Jim Shepard - Flights

He was giving the morning up for lost, thinking, This is nuts, when a girl appeared before him in the Communion line, her face smooth and wide and serious, her gaze startling. She looked at him as though the whole ungainly, tottering ceremony were running so smoothly that there was room for only reverence in one’s perspective of it. He blinked and steadied the plate. She was wearing a white dress with blue trim and her hair was swept away from her face with perfect brushstrokes. She was beautiful. It surprised him, in that time and that place. In her solemnity she somehow began to redeem or confirm the idea of a seven-thirty Mass with one altar boy and eight people attending. He felt silly, foolishly theological, but she gazed directly at him as she received Communion, and he held the plate level.

He led the closing processional with little enthusiasm, dreading facing Father Rubino in the sacristy, wondering at his revelation with the girl. They were barely free of the tones of the organ when a woman poked her head in and asked for a moment of Father’s time, leading the same girl with the beautiful hair and face. She was Mrs. Ransey; this was Laura. She was new in the diocese, in the neighborhood; she wanted all sorts of information, not the least of which was whether or not her Laura could attend Our Lady of Peace at this late date. Seventh grade. She knew it was late, but — Father cut her off: Yes, yes, fine, fine. Nice to see her. As for the school, she’d have to check with Sister Theresa: she ran everything over there. He didn’t know what her policy on late entry was. Biddy continued to watch Laura as he poured back the excess wine and water, her attention wandering through the thicket of chalices and covering linens as the adults spoke.

“Sin,” Sister Theresa said. It was first period Monday morning and Biddy was still looking at Laura, hovering quiet and serious beyond his catechism book.

“You’re getting to be young adults,” Sister said. “I’ve told you this before. Too big to be just memorizing catechism. ‘Who is God?’ ‘God is good’: you should be expected to do more than that now. You’re old enough, you’ve been old enough, to start to take responsibility for your Christian lives. And that responsibility means having to deal with sin. Laura.” Laura flushed, looking down. “What is sin?”

“Sin?” Laura said.

“Sin.”

“Thirty-four,” Biddy whispered, but her eyes remained away from the book.

“No coaching, Mr. Siebert.”

“Sin is …” She waited, and Sister waited with her, more tolerant with new students. “Sin is doing something wrong.”

“Is that all? Biddy?”

“Sin is knowingly doing something wrong?” Biddy said.

Sister sat back, for some reason unhappy with the answer. “Well, let’s take an example. Let’s say Teddy there broke his arm hitting his brother.”

“I broke it before then.”

“This is just an example.”

“And it’s my wrist.”

“Teddy. Would you like to stay after and go over all the blackboards? Keir. Suppose Teddy hit his brother and broke his own arm. Is that a sin?”

“Breaking his arm?”

“No, hitting his — Jimmy.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a sin?”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because — you shouldn’t hit your brother.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll get in trouble.”

“Wrong.” Sister pounded the desk and everyone jumped. “Why is that wrong? Come on, let’s start to do some thinking here.” Laura looked over at Biddy, and he smiled.

“Jimmy. Suppose no one was around and you knew you wouldn’t get caught.”

“It’d still be wrong.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because — you shouldn’t hit your fellow man.”

A few students snickered, and Sister sighed. “What about Jesus?” she said. “What does he have to do with all of this?”

“He’s in all of us,” Jimmy offered.

“So if we hit someone it’s like we’re hitting Jesus,” Keir said.

“That’s right.” Sister stood to emphasize the point. “Isn’t sin — any sin — always an offense against yourself and against someone else? So isn’t it always an offense against Jesus?”

Various students looked agreeable. No one spoke.

“This class is going to make progress,” Sister said. “In 1989.”

“Do you know Mr. Ransey?” Biddy asked. He and his father were sitting high up in the cheap seats at Shea Stadium, in the wind. They were freezing. The Jets were playing the Saints. They were Minnesota Viking fans.

“Who?” his father said, rubbing his thigh.

“Mr. Ransey. He lives on Spruce Street.”

“No. Should I?”

“No.”

In the distance the Jets ran wide and fumbled. The Saints leaped up and down, pointing downfield to indicate the change of possession.

“Can I get a gun?” Biddy said.

“A what?” His father looked at him.

“You know. A BB gun.”

“You don’t need a gun.” He returned his attention to the game.

“I was thinking about getting one.”

“Forget it. What’re you, Daniel Boone?” They fell silent, watching the Saints struggle upfield. “I take you to see a football game, and all you can think about is guns?”

The wind whipped through the Sunday crowd, lifting pieces of wrappers and program pages. Biddy had a scarf bundled loosely around his neck and he buried his chin in it. His hand played with the ticket stub deep in his jacket pocket.

The Jets’ green was not interesting or colorful against the turf, and the black-and-gold Saints looked dirty and tired. Much of the glamour of professional football seemed drained away in the lights reflecting yellow off the dirt and the flat dinginess of the players’ uniforms. It was late Sunday and they had driven over an hour for an interconference game between the New York Jets and the New Orleans Saints, and they shifted and huddled in their seats in the wind, watching the incoming jets cut through the growing darkness toward La Guardia.

The next Saturday, they sat inches from the bench straining to see over the heads of the players and coaches on the sidelines, watching the Stratford High North Paraders play Fairfield Prep, paying particular attention to senior defensive end Louis Liriano of the North Paraders, the first slightly retarded defensive end in Stratford’s history, as far as anyone knew. They sat next to Dom. Mickey, Ginnie, and Cindy were coming along later.

The solid red helmets bobbed in an extended line before him, and he could pick out Louis’s above the rest as the defense prepared to go back in.

“All right, let’s stuff ’em here,” Dom called.

Fairfield Prep wore black: simple, villainous, no frills. They were Stratford’s main league rivals. Both teams were undefeated.

This was one of Stratford’s best years ever, Dom was claiming as he watched the defense stream onto the field. No matter what happened, whether they won the MBIAC or not.

Louis wore number 89 and a full cage face mask. On the first play, he pressured Prep’s quarterback and forced him to throw the ball away, and Dom worried aloud that his son wasn’t mean enough, that he was holding back when hitting people.

“That’s all you need. Louis to grow up like Jack Tatum,” Biddy’s father said.

Dom shrugged. “It sounds awful, but that’s the way the game is played. Give him a shot now and maybe the next time instead of thinking about coverages he’s thinking about you. Or maybe he throws it a little sooner than he should.”

They watched the Prep fullback trundle around the end for eighteen or twenty yards.

“He still gets fooled on those traps,” Dom said. The officials moved the chains.

“The All-MBIAC team comes out this week, after the Milford game,” Dom said, unzipping his jacket. The flap of one side was restless in the wind. “A lot depends on how he does here and against Milford. Most of the tube steaks who vote only pay attention to the big games.”