Alter Boys.

Chuck Stepanek.

Prologue.

Father Gus took great pride in his vestments. Such a clever disguise. He didn't listen to the pitiful housewife and her confession. There was a much more interesting sound-- the cheery herald of the ice cream truck outside. His heart closed to God and opened to the promise of what, or who, the truck would bring.

Part 1.

Corky.

Chapter 1.

1.

At the age of 4 (almost 5!) Corky had everything that mattered to little boys. He had TV. What more could you want? Sure there were other things: He lived in a house. He wore clothes. He was never too cold, never too hungry and never too bruised by the angry hand of an adult that he may have displeased. But those were things that were far beyond a preschooler's understanding of what contributed to a full and happy life. What mattered was television.

Upon awakening, most young children will seek assurance that all is still right in their world. They snuggle up with the house dog, check the goldfish to ensure that it's still swimming or clamber into bed with mommy and daddy. Or, lacking these links with the living, tots may explore the kitchen, seeking confidence that, with the presence of food, everything will be okay. Not so with Corky. The morning hug of a parent, the face-licking of a hyper pup, even the comfort in knowing that a half-a-box of Cheerio's was in the lower cupboard were of no importance. Everything in Corky's world would be fine. So long as the TV worked.

As he was on most days Corky was up early. He awoke to emptiness; both around him and inside. The walls of his room were barren of little boy drawings; his dresser uncluttered by little boy trinkets and treasures. No books, no maps, no favorite toys that could distinguish his room from that of any other in his small house. Just stark walls that had never recovered from that 'just moved in look.' It was what he knew, what he had always known. And as a result the emptiness around him was not unpleasant; it was...well...it just was what it was.

Having scrubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes, the emptiness inside him also awoke but never became evident. Where there should have been little boy adventures of forts, sandcastles or trees to climb, there was merely a black bottomless pit. The emptiness inside him was not unpleasant; it too...was just what it was.

The blanket pulled aside, Corky slid his bottom along the bare mattress and maneuvered his feet over the side. He arched his back and probed cautiously until his toes found the floor. The bed was left unmade; his clothes unchanged. Eventually he would learn that it was customary to make your bed and uncustomary to sleep in and wear the same set of clothes for more than a week. But that was many years away. All that mattered to him was now. And right now, Corky needed to pee.

He padded down the hall and entered the bathroom; not bothering to close the door or lift the ring. Seeing the bowl in front of him made his need more urgent. There wouldn't be time to lift his shirt and tuck it under his chin; there was barely time to suck in his tummy, pull down at his pants, and aim.

He almost made it.

Overnight his go-go had slumped against his sac and the two had fused into one. His go-go sprayed down and to the left, the thin stream of urine decorating the already yellowed linoleum. He showed no alarm. No hiss of dismay. This little accident was more commonplace than exception. He squeezed hard to stop the stream and unfolded his pleated go-go. The rest of the job went smoothly but Corky still kept a keen ear. Had he heard the heavy trod of adult footsteps he would have again squeezed off his urine stream and frantically lifted the ring before finishing the job. But no such footfall interrupted his duty on this day. He flushed the toilet; something he never neglected. Rushing water vacated the bowl and recharged the tank. Corky didn't like the sound. Nor did he like the knowledge that the water went down a hole, a hole that he could fall into. It was all very unnerving. But neglecting to flush the toilet would bring a greater consequence. It would mean that he had displeased, that he had failed, that he was bad. An even greater consequence would have followed the potential discovery of a line of golden sprinkle upon the floor. With his feet he shuffled the horseshoe shaped rug away from the base of the toilet and then swiped it back and forth until the offending dotted yellow line was erased.

He was ready to start his day.

