Jim Boring's Short Story in Literary Potpourri

Joey Musso wakes as the first faint light struggles through the thick frost steaming on the inside of his bedroom window. He thanks his guardian angel for keeping him through the night. With the blanket still wrapped around him he slips off the bed onto the cold floor, kneels and prays for his dad and his mom and his little sister Emma who coughs so bad in the wintertime and his little brother Sal with the drippy nose that he won't get burned sleeping so close to the space heater and for the poor souls in Purgatory that their suffering will end soon and for the priests especially Father Sebastian and the nuns, that Sister Prisca won't yell at him so much, and for all the poor people who aren't Catholic that they will become Catholic soon and for all Catholics that they will be good examples and for the President and the Pope.

The big collar of his pea coat pulled high around his stocking-capped head, his gloved hands stuffed to the bottoms of the wide pockets Joey trudges the six blocks to St. Bede's. The open metal clasps on his boots click and clank as he walks. The moisture from his breath freezes in droplets along the top of the muffler that wraps his face.

"I believe in God the Father Almighty," he begins the Apostles' Creed. Six blocks is just enough distance to say one rosary; each block about one decade - ten Hail Marys. Each intersection an Our Father. The sonorous rhythm begins in his head, the blur of words, the mantra of Mary, Mother of God. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . ." The clink and clack of the boot clasps. "Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." His focus narrows to the length of his stride and he begins to enter a zone of calm transcendence in which the cold and the hunger and the fatigue fell away.

The church is open and Joey enters the side door on the alley side near the rectory. Father Sebastian is already in the sacristy hanging up his heavy black coat. He nods to Joey and silently begins the meditative process of preparing to say mass. Father Sebastian never talks before mass. In the two years he has been an altar boy Joey has learned the priest's habits well. He watches as Father Sebastian takes his chalice from a cabinet and inspects it. Nothing is ever amiss; the nuns are conscientious in their housekeeping. The priest takes his vestments from a dark closet, removes his suit coat and shirt and hangs them up. He pulls on the plain white alb and then the brightly colored and richly braided chasuble, the outer garment. Joey puts on his own black cassock and white surplice. The wine is where it should be; the communion wafers are prepared and waiting. Joey looks out into the vast church. At this early hour only the most pious are in attendance; two dozen, no more, mostly old women in babushkas, a few working men, bulky in their winter coats, hunched in prayer. Like bears, Joey thinks. Like holy bears. Dust motes drift idly upward in the morning light streaming through the high stained glass windows.

Father Sebastian nods that he is ready. Joey rings a small brass bell and precedes the priest out to the altar. As the priest faces the altar and raises his arms to his sides palms up Joey takes his place kneeling on the cushioned altar step.

"Introibo ad altare Dei," Father Sebastian chants in a deep resonant voice. I will go onto the altar of my God.

"Ad Deum qui laetificat, juventutem meum," Joey responds, his clear voice still unbroken by adolescence. The God who gives joy to my youth.

The mass proceeds, ancient passage by passage, the ritual preserved from the catacombs of Rome; the Latin phrases rising, echoing in the vaulted ceiling above the altar, "Agnus Dei," Lamb of God; "Kyrie, Eleison; Christa Eleison; Kyrie, Eleison," Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, and on each Eleison Joey rings the little bell and strikes his breast in supplication for the mercy of Christ.

And then that most solemn moment, the Offertory of the mass, the transubstantiation, the changing of the wine into the blood of Christ, the miracle of bread becoming the body of Christ. Father Sebastian leans low over the sliver of the host; Joey is transfixed, exalted, a part of the strangest and most wonderful of mysteries. He listens to the words that come hushed and reverent from the soul of the priest. "Hoc est enim corpus meum." Each word pronounced so distinctly that it hangs alone for the briefest moment vibrating in the pale morning light. This is my body. The priest drops to one knee in genuflection before the host, then rises quickly and lifts it up high above him for all in attendance to see and marvel once again. Joey rings the bell. The sound seems to resonate within him, he feels something shift in his chest as his faith is transformed into an emotion so intense he trembles and for a moment sees only the luminous host. He catches himself before he falls backward.

The parishoners come forward to receive the host, Father Sebastian delivers it onto their extended tongues intoning the sacred phrase again at each person, "Corpus Domini nostri, Jesu Christi." The body of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Joey holds a polished brass disk under each uplifted chin to catch the host should it fall. The faces of the communicants are reflected golden in the paten. They look like saints, Joey thinks. His throat constricts but his focus on his sacramental task remains constant as he moves in concert with the priest step by step along the communion railing bringing the Holy of Holies to these weathered, work-worn, faithful few. Why are there so few to share this miracle? Joey asks silently and then reminds himself, "Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, I am with them."

"Ita, missa est." Go, the mass is ended. Father Sebastian faces the tiny congregation and dismisses them with his arms raised in blessing. The parishioners cross themselves and slowly rise and begin to leave the church. Not like bears, Joey thinks, like sheep. And Jesus is their shepherd.

Father Sebastian removes his vestments and hangs them back in the closet. He wipes the chalice and replaces it in the cabinet. Then, with a sigh, he sits heavily down on the battered black leather couch that has been in the sacristy as long as Joey can remember. He runs his hand over his face. Joey can hear the rasp of the priest's beard against his hand. Father Sebastian leans his head back on the couch. He has not yet put on his shirt. He loosens his belt and opens the top button of his pants.

Still in his altar garments Joey stands before the priest and as he has been carefully taught raises his arms shoulder high above his sides, palms upward, and softly sings, "Ad Deum qui laetificat, juventutem meum." To God who gives joy to my youth. He kneels and bends humbly forward toward the priest, feels Father Sebastian's big hand settle gently on the back of his head and Joey Musso devoutly performs the final sacrifice of the mass.

SACRIFICE

by

Jim Boring