The percolator was just beginning to share the sounds that had given it its name as Gus started on his food.

The meal ended up being both a good idea and a bad idea.

The first few tentative bites were gratefully accepted by his stomach. Feeling somewhat assured he picked up one of the shingles covered with a mound of eggs and crammed a third of it into his mouth. This too avoided gastro rejection. The peaches were a good addition and the milk, a dubious proposition at first, was also accepted as family.

It would have all been fine and well except for the fact that it left Gus alone with his thoughts. While he had been cleaning up his room and cooking his hangover remedy, his mind had been occupied (at least somewhat) by the task at hand. Now, with no distractions, other than which bite should come next, his mind was free to roam through all of the consequences ahead of him.

The boy the dad the other boys the church council the police They rolled through his brain like an out of control amusement park ride. Each time he resolved (denied) one, there was another manic roller coaster to take its place, careening off the tracks, smashing into his sanity. He should stay. He should go. Would they dare arrest him? Would there be a trial? And would the newspa Christ the fucking newspaper! He hadn't thought of this before his picture would be on the front page of every wire-service subscribing rag in the Midwest! And there was television and radio and fuck oh fuck, this could follow him forever!

What his stomach had gratefully accepted, his mind now frantically vetoed. His throat constricted to a pencil line, a briny taste rose in his jowls, and his diaphragm heaved. As the food began rising up on its return journey Gus scrambled to his feet and lunged for the sink.

Perk-a-perk-ah-perk-ah! The coffee maker sang its merry song of golden goodness. Meanwhile, across the way; Gus wretched violently.

3.

The coffee maker had done its job and Gus had done his, and now the two had come together at the expanse of kitchen table. A large man with a small cup, a cup designed more for a prim meeting of the women's guild than for chasing off a bad hangover. But warm ups were close at hand, and this he did often (albeit unnecessarily) just for the sake of distraction.

He had grimly cleaned up the sink and trashed the rest of his meal. On a notion he had also retrieved the wastebasket from his own room and deposited its contents into the dumpster at the back of the building.

And here he sat. Tortured by the thoughts that tugged at his brain and yet encouraged by the notion that each passing minute brought him closer to The phone rang.

A small yelp escaped the large man. The man who was once a boy and had yelped in a similar manner while being ravaged by the ogres. He sloshed his coffee and his index finger became lodged in the too small cup handle. "Damn it!" Anger. Fear. Both.

A second ring.

Gus scowled at his own weakness but focused on the god-damned fairy cup. "Fuck!" He caught himself as if the person who was calling could overhear his oath. "Damn thing" he muttered, wrenching the diminutive cup from his hand.

The phone insisted a third time and Gus rehearsed his story. 'What's that? I have no idea what you're talking about. Yes, the boy was in my room. Yes, I talked to his father, no, no, heavens no! I am a man of the cloth. Bearing false witness is a sin.'

He reached from where he was seated, took a breath, and picked up on the fourth ring: "Father Milliken."

"Father, something awful has happened." Okay. So this was it.

The caller had not even identified themselves, probably didn't want to be identified. But of course, the rumors of what had happened were already spreading around town and this one nosy nitwit needed to hear it direct from the source. Hear it for themselves so that they could be the star attraction at their bowling league, sewing circle or whatever godforsaken gossip-fest they attended.

Gus did not respond. Could not respond. The caller filled the gap: "You need to turn on the television right away!"

Gus felt every life-giving molecule swept from his body. His mind became blank as each consequence he had imagined was now flat stark reality. He was busted. Arrested. Tried. Convicted. And branded for life by the media.

"The President has been shot!"

It was a good thing that Gus had practiced his story. It was the only thing he could rely on (part of it at least) while he sorted out what was going on in his head. "What's that? I have no idea what you're talking about." It was just as he had rehearsed although unwittingly a purely honest response.

"The President, John F. Kennedy, our President, was shot in Dallas today. They don't know if he's going to live."

It wasn't the church council, not the police, not even the concerned parent of a congregational child. This was just some anonymous person telling the local priest that the catholic President had been shot. And perhaps hoping that his phone call would earn him a few extra crowns in heaven.