There had been a time when the TV did not work. It was the longest week of punishment Corky had ever known. A carelessly placed half-glass of water was among the forgotten items parked on the shelf above the set. Daddy had been messing with the rabbit ears and had knocked the glass onto the Magnavox. Water poured into the dozens of breather slots cut into the back of the console. Immediately there was breathy pop and tinkle of glass as one of the tubes let go. Mitch Miller and his orchestra disappeared. "God Damn it!" Daddy righted the drinking glass and then yanked the power cord from the wall socket. A crackling, fizzling sound gurgled in the guts of the set while wisps of smoke filled the living room with the carbonic smell of melted plastic. "Who put-that--God Damn---- thing there!" Daddy stammered. It was one of the lengthiest statements ever uttered by his father. Corky sat frozen, stoic. He didn't know who had put that God Damn thing there. He was not fearful of what daddy might do. He was more concerned, gravely concerned for the TV. He had been following the bouncing ball as Mitch and his orchestra played on and on. He didn't care much for the music or lyrics in white block letters superimposed at the bottom of the screen. But the bouncing ball mesmerized him. And now, with the TV broken, the ball bounced on and on in some faraway place. But not for him, not now.

His hope was that daddy would plug the TV back in. Instead he retrieved a screwdriver, took the back off of the set and tinkered around trying to get it working. At first Corky was awestruck to see the inside of the TV. All of those tubes and wires! But soon his attention was captured by other things: Dust, cobwebs, filaments of shattered glass; even the gaping socket that once held the tube that would glow nevermore. Later Corky would prod his finger into that socket. Other times he would plug the TV in hoping that it would come to life. If there is a god that looks out for inquisitive children who play with electricity and obliterated drunks who pull into their driveways unscathed then surely that god was looking out for Corky.

After several days of fiddling with the set, daddy conceded and called a repairman. When the white van appeared in the driveway it was a momentous occasion. On the side of the van was a comical TV tube with eyes, a nose and open-mouth grin. A puffy cartoon hand displayed a "thumbs-up" gesture. Zigzags of electricity created a corona to complete the scene. Staring out the window Corky hopped from one foot to the other. Then he caught himself and withdrew unseen to the couch. For the next 30 minutes he watched while the repairman (who also had a smiling TV tube on the back of his shirt) poked and prodded and did the things that adults do to fix things. When the repairman plugged in the cord Corky squirmed, then became breathless as the set was turned on. After about 10 seconds the tubes warmed sufficiently and an image appeared on the screen. Corky kept absolutely still but inside his heart and mind were racing.

The repairman stayed a bit longer replacing the housing and giving some papers to daddy. And then he was away; unnoticed. Ironically the clutter of stray items including the now-almost-empty water glass remained parked on the shelf above, inviting a repeat of the calamity. But Corky didn't notice as he too was parked in his usual spot; five feet away from the face of the set. Eyes locked on the sand flowing through the hourglass as the credits rolled for "Days of our Lives."

Having suffered through nearly a week without television Corky found a new level of reverence for his sole activity in life. TV was back.

And so on this Minnesota morning, having peed and flushed, Corky moved down the hall toward the living room. There was just a moment of trepidation as he turned on the set, his mind in angst pondering the consequence of a non-working television. But then came the hum, followed by a steady audio tone, and slowly the screen brightened the room as the tubes came to life. And just as a mother's voice and face become signs of reassurance for a developing youngster, Corky put the same value on the unbroken audio tone and test pattern of his surrogate parent.

On days like today when he woke up early he would watch the test pattern and listen to the audio tone, vacating his mind of anything intellectual or imaginary. When the tone stopped, he knew that a picture of a weather vane with the letters "N," "E," "W," and "S" would appear on the screen. News was one of the first words that Corky learned thanks to the science of vacuum tubes and transmission towers.

The appearance of the weather vane was a signal. Soon there would be activity in the kitchen. His bed-raggled mother moving about; wringing her hands, making coffee, fretting and then wringing her hands some more. She mumbled to herself constantly. It was part vocalization of the task she was performing and part prayer to any of a dozen different saints. "I need the stem for the coffee pot...Saint Jude I petition you...put the water on the stove...pray for us sinners now and at the hour...where's his lunch bucket?" You can imagine that listening to this would wear on a person after a while. Corky preferred the test tone.

