WORDCHASM

Father Kaveatz stood at the window of his rectory bedroom, staring out across the yard through his weathered Galilean binoculars. He smiled knowingly at the cloud of dirt far in the distance.

“They’ll be men yet,” he sighed, elbowing me in the ribs. I shook my head, but couldn’t hold back a smirk.

“A little bit of the devil in all-of-em,” I said. “Boys…”

“They say times change, but it’s only the weather.” said Father Kaveatz. He grabbed a high ball glass of scotch with his meaty hands, wiping the glass’s perspiration on the front of his tight, black cassock. A quick swig smoothed the crease of tension from his tan forehead and he stared down at his dining room table. He unwrapped a small stack of letters, pulled his silver letter opener from the top desk drawer, and sat down. He made quick work of the envelopes then patted down his pockets.

“Can’t read a damn thing without my glasses.”

I watched his dark eyes closely for a moment or two. And all while, I twirled the rosary in my habit pocket, testing my strength by resisting the strong urge to scratch the itch underneath my rayon apostolnik.

“May I?” I asked, reaching toward the binoculars. He nodded and I carefully positioned them in front of my bifocals. My skinny, wrinkled fingers struggled to control a tremor. Still, I saw Craig Simmons, Damon Jones, and little Michael Stenson. Their faces were twisted and barely audible screams reached my old ears. But the action moved too fast. A bit dizzy, I set the binoculars down on Father’s desk.

“Such violence,” I mumbled. “After all this time, can’t we find a better…”

“We’re all animals,” he said as he took a long slug. He sucked down a wet breath, exhaled fragrantly, and stared out the window again.

“Sister, the sooner they realize…the sooner they’ll be ready.”

I watched him watching for what must have been five minutes. The smooth rosary beads felt cold against my aching fingers. I must have been in communication with the Holy Spirit, because I don’t remember thinking a single thought. Once back in focus, I pulled Father’s eyeglasses from the third drawer down and placed them on top of his desk. He was still deep in thought as I exited the room.

Cast iron confident little soldiers in white polo shirts and grey slacks stomped across a grassy pasture. The football marched back and forth in a cloud of mud and soot. Traffic sped by the chicken wire fence. Honks and screeching brakes nullified the shouts out far beyond the bounds of supervision.

James clothesline-tackled Craig, catching his throat in the crook of his arm and twisting through the collision. The ball flew into the air for a moment and through the gauntlet of saliva, I snagged it, scampering past the nearby end zone marker. I spiked the ball mercilessly and with what was considered the appropriate display of triumphant male aggression, I raised my fists to the sky. Thank God for James and his physical prowess. Damon now owes me 15 friendship bracelets.

Shrieks of pain and the sound of flesh slapping flesh brought me down from my cloud. Damon, drooling with anger, slammed James’s head into the dirt. Like any oxford playground gang member, I sprinted to his aid with wild swinging arms. Hands from behind closed around my neck and I swung around, kicking for the groin.

To think, it had all started as a lovely metaphor: football. Alas, we removed the formalities and carved our own fiefdoms. Each day after, we chose sides and clashed with righteous anger… only bringing the ball along for liability insurance.

All so Roman, all so Catholic – blood in the sand, blood in the grass – conflict mediation, ego adjustments…guilt. It takes a lot of industrial bleach to turn mud blood white.

A non-nun sat my brother and I down on the curb. Our Ivan Drago crew cuts glistened in the afternoon sun. I fidgeted, rubbing at the dirt between my eyes. He twiddled his daydreaming thumbs.

“The twin terrors,” she stated like a detective. Her arms swung behind her back as she paced back and forth in front of us. “You will be sitting in the hallway during recess for the next two weeks.”

Thank heavens nobody inquired about the Spanish. Our holy land was in good hands.