"The President has been shot." Gus repeated softly into the hand piece. It was the best news he had ever received.

4.

The occurrence of major life events, of the magnitude of a presidential assassination (especially of a catholic presidential assassination) prompt people, communities and congregations to either look more closely at their own lives or to become oblivious to their small role in the world and be dragged along by the power of a nation.

The brave look inward. The deniers hide in the fallout.

Gus had a lot to deny, and with an entire nation affixed to the happenings in Dallas and DC his transgressions hid easily. Besides, he was suddenly busy and in demand. His first phone call of the day was certainly not his last. Several parishioners had requested special services of the rosary and opportunities for confession. Normally he would have loathed such requests. But by god if this wasn't a wonderful distraction, not only for himself but for the others who could make his life uncomfortable.

To think that earlier today he believed the people were going to turn on him. But look at things now. The people were turning to him! They needed him and of course would protect him from the lunatic ravings of anyone so upset by the President's death, that they're driven mad and make false accusations against a priest.

Gus began building his defense. He called the two most gossipy members of the woman's guild and asked them to pass the word that a special rosary would be performed tonight at 6 pm followed by confession until all have been served. He shared the same information with radio station KNEW (we put the KNEW into Elmwood's music). The receptionist who took his call had clearly been crying. "I'll pass the information along to the disc jockey. It's a shame we can't broadcast the service." Gus immediately brightened and said: "My wonderful child of God, you put him on the phone right now!" KNEW would undergo a change of format at least for one night.

Calls were placed to the 5 church council members to let them know that they were being prayed for this time of crisis. And then on a whim, and more for his own benefit than others, Gus also dialed up the sheriff's office where he got to speak to the man himself. "Thank you for your concern Father, actually things are really quiet now, it's eerie. Everyone watching the TV I guess. But I'm grateful knowing there's someone out there looking out for our spiritual needs. Any of the guys I can spare tonight will be at your rosary you betcha."

The work was a great distraction. By keeping busy, Father Milliken was able to keep his mind from going renegade.

He spent the rest of the day making last minute calls to ushers and altar boys, all were eager to offer their assistance in this time of crisis. He panicked for a moment when the task of snow removal entered his mind, and then stood stock still. Why no, that had been taken care of last night by- by the father of the boy. The walks were clear, and now it was- he looked at his watch- it was 5:15! The day had gone by and he had hardly thought about last night's ugly incident since receiving the call about the President.

Five-fifteen. If anything were to have happened it would have happened today; during 'business hours.' Plus, this was Friday! Suddenly Gus felt exonerated of his demons. "Five-fifteen!" he said triumphantly to the pleasure of his own ears. "Must get ready for church!" And with that he exited the sanctuary of the rectory for the first time that day.

The air was sharp but still. To the west a corona of colors; red, orange and pink commingled with the cirrus clouds above the setting sun. Gus paused for just a moment to take in the omen while an old verse found its way to his lips: "Red sky at night, sailors delight." Fair weather; smooth sailing. He smiled at the thought, then caught himself. Best not to let any early arriving parishioners, indeed he could see a thin line of sinners making their way up the steps of St. Marks, catch him in the act of smiling on this grievous occasion. He adjusted his thoughts to the task ahead. 'Full house.' He mused. 'If they're getting here this early it's gonna be a sellout.'

He turned up the walk that led to the side door of the sacristy. The walk was clear. The boy's father had done a good job.

5.

The rosary service was a somber smashing success. Every pew filled. People standing on the edges, spilling out the front door, even kneeling in the main aisle. The four deputies from the sheriff's office were garishly led in via the sacristy door to be seated in the front row. KNEW spliced a microphone to the churches phone line and sent the feed back to the studio and out to the 30 mile radius of their 1,000 watt tower.

Father Milliken: "Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus."

The congregation: "Holy Mary mother of god pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen."

And among those many voices in the congregation was a man with no rosary but who instead fumbled two keys, one for the car, and one for the house. And with him a woman who frantically twisted and knotted her rosary. The miniature Jesus on the cross flipping wildly like a circus acrobat. And between them, a boy. A boy of perhaps 4, maybe 5 years old. A boy who used to stand on the pew and take in the sights around him; but who now sat unmoving. Hands at his sides, eyes down, chin on his chest.