Soon daddy would lumber into the living room; sitting far back, as if keeping his distance from the intellectual presentation called "N," "E," "W," "S". Daddy didn't watch the news, he tolerated it. He was here for one thing and one thing only: the weather.

Daddy worked as a meter reader and Corky knew that he walked from house to house looking at numbers on meters. It was a job that brought encounters with angry dogs and angrier people. But nothing affected the job more than the weather. So when the weatherman came on and started affixing magnetic symbols to the map of Minnesota, Corky recognized the importance of each one. Snow, rain, cold and wind were bad. Today there were a lot of snow symbols on the map. The weatherman talked about low pressure and isobars and cold fronts. From time to time he would raise his wooden pointer with the black tip to indicate different parts of the map. Mankato, the arrowhead, the twin cities. Corky thrilled on the occasions when the weatherman would point to the spot on the map and utter the words he knew as home. "Elmwood." But Elmwood was not in the news or the weather today.

Daddy rose, moved to the kitchen and said: "Snow." This elevated mommy's fretting and mumbling to a new level. "Do you want another thermos...forgive us our sins as we...where are your heavy gloves...blessed St. Anthony...I'll put on more coffee..." Daddy could barely keep up a monosyllabic conversation under the best circumstances. He stammered out just one more thing: "Cold" and wisely turned his attention to the closet to rummage for boots. The additional revelation of 'cold' would escalate the petitions to saints and coffee pots to new heights.

When it came to human development, social skills or even the basics of communication Corky didn't have doodly-squat. Had he known the term he would have been able to describe his family as 'dysfunctional.' Really dysfunctional. But such matters were beyond Corky's comprehension. His mom and dad had both come from families of dysfunction. If it had been just one of them, maybe things would have been okay. But having two clueless parents only exacerbated the problem.

Corky's mom had been known as "the dumb one" by her own parents. During her childhood, on trips to town or to visit relatives, her parents introduced their kids by age. Here's our oldest, here's our second, this is our 'dumb one' and this is our youngest." When they went to enroll her in school they stood in line with "their dumb one." When other children at play said: 'Look! Look at the airplane!" It wasn't her poor eyesight (and lack of glasses) that was identified, it was: "oh yeah, she's the dumb one." So she learned to withdraw to discrete corners of the schoolyard where she engaged in conversations with herself. Nursery rhymes, church hymns, snippets of the Pledge of Allegiance, DEKALB seed corn ad slogans, anything with cadence or rhythm rolled over and over in her head in an unending self litany of obsessive compulsive behavior.

Corky's dad wasn't a 'dumb one.' Actually he was fairly intelligent. But intelligence can't fully compensate for the absence of social skills. The oldest of 11 children, Corky's dad didn't speak a word of English when he started grammar school. On the farm, the family, when they spoke (which was exquisitely rare) spoke only in Czech. Thus Corky's dad was ostracized on the playground by the other children and (unwittingly) in the classroom by the teachers. Eventually he caught on to the language but only in broken bits and pieces. Keeping his mouth shut was far safer than the humiliation of learning to socialize. So that's what he did. He kept his mouth shut tight. The absence of social skills would make him pay dearly and the debt would be passed along to his offspring.

Since life skills from this dysfunctional duo were not to be had, Corky naturally turned to television. TV was always moving, always stimulating, always modeling his human development, never shaming, never assessing the guilt or the blame. TV was the perfect pastime and the perfect parent. Corky would lay out his meager toys in front of the TV and then watch, listen and learn while the non-judgmental Magnavox directed him through his day in the art of becoming human.

During the morning "N" "E" "W" "S" he would drive his plastic cars through a carpet of imaginary rain puddles or snow drifts (depending upon the season) waiting for the time when the weatherman would come on screen and affix magnetic symbols to the map of Minnesota. If the weatherman happened to report clear conditions, he would retrieve a few 'cyclopedia books from the bottom shelf of the TV stand and arrange them into roadways for fair weather driving. A bad weather forecast would mire his fleet in the heavy filaments of the throw rug.

