Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
the chalice toward his face and speaking into it. Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti, mysterium fidei, qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum. For this is the Chalice of my Blood of the new and eternal covenant, the mystery of faith which shall be shed for you and for many unto the forgiveness of sins. Two full minutes. Father Maloney had been a chaplain in Europe and people said he got shell-shocked which I figured explained this strange and troubling behavior. When he got through this part he was fine and we raced ahead to the prayers for the dead and the living and what you were asking God for. Then it was the Pater Noster, the Our Father, and we were ready for communion. As you’re walking beside the priest you have a chance to check out where your friends are sitting, who’s lining up to receive, and so on.
This is as good a time as any to mention it. It’s one thing to get a hard-on when you were serving, usually there’s time for it to pass, but there were two deadly exceptions. When you were moving the Mass book from one side of the altar to the other – for at least fifteen seconds, I timed it once, you were out in the open with both hands holding the heavy book. Anybody with an eye in their head could see something was happening under your cassock that wasn’t on the program.
Then while assisting with communion. Here, the groin area of all but the very shortest boys was several inches above the altar rail. Picture it. There you are, standing right in front of a person with this... thing practically in their face. For me, a glimpse of Margaret Foley was all it took, but most of the time it just happened. It had a mind of its own, I tell you. I had no idea what anybody else thought because speaking about such things was off-limits. But it was mortifying. You knew everybody was laughing at you or thinking you were a sex fiend. You can tell me the hole in your tooth feels bigger than it really is, but believe me, some things are plenty big enough for everybody to see.
For funerals the altar was draped in black and the priest wore black vestments. You used lots of incense, the server igniting the charcoal in the bottom of the censer then holding it open as the priest sprinkled what looked like birdseed on the glowing coals, from which would arise this beautiful, pungent smoke. The soul of the faithful departed flies up to heaven. Eugene.
One funeral I remember vividly was for a soldier killed just before Ike stopped the Korean War. After putting everything away, I changed out of my cassock and surplice then remembered I’d left something in the sacristy. I was surprised to see Father Maloney there – he was supposed to be on his way to the cemetery. He had strewn his vestments across a chair and was just sitting, staring straight ahead. He must have thought he was alone, for here was this tough, grizzled man, a retired Colonel, the priest who struck terror into the hearts of altar boys, the person you couldn’t talk to without him biting your head off, and he was crying. Crying! His eyes were red and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was smoking and his hand shook so badly he could hardly lift the cigarette to his mouth. When he noticed me, he looked surprised. Then his face softened. I had stumbled upon a part of him nobody knew. Instead of exploding he gave me this odd smile. and he sighed.
“War is a bad business, Paul,” he said. “A foul, evil business.”
I was shocked. He had been in the Army. How could he say that? He wet his lips and took a long drag on his cigarette, then he said something I will never forget.
“How sad God must be, watching His children kill each other.”
7. Loves Lost
CAHILL SAYS WE NEED TO GET HOLD of that paper Paul didn’t sign and the dictation tape. He’ll call a lawyer friend in New York. Two days later he phones me to say it’s tucked away in their conference room – Carter, Delfino & Samuels LLP on Park Avenue South, a few blocks up from Madison Square Park. Steve Samuels is an expert in something I thought was a joke the first time I heard it, “intellectual property.” Possession is nine-tenths of the law – I don’t need pricy lawyers telling me that.
Every day after we wrap up, Jonathan heads for Bar Harbor to clear his head and pick up the Times. My three-day home delivery apparently isn’t good enough. Tough. Today he throws the paper on my desk, open to the editorial page. “Look at this!”
PAUL BERNARD’S DEATH is the lead editorial. “The Times believes the Army must investigate promptly... open process... important questions needing answers.” It goes on, “the congressional investigation called for yesterday by Senator Clinton and Representative Nadler is an appropriate way to put pressure on the Army for a prompt resolution.” It ends by urging the media to hang together on this or they’ll hang separately.
“How about that!” Jonathan said. “A little heat from Congress won’t hurt.”
“It’ll go nowhere if the Republicans don’t go along and they won’t.”
Nearly a week Jonathan has been here but I still don’t know what his plan is for completing his work. I tell him about the sixteen cartons but not how they got to where they are. Or the Latimer flap. Time enough for that.
“I just got a message on my cell,” he tells me. “My editor wants to see me Monday.”
“How come?”
“I’m not sure. They said there’s more interest in my article after what happened to Paul. I’ll bet they’re thinking of expanding it. I’ve got some ideas about bringing in the investigation. I fly out Sunday, be back late Monday.”
* * * * * * *
PASSION AND COMMITMENT ISN’T ALWAYS ENOUGH. I was cut from the team. Only on my second try the following year did I earn the prized gray flannels with “St. Teresa” in green across the chest, number nine on my back.
Even in that collection of less than stellar athletes I did not excel. Oh, I started a lot of games, and at my best position too, second base, but puny hitting and an erratic glove did me in. My father called it quits after the season opener. I went oh-for-four and booted a grounder to let in the winning run. As I left the field in tears he put his arm around my shoulder. By nature, he said, some people (Jim) are better than others (me) at certain things (everything that matters). Said he’d see me at home, he had to get back to the shop. Right. The last thing I needed was advice on how to fail. Why couldn’t he just say I needed more seasoning? Or wasn’t that infield in lousy shape? The businessman through and through – clear-eyed, results-driven, no wishful thinking for him... or for me.
That summer I went to camp for the first time, CYO camp on a lake in the far west part of the state. The past few summers had been a nervous time, with people worried you could catch polio swimming or if you got chilled. One kid a year behind me nearly died of it and was in a wheelchair, they said for the rest of his life. But now they’d discovered the Salk vaccine. At first I objected. Why can’t I hang around like I always do, work on my batting and fielding, read? But being benched the last two games – for a fifth-grader, if you can believe it – gave me perspective.
Never before had I really looked at the horizon, or appreciated that clouds did more than fill the gaps between buildings. Canoes and snakes and birds, lying on a float, all the food you could eat, campfires, stories and singing, kids from all over, and the first portable radio I’d ever seen. Sports, too, softball, three-on-three basketball, running and swimming races, ping-pong. Winning wasn’t the point, which was a good thing when it came to swimming which I was not that good at. Everybody wore the same red and white camp T-shirt, no ribbons for coming in first, every day you changed sides. I even went on the optional all-day hike to a lake cars couldn’t drive to, packing lunch and swim trunks in my knapsack. It was beginning to dawn on me, maybe I wasn’t such a terrible athlete after all, that baseball had blinded me to simpler, more attainable pleasures.
I began that final year at St. Teresa’s part King of the Hill, part Ivan the Terrible. I was bored out of my mind, too long in one place. From the first day I made a pain of myself, fooling around, making loud, often rude comments. My classmates were astonished. Though my work was exemplary, in Deportment I was a grave disappointment. Finally my parents, both of them, were summoned for a conference on the topic: “What Is Wrong With Paul?” After the meeting I noticed my father