Throughout the 58 prayers of the rosary Father Milliken kept his eyes on this trio. He made eye contact with the man once (who shrunk in repose) with the woman three times (whose eyes darted constantly like Mexican jumping beans) and the boy from whom there was nothing.

'They're not going to say anything.' Father Milliken reflected in wonder.

Father Milliken: "Glory be to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost."

The Congregation: "As it was in the beginning, now and ever shall be, amen."

A packed church, a radio station broadcast, officers in uniform and a family that he had once feared now stone cold mute. Gus Milliken was feeling more and more like Father Milliken. He was building a strong defense. And while he didn't believe in reincarnation, the president's death had given him new life. Damn, why couldn't a president die every day!

Part 2.

Georgie.

Chapter 1.

1.

Three days later, (an anguishing three days later because all that was on were shows about the president) was when Georgie got his new name.

There had been a time when a preschooler named Corky had sat in this same spot, but something bad had happened. Very bad. Something so bad that it makes you forget who you are. So bad that other people forget your name or who you are. Or even worse, they give you a new name.

Daddy didn't go to work that day because everyone had to stay home and watch the president's funeral. He sat far back in his usual spot on the couch. Mommy however had dragged in a chair from the kitchen and was close enough to touch the screen (which she did several times) in an act that suggested maybe she could will the president back to life if only by proximity.

Quietly yet bitterly she vented: "Those damn Cubans...god forgive me...John F. Kennedy...John was the disciple...John was the Baptist... the horses and carriage...heaven and earth." She did an admirable job of holding her spot in the chair and the volume of her voice. But when the president's three year old son 'John-John' stepped up to salute the passage of his father's body, mommy absolutely wailed. The image rocked her, rocked her hard with a mixture of sadness and fury. The sadness she would eventually be able to work out of her system with a dozen or so consecutive scourings of the kitchen sink. But the fury had to be dealt with now. She jumped and turned on her own son: "Look at that! Look at that brave little boy! Do you think you could be that brave? John-John! Praise Jesus! What a wonderful boy! And you-you-all you do is bring shame! What you did! (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) Why couldn't you have been a girl! You're nothing like John-John, you're-you're just a- a-."

Snippets of an old nursery rhyme 'Georgie Porgie pudding and pie...' and the chorus of a song of the day 'Hey there Georgie girl...' crossed paths in her head and merged in ugly condescension . It clicked. She trumpeted victoriously: "You're a - A Georgie! Just a Georgie, Porgie, ---- GIRL!" She cackled in delight of her wit and then returned to grieving for her brave John-John.

Perhaps it was the pent up anxiety of the taunts from her own youth, perhaps the anguish since the boy had destroyed their good standing in the church, perhaps it was the overwhelming sadness of a country in mourning. Maybe it was all three, but regardless, mommy had found a new outlet (lord knows she has plenty to let out) she would focus her aggression on the boy. On Georgie. Georgie Porgie girl.

2.

With the President now dead and buried, (except for the three times each day that they re-buried him on the N.E.W.S.) things returned to normal. Daddy went back to work, Georgie sat in his regular spot and mommy returned to her OCD ravings which now included a new element in her repertoire. A Georgie element you might say. "Blessed are the poor in spirit for they will inherit... mountain grown, the richest blend... he's a bad Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie... descended into hell... hey there Georgie girl...was crucified, died and was buried."

Each Georgie reference was uttered with disdain and was always linked to a reference of sin, hell, death or damnation. Being a Georgie Porgie or a Georgie girl was bad enough. Being damned to hell a couple hundred times a day well, why not add that in for good measure.

Obviously mommy wasn't coping very well. What had occurred between the priest and her son could not be justified in her mind. The blame had to go somewhere. (Clearly not the priest!) Certainly not on daddy, he was just doing the work of the church, god's work, shoveling snow. That left her with one outlet, the child.

Years ago, as a misfit in the school yard, her nonstop uttering went ignored by the other children. Over the years she became immune to the fact that anyone heard them, maybe even herself some would argue. And so on it went: "In the name of the father, and of the son... why didn't I have a girl... and of the holy spirit... girls are better than boys... Georgie Porgie girl... there's a sale on Folger's... cats are better than boys... at the hour of death... he kissed the girls and made them cry Georgie girl."

