Lesley Kagen - Good Graces

“Go into that little nook.” I point to the part of the school where I was supposed to hide and wait for Father Mickey. “I want you to put your hands over your eyes and start countin’ very, very slow and I’m going to hide and then you can come find me.”

“Then thwing?”

“Yup… then we’ll swing.”

“With laugh.”

“And witch laugh. Go on now.”

This time Wendy does exactly what I tell her to do and while she’s counting around the corner with her wide face in her chubby fingers, “One… free… nine…” I squat down and push with everything I got. When he flips over… Father’s face… he still looks so handsome.

I know what I’m about to do is against the law. You’re supposed to tell the police if someone dies, even if it’s an accident. I also know that according to the Church, I’m committing a sacrilege. Horrible as he was, Father Mickey deserves a proper burial. But this isn’t the first time I’ve examined my conscience. I’ve spent countless sleepless nights questioning what’s right and what’s wrong. I finally decided that knowing bad from good isn’t always so black-and-white. I mean, there are times when you know you’re about to do something that maybe you shouldn’t so you stop yourself, but there are other times when you know you’re committing a sin but have no choice except to go full speed ahead. You can’t always pick what’s right. Sometimes you can only pick what’s less wrong.

This is one of those times.

I can’t leave Father Mickey here to be found in the morning by one of the old neighborhood ladies. When he doesn’t show up for eight o’clock Mass, they’ll come storming up to the rectory. The police will be called in and all sorts of questions will be asked. Dave will remember that after the fish fry, Troo and me stayed up here for her religious instruction. My sister will be cool, but when Dave questions me, I will put up a good fight at first, but the love I have for him will eventually win out and I’ll confess everything. In nothing flat, what happened here tonight will fly through our neighborhood.

No one will believe me when I try to explain that what Wendy did was an accident. No matter how hard I try to convince our neighbors that she didn’t mean to murder Father, that she was only trying to save me, I know what will happen. They will not watch Wendy’s loping run or hear her funny way of talking or remember her swinging at the playground with her blouse off and smile to themselves the way they do now. Our neighbors won’t even feel sorry for her. Every time they look at her, all they will see is the girl who ended the life of the best pastor we ever had. Her picture will be in the newspaper and on television. She might even have to go to jail or reform school. I can’t let that happen. I won’t. Mongoloids don’t live as long as the rest of us and over my dead body is Wendy Latour spending whatever time she’s got left on earth where there aren’t any swings.

She calls over from the school corner, “Ready or no, here I go, Thally!”

I shout back, “No, stay there, Wendy! Gimme a minute.”

I’m sure God wouldn’t have let Wendy tackle Father Mickey hard enough to kill him if that wasn’t part of His plan. Our fate is in His hands, right? Even though I’m positive that what I’m about to do really is for the best, it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion.

I bow my head and pray:

DEAR LORD, I KNOW THAT I HAVE NOT BEEN THAT GOOD LATELY, SO I PROBABLY DON’T DESERVE ONE, BUT YA KNOW, IF YOU COULD JUST GIVE ME A SIGN THAT WHAT I’M ABOUT TO DO IS OKAY WITH YOU, THAT’D BE GREAT. AMEN.

When I open my eyes and look to the heavens for my answer, the wind that was blowing suddenly stops and the dark clouds that were so threatening break apart to let the moon shine down on me again. That’s all I need to know. This is His celestial way of giving me two thumbs-up. God is letting me know that I am in His good graces. It’s not my imagination. How could it be?

Wendy calls to me again from around the corner in her croaking voice, “Now, Thally?”

“Almost,” I holler back.

All it takes is a couple of strong pushes to roll Father Mickey into the deep hole, where he lands with a soft thump .

When I get up off my knees and scurry around the corner to hide so Wendy can seek, I think about how tomorrow bright and early, after the cement trucks come and pour their load, Father will become part of the foundation for the new school. After I call out, “Ready!” I also think how the next time somebody tells me that the Almighty works in mysterious ways, I will have to agree with them.

When I didn’t show up at the church confessional the way I was supposed to according to Troo’s plan, my sister came looking for me. She heard my Wicked Witch of the West cackling from down the block and the three of them followed it to the school playground. Of course, none of them are shocked to see Wendy. Just like the time she showed up in our bathroom eating a stick of butter, her appearing out of nowhere happens all the time. She really is like a mirage.

“Well?” Troo asks, coming to my side. I check her throat right away to see if Father Mickey tried to strangle her, but I don’t see any marks, just a coupla skeeter bites. There’s a handprint on her right cheek, though.

Mary Lane and Artie ask at the same time, “Well?” They want to know the nitty-gritty.

“After Troo came peelin’ out of the rectory, Father was right behind her, but I had a big head start and got across the playground in nothin’ flat.” I run my tongue over my tooth. They can’t see that it’s broken as long as I don’t smile. “I was going so fast, he didn’t even bother tryin’ to follow me. Probably he’s halfway to Mexico already,” I tell them, because a lot of times in the movies that we see at the Uptown Theatre, that’s where people go when they are on the lam so that seems really believable.

Mary Lane, who’s up on top of the monkey bars, points down to the ground where she left her camera for safekeeping and says excited, “I got the picture. It woulda been better if I waited until Father got his hands around Troo’s throat instead of just slappin’ her across the face, but Fartie here”-she cocks her head at him-“knocked my hand and the camera went off. I have to go to the zoo tomorrow with my dad, but I’ll take the film to get developed at Fitzpatrick’s soon as we get back.”

As soon as Artie is done giving Wendy an under doggie on the swings, he comes back and asks, “Should I still talk to the altar boys tomorrow?” He’s anxious to do his part of the plan. “See if I can get them to tell their parents what they did?”

Before Troo can answer, I say, “Naw. Don’t bother. I’m tellin’ ya, Father Mickey isn’t comin’ back. There’s no sense gettin’ the boys in trouble and everybody else in the neighborhood all worked up. I think we should leave things just like they are, don’t you, Troo?” It is her plan after all.

Troo says, “Yeah… okay,” but she’s giving me her squinty sister look that means What kind a crock is this?

When the church bells get done ringing nine times, Mary Lane swings down from the bars and when her back is turned, I pick her Brownie up off the ground like I’m being courteous, but I’m not. I flick the switch and open up the back of the camera long enough so her picture of Father Mickey gets ruined. The last thing we need is proof of any kind of what happened up here tonight. The second we get home, I’m taking Troo’s genius plan that she wrote down in her notebook and flushing it down the toilet.

Mary Lane says, “Thanks,” and hangs the camera back around her neck. “I gotta get over to the park. My ma and dad are waitin’. They brought caviar and champagne.” (What she really means is that they brought her a box of jujubes and a bottle of orange soda.)