Nothing, and I mean, nothing, is your fault. You’re just a kid figuring out the world. Nothing you said or did, or didn’t say or didn’t do, hurt that boy. He was on his own journey. Just like you’re on your own journey. Sometimes shit just happens. Bad shit. Sad shit. Shit that makes no sense whatsoever. So please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop torturing yourself. And don’t stop…” he paused, and looked at Joan. He was getting into some dangerous territory here. “Don’t stop doing all the things you do. Ever. Making swimming pools. Sewing. Fishing. Creating. Exploring. Putting yourself out there. Because when you do that, not always, but once in a while, amazing things happen. I mean, come on! Because of you, I got to see a giant gold fish!” His lip curled into a smile. “Definitely didn’t see that coming. And it’s something I’ll never forget. Ever. As long as I live.”

Barbie snorted through her tears, before burying her head again in Mr. Charles’ shoulder.

And Don, once again behind the bedroom curtains, watched from above as his diminutive next door neighbor did what he, himself, wasn’t a big enough man to do.

But hold on, Don thought, maybe there was something he could do. Despite his personal betting losses, he still had his football pools. And thanks to a particularly active week at the car dealership, he was back in the black.

He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out two twenties and a ten, and placed them on Joan’s dresser.

Down below, Mr. Charles gave Barbie a final pat and released her. He turned to Joan.

“I don’t know about you, Joan, but there’s a big whiskey waiting inside with my name on it. And I’m going to go get it. I suggest you do the same.”

Joan nodded grimly, put her arms around her daughters, and ushered them inside the house.

Next → Vigilance (3.12)