Georgie didn't know the word 'humiliation' but he knew the feeling. And there was a second word that he felt and knew: That word was hate.

Just as mommy had unleashed her fury he needed to do the same. The hatred had to go somewhere, had to be released. The hatred that had been triggered by his mother but was being fueled by something else, something way deep down inside of him that he couldn't quite identify, didn't want to identify. It bubbled up close to the surface and nearly spilled over into consciousness.

On TV, for about the 50 time since the funeral, (you might say the TV was suffering from a bit of OCD as well) the grainy image of the knobby kneed boy in full salute held center screen. 'John-John.' Georgie looked at the little boy suit. He looked at his shorts, his shoes, his face, and he looked at his little boy salute. And he found the target for his hate. He hated John-John.

He hated John-John and everything that he represented about being such a wonderful brave little boy. The child on the screen was everything that Georgie was not, would never would be. He would never be brave or wonderful. He would never be the president's son.

Bitterly: "You're a John-John." It came first from his mind, then with his voice. He knew the TV could hear what he was thinking, but it felt good to say it as well. "You're just a bad John-John." And: "I hate you."

Mr. Whipple came rushing in to admonish his customers for squeezing the Charmin as the image of John-John dissolved. But the hate did not dissolve, it would be around for a long time to come.

3.

The occurrence of major life events alters things big and small. It's all part of the process of growing up. Georgie still got up before sign-on and blightly directed traffic with his plastic cars based upon the weather. Pie pans and marbles helped to pass the time during the soaps. And he still stayed up late, tumbling his blocks (with a little less enthusiasm than before) to the laughter coming from the unseen studio audience. And for the most part, these routines were unchanged.

The most notable change was also the most unexpected. Casey and his cartoon pals had changed somehow. Georgie couldn't identify it, but everything was... well, it was just wrong. Maybe Georgie was growing up. Georgie felt that he was supposed to be doing something, playing something, during this show... he tried the marbles, the cars, even the blocks, but it just wasn't right. He had seen the goblet lying in his cardboard toy box, but that was just an icky glass that didn't belong there. When Trixie and Dixie were besting their foible Mr. Jinx, Georgie no longer laughed long and hard. Something about the cartoons was disturbing. They felt dirty and created a sense of shame that he felt, but could not identify.

And there were other things: Casey and Harry the Hobo for instance. Casey was always smiling as he... "(But you have to see the light! You have to see heaven!") ...led the Engineer Cheer. And Harry holding the lantern to show... (worms. Squirming squiggly worms that crawl out of your eyes and onto your face.) ...that the train cars were coupled and they were ready to go.

Worst though was the introduction of the studio audience. As the camera panned from face to face Georgie bristled. He concurrently held feelings of hatred (outwardly evident) and fear (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!) for each boy as they were introduced. "You're a John-John" he muttered bitterly as each boy smacked a gooey hello to the people at home.

The girls got a different reception.

'Girls are better than boys. You're a Georgie Porgie girl!'Yes, the girls deserved better. Girls would never wear little suits and step off a curb to make a salute. Girls didn't have to be good or brave. A screen shot of a junior engineer of the female persuasion brought a respectful: "You're a Georgie Porgie girl."

As Casey brandished the metal rod microphone to... (poke and hurt)... interview the kids, Georgie also experienced body memories. His bottom twinged as the gregarious engineer loomed over each child and nudged the mic. in their faces. Occasionally a youngster would pull away from the mic. and bury his face in his arms as if the device were an instrument of torture. If that child were a boy, then Georgie felt that he was getting what he deserved.

But if a girl shied away, Georgie felt empathy. Hurt and humiliation was only for the John-John's of the world, not for the girls. The Georgie Porgie girls.

Yes, TV had changed (maybe it had something to do with the President). And Georgie had obviously changed too. He was growing up.

"Bestow upon me saint Joseph...another half a cup... in heaven and hell...dirty Georgie Porgie girl... for life everlasting, amen."

For life everlasting, indeed.