Merry Christmas by Patrick Sean Lee (black authors fiction txt) 📖

of him like a flag bearer in battle, walked to the front of the altar steps, and genuflected. Then he began lighting more candles for Mass, ones that weren’t decoration or seasonal, just necessary for the solemn service.

 

      Jimmy had pulled out his book, the Coney Island one I’d given him, and sat reading it calmly. Beside him, Aunt Corey stared forward, watching the Negro boy on the altar reverently going about his business. Looking at Jimmy and the book, I got to thinking about that place called Coney Island. Was it an island, I tried to remember? Where was it from Manhattan where Sara and all the Beat poets she and Jimmy loved so much lived? Would Jimmy—maybe me, and even Carol—go there someday?

       What seemed a few weeks later, Father and about ten altar boys, and twenty or so seminarians from St. Thomas out at the south end of town, arrived at the Kyrie in the Mass. It was a long, long way—maybe months—to the Sanctus and the Benedictus, and I began to wonder as the time dragged endlessly by exactly what my attraction for the Midnight Mass really had been. As the incense filled the already stale air of the church to nearly suffocating proportions, the drone of Father’s voice became monotonous—little noises everywhere collided in my head. I began to lose interest in high ritual and drifted into a glass-domed coach beside a smiling and beautiful Carol Hudson. And then with a rapid shake of my head, back to reality and up to the altar where Ex knelt faithfully; over to the right side of the nave when a bald man coughed. At the conclusion of four or five blinks of my eyes and a few yawns, I gratefully returned back to the glass-domed carriage, and instantly every other distraction melted. I closed my eyes and took hold of Carol’s hand beneath the blankets of fur covering our legs.

     How many times had we journeyed together along these same pathways through the stars? How many times had we had this same conversation? Little variations of, “I love you because…” In every way, though, they were a mighty script written by Shakespeare’s own pen. Romeo and Juliet with a happy ending. Her hands. Her hands were silken. Her eyes were brighter, more glorious than any star we’d ever passed. Her smile turned to desire as I leaned close to kiss her.

 

     “Jesus Christ! She’s throwing up!”

     I left Carol.

     Before I saw a blessed thing, I heard the sound of soup splashing onto the floor in the kitchen. But it was the foulest smelling stuff my mom could ever have made. All the dinner guests were disgusted, too, and I heard “Ughs!” and “Yecchs!” and even one “Ah, Jesus H. Christ!” And then I remembered where we all were, like I was just waking from a beautiful dream into a real-life nightmare Jimmy had created. Like he’d finished reciting one of the black verses from Howl, then dynamited the Cathedral downtown to protest God checking out and running off to mess up the lives of the Martians, now that he’d messed up all ours here on Earth. And then I saw God getting attacked by the Chicken Monster from outer space and…gosh, Midnight Mass was turning into a real weird event.    

     And God saw Sylvie hucking up Jim Beam and what looked like peanuts. A lot of it flew straight out of her mouth when she spasmed, right onto the chest of the smart aleck guy in the pew in front of ours. He’d tried to get away, but there was nowhere for him to go, because all the people in his pew had grabbed onto their noses and were tripping over one another like they would if Jimmy or some Commie terrorist had sticks of dynamite, and was lighting them and throwing them everywhere. So he leaned as far into the back of the pew in front of his as he could, holding onto it for all he was worth with fingers that had suddenly turned into eagle’s claws. He looked like the Chicken Monster From Outer Space was just about ready to swoop in on him after it had finally finished beating up on God.      

     Mom was cussing up a blue streak because she couldn’t do a damned thing. Yeah, that’s what she always did in a serious crisis situation. Cussed. And I’m sure God heard her—being so close in his house and all. It wasn’t real bad cussing, just a few Godammits and Christ Almighty’s, and I don’t think he minded too much because he was probably saying about the same things.      

     Pop, who had been sitting on the far end next to Mom, was standing by the time I woke up, and his eyes were painful looking. Red and pink, with hardly any white in them, and his jaw hung about a foot down onto his chest, but he didn’t move a muscle to try and get to Sylvie—or anywhere else.

     Mrs. McGuire sat slouched over with her mouth hanging open a little, unfazed. Snoring. Out like a light, finally. Aunt Corey stood there next to her sick daughter making the sign of the cross over and over, with her head pointing up toward Heaven. She was praying to be somewhere else right then I’ll bet.

     And Jimmy:

     “‘…who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated…’”

 

     Amen.

     We were asked to leave, and not come back to Midnight Mass ever again.

Imprint

Publication Date: 12-20-2015

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To Sister Mary Dolorine