Later, the daytime soap operas would find Corky with a handful of marbles and an assortment of round containers, mixing bowls and pie pans. One by one he would select a container, drop in a few marbles, and then swirl the pan back and forth to give the marbles momentum. Always trying to see how close he could get the marbles up to the rim yet avoiding the cataclysm of having one of the marbles shoot out and land in some unattainable place like under the couch. His spinning marbles represented a curious affinity to the spinning globe of 'As the World Turns' and the ever-flowing hourglass of 'Days of our Lives.'

On nights when he was up late he could watch Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny or the red skeleton. During these shows he would build small towers with faded wooden blocks and when the audience laughed he would knock the towers into a tumble. One time Corky's mom and dad had turned off all the lights and had gone to bed leaving him alone - transfixed to the glow of the screen. Eventually when the credits flipped and the theme music rolled Corky realized that he had been abandoned. He screamed. In no hurried fashion a hallway light came on silhouetting his mommy who delivered an admonition for not going to bed when he was supposed to. The admonition carried over the next morning from Daddy for failing to pick up his "God damned toys" from in front of the set. Subsequent nights, while transfixed by Sullivan or Benny or the skeleton, he would come to a sudden realization, whip his head frantically behind him and then return to the set having confirmed that all was still okay in his world.

But afternoons were the best.

Afternoons brought Casey the Engineer and his cartoon show. Casey bore a striking resemblance to the weatherman who opened each broadcast day. A pillow-tick cap, lantern and greasy oilcan in lieu of magnetic symbols and weather-pointer were all it took to believably transform the persona for the average pre-kindergarten viewer. Casey was never angry or said things to make Corky feel bad. Plus he showed cartoons. Yakky Doodle and Snagglepuss, Yogi Bear and Boo-boo, Deputy Dog and Auggie Doggie. Corky didn't understand most of the dialogue exchanged between these characters, but they did funny things that made him laugh. And laugh he did; far too long and far too loud for whatever the current adventure on screen deserved. Laughter would not bring an admonition. Laughter did not involve the formulation of words to respond to the complexities of parental conversation. (If one wants to call it that) But just hearing his own voice pleased him somehow. And so laugh he did.

Between each cartoon, Casey and his side-kick Harry the Happy Hobo would engage with a group of perhaps 20 kids arranged on bleachers in the studio. Each youngster had been presented a treat bag before the show to try and loosen them up before the red light came on above the studio camera. At first the kids picked gingerly at their treats but soon the elements of trepidation and good manners evaporated and they greedily devoured their goodies both on camera and off. After the first cartoon Casey passed a microphone asking each youngster his name. Often times the name came out with a gooey smacking sound as the 'junior engineer' worked over a mouthful of Sugar Babies or licorice Good n Plenty's. The camera panned along with the progress of the microphone to give each child's face a two-second glimpse of fame for those watching along at home.

The end of the second cartoon brought Casey's 'engineer cheer' and a recitation by Harry the Happy Hobo of all the children celebrating birthdays. Another cartoon and there was Casey again, this time holding a Tootsie Roll the size of a fireplace log. Of course Corky didn't realize that it was just a cardboard tube filled with regular sized tootsie rolls, in his mind it was one massive tootsie that had been laced with Miracle Gro. Casey would announce the name of one lucky youngster who would tumble out of the bleachers to claim this cherished prize.

A fourth cartoon and then a quick farewell. Harry swinging the lantern, Casey with a microphone in one hand, the other held high waving gently back and forth like a signal to the caboose-man indicating that the cars were coupled, it was time to get underway. And from behind Casey and Harry the once-stoic, camera-shy, but now sugar-fueled kids, waved like frenzied chimpanzees.

It was all good fun.

