The Gathering (5 page)

But for now both had a great deal of growing up to do.

“Maybe,” Mike said, “I’d be sore if we’d had any money on it. But we didn’t have a bet.”

“Yeah, that’s a snowball’s chance in hell. Or maybe a warm water’s day in Lake Huron.”

They laughed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Manny explained. “I don’t mind playing any game for fun. I just can’t feel the killer instinct unless something’s riding on it. I don’t know … it’s just the way I am.

“Take you, for instance,” he continued. “You’re not bad at all. You can stay even with me pretty well. But you don’t do as well as you could. There isn’t any time that you ever go for the jugular. I’ve seen you sometimes when we’re playing: You get an opponent on the ropes— and then you back off.”

“Winning isn’t everything.”

“It’s something.”

Mike shook his head. “You know, it’s a good thing you’re gonna be a priest.”

Manny stopped bouncing the ball and stood still. “What in hell has anything we just talked about have to do with becoming a priest?”

“Well, if you weren’t going to the seminary, you’d probably get involved with varsity sports. Certainly the major stuff: football, basketball, baseball. You’d be playing for Redeemer. And Redeemer’s in the top league.”

“Yeah? So?”

“You said it yourself: There’s no betting on games in high school or college. That’d take you out of serious contention. You’d want to play pro ball. But you’d never get there because the amateur leagues wouldn’t pay you. So you’d never make it to the majors.”

“How long has it taken you to figure out my future?”

“Actually, just now. But it’s been in the back of my mind for a while. It fell into place when you were just talking about how you’ve got to have something riding on the game before you go for the jugular.”

Manny studied his friend. “You may have something there. But I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “The question will answer itself if and when I become a priest.”

“One step at a time,” Mike cautioned.

“One step at a time, eh, guy? Well, what’s first on the hit parade?”

Mike’s brow knitted. “Well … we start to gather the documents. You know, it’s not as easy as it sounded when Bob told me about it. He didn’t bring anything with him the first time he went to the seminary … things got pretty involved.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute! What documents?”

“You don’t know? Didn’t you talk to Bob?”

“A little. But he didn’t mention any documents. It never even came up. Of course,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “mostly I was just asking him questions.” He shook his head. “Nope; it just didn’t come up.

“So”—he looked at Mike intently—“what’s it all about?”

“According to Bob, in addition to a pencil, and a transcript of your grammar school grades, they want three documents. Three certificates, really: your baptismal and confirmation records and your parents’ marriage certificate.”

“I haven’t got any of these.” Down deep, Manny felt the beginning of panic.

“I don’t have them either.”

“Then what—”

“You’ve got to go get them.”

“Where?”

“The parish where you were baptized and confirmed. And the parish where your parents were married. You just go there and ask for them. Bob said they have to have the parish seal on them. But Bob said the priest or his secretary would probably know that.”

Manny could see his dream vocation crashing before it got in the air. “I think maybe I got a problem.”

“What?”

The two sat on the cement stair in the blessed shade.

“My dad. He’s not a Catholic. Will he be able to get a marriage certificate?”

“Were your folks married in a Catholic church?”

“Yeah. My mom told me all about the wedding a long time ago. Actually, they were married at a side altar. Because my dad wasn’t a Catholic.

“So what’s that got to do with getting the damn certificate?”

Mike thought about that briefly. “I don’t think it has anything to do with it. Remember in our Religion class when we were studying the seven sacraments? If one party is Catholic and the other isn’t, they call that a mixed marriage.”

“Yeah.” Manny brightened. “ A mixed religion marriage.”

“Well, if your folks got married in a Catholic church like you said, then it’s a valid marriage.”

“Even if they did it at a side altar?”

“Why not?”

“Yeah, why not?” Manny hesitated. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I mean, don’t they have to get something?”

“Get something? What something?”

“Something about … uh … permission … no? Permission to get married even though both of them weren’t Catholic?”

Mike’s eyes widened. “You mean a dispensation?”

“That’s it: a dispensation.”

Mike’s memory faltered. “From what?”

“I don’t know. I just remember the word.”

“Wait a minute,” Mike said thoughtfully. “It’s simple. They can’t get married ’cause one of them is not a Catholic. It’s prohibited. So,” he said triumphantly, “they get a dispensation from the prohibition. Then they can get married in a Catholic church … even though it’s at a side altar.”

“Man,” Manny exclaimed, “you got some memory!”

Mike smiled. “Not for everything. I figure we ought to know all we can about the Catholic Church … after all, it’s gonna be our entire life.”

Manny was uneasy about the Church being his “entire life.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to make that total a commitment. “Is that all there is to it?” He sensed there was more than merely getting a paper that said his parents were dispensed so they could get married in the Catholic Church.

Mike thought. The Brother who taught their Religion class was pretty thorough about Church stuff, especially about the sacraments. Brothers were more demanding than nuns. At least it seemed so; they hit harder. “Seems to me there’s something people have to do before they get their dispensation.” He looked up as if the answer were somewhere in the sky. “Something they have to promise. Promise … oh, I know: They have to promise to raise their kids as Catholics.”

He turned to Manny. “Your folks certainly lived up to that. Heck, I see your dad at Mass practically every Sunday.”

