The pay is lousy, a dollar a year around Easter. But I’m not in it for the money. Neither is Ralph.
“Who we got?” he says, hurrying into the dressing room, pulling off his sweater.
“Crowley,” I tell him, working on the twenty-three buttons down my cassock.
“A quicky,” he says.
“Yep.”
Father Crowley can do a high mass in thirty-five minutes, a low one in twenty. The man’s amazing.
We get into our surplices, with the big sleeves like wings, and head down a passageway behind the altar that comes out in the sacristy, where Father Crowley’s getting into his outfit.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Morning, boys.”
Father Crowley has the hairiest nostrils I’ve ever seen on a human being.
Me and Ralph get busy, getting the altar candles lit, getting the water and wine cruets filled. Sometimes, like this morning, Father’s back is bad and we have to tie his shoes for him, Ralph taking one, me the other.
Then we’re all set to go. We stand in the wings, palms pressed together under the chin, waiting for Father to give the word. Sounds like a pretty good crowd out there for a weekday. You can hear them coughing and fidgeting. Then Father says, “All right.” And out we go.
Soon as we appear, everyone stands right up.
That’s a very cool feeling.
Father goes on up with the chalice and sticks it in the tabernacle for later, then turns around and spreads his arms and says, “Introibo ad altare Dei.”
And me and Ralph tell him, “Ad deum qui laetificat am juventutem meam.”
I don’t know what we’re saying, but God does and that’s the important thing. God is what this job’s all about.
I know Ralph feels the same way. In fact, he’s probably going to be a priest. Jesus appeared to him in a dream and told him he’d make a pretty good one.
I don’t know if it’s a job I’d want or not. I mean, I think it would be cool doing Mass, and of course hearing Confession:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I committed an impure act with myself.
My son, that’s disgusting.
I’m sorry, Father.
Don’t ever do that again. You hear me, boy?
Now get the hell outa here.
But the thing about being a priest, you can’t ever quit. I wouldn’t like that. I like being able to quit.
That’s what I told Ralph and he agreed but he said he didn’t have any choice. He said Jesus picked him and that was that.
I said, “He didn’t actually pick you. He just said you’d probably make a good one.”
Ralph shook his head. “You didn’t see His face.”
I feel bad for Ralph because I know he’d rather be a Marine, like his dad. I told him he could be a chaplain, but he said they’re not allowed to kill, so what would be the point?
We get to the Offertory in about twelve minutes flat. Father holds up the host and Ralph gives the handbell one clean shake, all wrist, and now the bread is the body of Christ. Then Father holds up the chalice and Ralph rings the bell and now the wine is the blood of Christ. Even if you’re not a Catholic, you have to admit that’s pretty miraculous.
And we do it here every day.
Ralph goes and gets the paten—the silver plate with a handle, to catch any crumbs—and Father Crowley gives us Communion. Then, with the body of Christ still melting in my mouth, I follow Father down to the railing and go along holding the paten under everyone’s chin while they shut their eyes and stick out their jittery tongue. Sometimes there’s a kid you know and you’re tempted to give him a friendly little stab in the Adam’s apple with the edge of the paten. But you don’t.
After Communion it’s just a matter of wrapping up. Then Father tells them, “Requiescat in pace”—Go in peace—and we head back into the sacristy.
“Well done, fellas,” Father tells us.
That’s what you like to hear. Because if Father is pleased, then God is pleased. And if God is pleased, then you’re all set.
I know Ralph feels the same way.
“Semper fidelis,” he always says to me when he leaves, meaning “Always faithful.” Only, that’s not from the Church, it’s from the Marines.