Casey the Engineers cartoon show captivated Corky's attention more than anything else on television. And it was the best time for play. Not with the wooden blocks, not with the marbles or even his scant few plastic cars. When it came to play, this was the best time for Corky, the very best time of all. Because this was the time that Corky played 'church.'

2.

The early formative years are designed for exploration, adventure and discovery. In Corky's case, his formative years were constrained; walled in by the long harsh Minnesota winters, isolated by the lack of any meaningful parental guidance, brainwashed by his infatuation with TV. However there was one connection with the real outside world (as he knew it) that occurred on a weekly basis. The Sunday visit to church.

Both mommy and daddy had been raised as fiercely devout Catholics. Five minutes of listening to mommy utter her monologue to coffee pots, lunch buckets and Saint Francis would convince even a casual observer of her affinity for the holy trinity. While daddy's commitment to the cross was just as strong it was just not as vocally evident. But for both parents, and that meant Corky too, the arrival of Sunday brought catholic mass at Saint Mark's. No exceptions. To miss church would be a sin. To eat a morsel of food or take a sip of water Sunday morning before accepting the holy Eucharist on their tongues would be blasphemous. Even arriving at church a few minutes late would be grounds for a few extra hours sitting on a hot bed of coals in purgatory.

So Corky went to church.

The five minute car ride to St. Mark's was an adventure in itself. Corky would climb into the aging Dodge Rambler and stand on the back seat. The days of passenger restraints, airbags and laws mandating child safety seats were still far off in the future. So Corky stood, his arms braced in the rear window well for support, and took in the world around him. He knew the route, at least most of it. Down Valley street to the stop sign. Then a turn 'that way,' across the railroad tracks and up the big hill. Here the large cross at the top of St. Mark's bell tower would be waiting to shift his attention from the adventure of the drive to the anticipation of the destination.

"What if we have a flat tire and can't get...heavenly father pray for us...I shouldn't have brushed my teeth I may have swallowed a drop of water...creator of heaven and earth...there's always a train I know we should have left...full of grace the lord is with thee." Mommy's non-stop litany of pending doom and penance was almost always without merit. But there had been one Sunday which she had been prophetic. Once there was a train. Not an idle line of boxcars blocking the crossing but a bellowing Union Pacific approaching the crossing at full tilt boogie. "We'll be late! Forgive us our trespasses! We have to beat it." Daddy didn't verbalize his agreement; he demonstrated it. He stomped on the gas pedal and the lumbering Rambler lurched forward in protest. Corky was pressed hard into the fabric of the seatback, then nearly tumbled forward as the initial shock of the G force released him.

Whoonk! Whoonk! The engineer made his obligatory double blasts of the air horn as the train approached the crossing. "...as we forgive those who trespass..." The 20 year Union Pacific employee didn't realize it at the moment but today he would be exceeding the number of warning blasts as required by the Transportation Safety Bureau while concurrently risking the limit of the local noise ordinance. Whoooonk! Whonk! Whonk! Whoooooooonk! "...he was conceived by the holy spirit..."

Daddy glanced at the speeding train. He measured the distance to the crossing in his mind. He weighed those factors against the penance for being late for church and the promise of several weeks worth of lamentations from his oratorical wife. He up-shifted and floored it.

Corky liked trains. He was seeing one up close right now. It reminded him of Casey the engineer and his cartoon show. Maybe Casey was driving this train! And Casey was whonking his air horn and coming up fast and close just for Corky! Had he not been standing sideways with both arms in the rear window well, just to remain upright, Corky might even have raised a small hand with a tentative wave. But things were far from stable at the moment in the straining Dodge. "...the father, son and holy ghost..." And he needed to keep his hands planted so he could get an even better look as the train raced toward him.

Whoooooooonkkkkk!

There were no crossing arms, no flashing lights, not even a mechanical bell swinging on a pendulum to signify the crossing. There was no need. The view was unobstructed and the engineers that worked this line were diligent with their air horns. You'd have to be blind, deaf, dumb and stupid to disregard one of these massive diesels, that, or late for church.