“Yeah. I never thought much about it, but Dad does go to church every Sunday … and so does my mom. But”—he sighed as he tilted his head and pursed his lips—“she
has
to go or she’ll go to hell.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t think my dad
has
to go. He says we ought to go together—like the family we are. Even though he can’t take Communion.

“I never thought about all he had to go through to marry my mom.” Manny thought about it now, then, eyebrows raised in recognition, he nodded. “That was pretty neat.”

“Do you think your ma would have married him if he hadn’t made the promise or just refused to do anything to get the dispensation?”

“Man, I don’t know.”

“If your dad didn’t get the dispensation, they wouldn’t have been able to be married in church. Would she have married him anyway? I mean, then she would’ve been excommunicated.”

“Man, I don’t know what she would have done,” Manny repeated.

“It’s just that I think that if that had been the case, then you would have a real hard time getting in the seminary.”

“Because she’d’ve been excommunicated?”

“I think so. I heard my folks talking about it a long time ago. One of my cousins married a lady who was divorced. Then they had a son who wanted to be a priest. But the seminary wouldn’t accept him … just because of his parents.”

“Man, that’s miserable. Why pick on the kid? I mean, just for something the parents did—or didn’t do?”

“That’s the law. And you’re right: Now that we’re talking about it, it
doesn’t
seem fair.”

“No, it don’t!” Manny said in emphasis.

“But …” Mike shrugged. “ … it’s the law of our Church. It must be right.”

They continued to sit still. It was cooler in the shade. It would have been more tolerable if there had been a breeze. Not only was there no wind, but it was humid. Languidly, they bounced the tennis ball back and forth to each other.

Across the parking lot, a couple of boys appeared in the car entrance.

They walked with purposeful direction. There could be no doubt they were headed toward Manny and Mike. They didn’t appear to be in a mood to play games. Their demeanor was downright menacing.

Each set of boys focused on the other.

   
FOUR
   

T
O MIKE IT WAS CREEPY.

The two strangers were advancing toward him and Manny with deliberation. They were now near enough to be identifiable.

“Do you know them?” Manny asked, out of the side of his mouth.

“No,” Mike said in a faint voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

Manny grunted.

The newcomers had halted and now stood some ten to twelve feet away. Each was considerably larger than either Mike or Manny. “What’s your names?” the taller one demanded.

Mike’s impulse was to tell them. What harm could come from answering a simple question? But before he could respond, Manny spoke. “What’s yours?”

The newcomers looked surprised. They had obviously expected to instill fear, whereas they were being defied.

“I’m Switch,” said the taller one. “And my friend here is the Blade.” The two laughed humorlessly.

“Cute,” Manny said.

Switch, though the taller, was by no means well developed. The Blade was slightly better built.

They looked to be in their mid- to late teens. Their clothing was soiled and ragged. They could have profited from a shower—possibly even a delousing.

“Well,” Switch said, “
your
names?” Though it was a question, it was issued in the tone of a command. Mike felt an even stronger impulse to provide the information.

But again, before Mike could say a word, Manny spoke. “We don’t think you’ll have much use for them.” He began to bounce the tennis ball against the pavement.

Switch and the Blade were taken a bit aback; they had definitely not expected anything like this show of resistance.

“That a new tennis ball?” The Blade tried an oblique approach.

“You see a gift wrap anywhere?” Manny’s reply was rhetorical. “If it ain’t wrapped up like a present,” he said, “it probably ain’t new.”

Switch and the Blade traded glances. The two made a habit of doing exactly what they were trying to do now: intimidating smaller, younger boys. Bullies, ordinarily they picked their targets at random. As long as the prey was vulnerable, the two were confident of taking booty, like pirates.

Mike wanted out of here as badly as he had ever wanted anything. But, for starters, he doubted that Switch and the Blade would give him safe passage. More important, he would never abandon his buddy in such a threatening situation.

But, oh, how he wished Manny would get rid of the chip that had unexpectedly appeared on his shoulder.

“Wanna play a game?” Switch was definitely the spokesman for the twosome; outside of his oblique question, the Blade had done nothing more than nod when his cohort spoke—and try to look menacing.

“We just got done,” Manny said.

“Yeah, but I know a real good game.” Switch’s grin was malevolent.

“What’s it called?”

“Keep Away.”

“Same as Monkey in the Middle?”

“Sometimes.” Switch’s smile was smug.

“Or Let’s Steal the Ball from the Squirts?”

Switch’s chin thrust forward. “You accusin’ us of being thieves?”

Manny’s lips curled down in an ironic smile. “And I would guess not very good ones.” The two hoodlums were furious. Manny had verbally cut them down to size. Their bluff had been called.

They all knew where this was going.

Manny tossed the ball behind him. His gesture was clear: If you want the ball you’ll have to go through me.

Mike’s eyes bulged with fright.

Switch, though livid, was the talker. The Blade was action. He dove at Manny.

Switch and Mike had little choice but to follow suit; they began to scuffle. But although each ripped the other’s shirt, their hearts weren’t in it; after less than a minute they called it quits. They stood, irresolute, staring at the action between Manny and the Blade, both of whom, though exerting maximum effort, seemed strangely immobile. Like Ursus and the bull in “
Quo Vadis
?” Or like two powerful arm wrestlers straining toward a draw.