The front wheels of the Rambler thumped on the outer rail, skipped up, and came down just over the second rail. For a moment time stood still - suspended in a mental snapshot: The car astride the tracks, the blunt nose of the train snorting at the passenger side door, even the prayer to St. Jude was caught in a momentary hiccup. Corky too was briefly suspended. He was airborne, his hair brushing against the Rambler's roof. In that moment he looked directly into the face of the engineer. This was no happy, fun TV personality. This was not an engineer who introduced cartoons and gave out treats to kids in the studio audience. The face that Corky saw was purely horrified. And somewhere behind the horror was something else. It was anger.

Whooooooonkkkkk!

Father time decided to start ticking again. The back of the Rambler completed its flight. The tires found purchase on the roadway and scooted the car forward. A second later, certainly no more than two, the Sunday morning UP claimed the intersection. The whonking air horn trailed on uninterrupted, far after the main engine cleared the crossing. It was as if the engineer were sending a message the only way he could: 'Don't you ever, ever scare the living shit out of me like that again you godforsaken drunken moron!' Mommy, daddy, and that meant Corky too, were oblivious to the meaning of the elongated air blast. All that mattered to them was that they would not be late for church. They would not burn in purgatory. Their immortal souls were safe.

3.

The possibility of subsequent train sightings appealed to Corky but never paid off again. Every Sunday since that brush with death via diesel engine, Corky held out the hope that he would get to see another train (Although he vowed not to look at the engineers face unless it was Casey). Church, on the other hand, was a promise fulfilled weekly without fail.

Church was Corky's sole connection to the outside world as he knew it. When they parked; he saw other cars (though he didn't ride in them). When his family ascended the steps; there were other people (though he didn't talk to them). But mostly church was an hour during which his daddy would speak a lot more than usual (even if it was just reciting a prayer along with the congregation) and his mommy would speak a lot less (nearly trembling with utter will to keep her yap zipped during the sermon). Even at the age of 4 (almost 5!) Corky could tell that church had an impact on people.

He knew the routine and was proud of it. You walked into church and dipped your hand into a basin of water and made the sign of the cross. Then you found an open pew (always in the back) genuflected and shuffled to the middle. And just like he had done in the Rambler, Corky always clambered up and stood directly on the seat. Had he been a bit older or if he had become fidgety this act would have earned him the disapproving looks of sour ladies sporting stiff hats with thin black netting hanging from the brim. But Corky did not fidget. From where he stood he had a great view. He could see the backs of hundreds of people which made him feel in control. Massive stained glass windows decorated the sides of the church. Between each window was a plaque designating one of the stations of the cross. Bisecting the church was a great wide aisle where they would soon hold the parade. And up front were the statues of the saints, the banks of petition candles, the communion rail and the altar. And it was here, at the altar, that most intrigued Corky. Here was this place, this special chamber with its massive table and small cubby's that held objects of mystical power. There were fantastically ornate little doorways on either side of the altar that led off to places unknown. Tiny bells to be rung by the altar boys during critical moments of the mass were lined and waiting. It was all part of a fantastic show, grander than anything he had ever seen on television. Grander because it was 'live.'

Corky watched each service closely. The movements and actions he witnessed were the same ones he would repeat at home with Casey and his cartoon friends. Only at home it was Corky who was the priest, while Casey and Harry served as his altar boys and the kids in the studio audience his captive congregation. The lifting of the chalice, the distribution of holy communion, passing the collection plate among the flock. All of these rituals Corky took in with reverence for later use during his favorite time of play.

After church the sinners, now redeemed, would file out the back, each pausing to shake hands with the priest, chat with a few other parishioners and then head out into the world to resume their sinning. Corky's parents always positioned themselves to be at the head of this evacuation. It wasn't because of vanity or the chance to be first in line to tell the priest how much they enjoyed his arid oration. Anything but. These were people who had endured a lifetime of being social outcasts. An hour spent being part of society (even in church!) left them draped with a sackcloth of insecurity. To greet the priest with a simple 'Good morning' was as socially enjoyable as an act of contrition. And heaven forbid should one of the other parishioners try to engage them in conversation. The few times this did occur mommy had handled it with all the grace of a manic ventriloquist: "...oh! Good morning... mother of god...I left the coffee pot on the burner...your name we pray...where did we park?...benevolent Virgin Mary..." These 'conversations' would inevitably cease as mommy then performed the most disgusting of acts (but to her perfectly natural). Right hand flayed wide, she would cram a finger deep inside a nostril and corkscrew her arm back and forth. This was no demure dabbing at the nose; this was picking a booger from the back of your brain. She finished only when she was satisfied that she had captured something of interest. Any treasured trinket retrieved was then examined (to and fro) for quality assurance, and stuffed under a fingernail for safekeeping. Seeing this, the well-meaning and suddenly pale parishioner, their appetite for Sunday brunch fully abated, would offer a brief word of hasty retreat; wisely choosing a farewell wave in lieu of a prim handshake.

Daddy's contributions to these exchanges were null. He would merely stand there; stupidly examining his key ring (which held all of two keys) making it appear as though he was engrossed in the momentous task of trying to determine which was the car key to get them home and which was the key to get them in once they got there.

Indeed, getting out of church fast was paramount. But there was one time when it didn't happen. And because of that one time Corky experienced the biggest thrill of his young years; yet inherited a nightmarish horror that would last him the rest of his life.

4.

On that notable Sunday, at the end of the service, mommy simply could not find her purse. The neighboring pews had thinned considerably and even the wide aisle down the center was down to a trickle. Mommy and daddy both poked under the pews and lifted and raised the kneelers in their futile search. Eventually an astute usher who had undoubtedly dealt with such matters asked rhetorically: "Are you missing something?" The question, as transparently obvious as any question can be, was directed at daddy. After taking a moment to process the query he came up with the verbose response: "Purse." Later that night daddy would reflect on the conversation and actually take a bit of pride in knowing that his contribution helped to resolve the matter.

The purse was discovered. A breathless woman working her way against the remaining flow of traffic in the main aisle, held out the purse sheepishly and said she had taken it by mistake. Mommy thanked her for her honesty by extending a hand with a pair of fresh trinkets, each under its own nail. Daddy looked stupidly at his keys and the usher drifted off to the parish rectory to skim his weekly 2 percent of 'the loose stuff' from the collection plates.

Being the last in the church, they joined the lingerers: Those people who are warmly greeted yet silently loathed by priests and pastors alike who, every week, every god damn week, have to stay long after the service so the lingerers can talk about every god damn thing under the sun. You just couldn't plan on a 12:30 tee time with the lingerers around.

But today Father Milliken saw a new group at the back of the pack. Yes, he recognized the family; they were part of the 'fast exit' crowd. What the devil were they doing back here? He scowled to himself and then played the old game in his mind... were they in need of a quick confession? (5 minutes) Infidelity counseling? (schedule for later...besides, don't look the type) Relative in the hospital? (Christ, let's hope not...two fucking hours) Death in the family? (he hated planting corpses in the winter and these rubes wouldn't even have the savvy to offer him an honorarium).

But on the flip side there were two reasons that he welcomed their appearance: One, he could brush off the regular lingerers by indiscreetly suggesting that the 'family in the back' needed to talk to him, and second, there was this handsome little boy. A tousle-haired blond boy of perhaps 4, maybe five years old. You could almost characterize him has a nice young man. He stood stoic, unspeaking. When the line moved, he moved. A little boy who did what he was told. A little boy who would not tell what he did. Ha! Father Milliken suddenly found a whole new interest in hearing the story about why this fast exit family was at the back of the line. He brusquely unloaded Mr. and Mrs. Sutz. Mrs. Sutz was still explaining to him the injustice of her head cheese not selling at last month's bazaar. 'Christ lady, let me squirt a little cheese on your head...let it go;' he mused. "Yes, yes...perhaps next year's bazaar. Hello mister Fitzgivens-goodbye." "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Have to talk to a family. Goodbye." And then they were there.

Mommy and daddy had already had enough for one day, an hour's worth of church and then, then having to find the purse! And interacting with people! And standing in line! Every ounce of social aptitude had been expended. So when they finally got to Father Milliken it was first with relief, and then great dismay when he deferred from his patented one-pump handshake reserved for the fast exit crowd and began to engage them in conversation.

Father Milliken had no trouble keeping up his end of the conversation. After all, that's what priests do; carry on soliloquies for the better part of an hour. "Was there something you folks wanted to visit about?" He asked with kindness in his voice and trepidation in his heart. "Oh no!...my purse I lost...thank you saint Anthony!...the woman, she returned it...decets of the rosary, blessed Virgin Mary."

Daddy looked at his keys.

"Oh, a lost purse!" Father Milliken laughed with great sincerity. He had swept out the lingerers, and his concern that these rubes would need his ear or his services was completely unfounded. Besides, there was still this handsome little boy.

Corky had been watching in awe. The priest was the most remarkable person he had ever seen. Even more important than Casey the engineer! This person...more than a person...had been up in front, at the altar, before all of those hundreds of people. Never before had Corky experienced more than a quick glimpse of the priest the many times they had hurriedly vacated the sacristy. But now, this more-than-man stood squarely before him. His robe brushed lightly just above the floor. Thick ivory colored ropes cinched his waist and dangled to garish tasseled ends. A large crucifix, suspended by a thin silver chain, lay upon his chest. To Corky, the priest was the tallest, most important person in the world. And then, for the first time ever in his young life, Corky was delivered an unfathomable shock.

Father Milliken bent low, looked Corky directly in the face, smiled warmly and asked: "Who do we have here?" Corky was absolutely speechless. He had never been acknowledged as a person ever before. Yes, he knew about smiles from TV but acknowledgement? Him as a person? No way, no how. This was a first.

Accustom to the impact his appearance could have on little children, Father Milliken then turned to the parents for validation. Daddy, struggling with forces intellectual and social, searched deep inside himself, found the word, and provided the enlightenment: "Boy." There was dead air for a few seconds before he amended his statement. "Our boy." 'Christ in a sidecar driving backwards during a hailstorm. If birdshit were brains these people's cages would be clean!' The good father ruminated. Audibly he chuckled a different sentiment "Why yes, yes indeed! Your boy!" And what a fine young boy he is!"

"He likes to play church...holy Jesus be with us...wants to be a priest...it's time for coffee...a priest-like you...blessed cherubim." Hidden only by the girth of his generous robe, the statement made Father Milliken visibly quiver. It wasn't the segmented prayer mumbo jumbo; oh no, that he dismissed in a heartbeat. It was those other words: 'A little boy...who likes to play church...who wants to be a priest...like you.' He wrestled with internal forces for a moment and then succumbed. He cleared his throat importantly and then made his best pitch: "You know, I'm wondering if we could help each other out. Occasionally we need someone to clear snow off the sidewalks in the evening." He looked at daddy. "If you'd like to come by oh, say maybe once a week to clear the snow and bring your boy along, I'd be happy to have him in my room and talk with him about being a priest." 'After all,' he turned now toward mommy. 'We all need to do our fair share in supporting the church, whether it's time, talents or money.' He nodded at the purse.

That salted it. Daddy would be clearing snow and Corky had a date with a priest.

5.

The days passed, just like always. Daddy would grunt his monosyllabic morning weather report before heading out to read meters. Mommy would fret in the kitchen sending up her novenas to Mrs. Folgers and the Virgin Mary. And Corky, well you would find him parked in his usual spot glued to the tube. Although things seemed the same, there was something different. Had Corky known the word he would have identified it as anticipation. He knew that a momentous occasion was upon him. He understood that someday he was going to see the priest while daddy shoveled snow.