Michael reached down and grabbed The River album and turned it over to show Father Pete the lyrics to the song “Independence Day.” It was a sorrowful description of Springsteen’s relationship with his father and the inevitable parting between them. Michael played it over and over in his tiny room, the lyrics echoing in the attic, as if the pleas from Springsteen’s voice would resonate with his father. He so wanted his dad to be a positive part of his life.
“It’s well written,” the priest said, looking up at Michael. “I like the part about the son leaving St. Mary’s Gate. It’s very symbolic. Why can’t you two talk to each other like we’re doing now?”
“He won’t listen. I can’t talk to someone who’s always yelling.”
“Well, Michael, he says his conditions are you either get psychological help or move out of the house.”
“That’s interesting, Father. So he’s saying he feels I need help mentally but he’d throw me out of the house if he doesn’t get his way. I’m not sure I could ever treat my son like that.”
Father Pete didn’t answer.
“Look, Father, I’ll go for psychological help if he comes with me. I want him there with me so we can both discuss things, like about Mom and everything.”
Father Pete looked encouraged. He stood up and headed toward the door. “Great! I think that will be fine.”
It wasn’t long before he returned with Jim’s answer. “Michael . . . he won’t go with you. I think you’re either going to have to go alone or else leave. He’s ranting about something he said you almost did. He said something about you and your mother. He wouldn’t explain it to me. Did you do something to your mom or say something before she died?”
“Father, he has it all wrong. I’ll just say this: I wasn’t going to do it.”
Father Pete stared at him, perplexed. “Michael, that’s between you and your father.” He paused. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“I guess so,” Michael said, wondering if he could move into his friend Steve’s apartment in Flushing.
“God will take care and serve you, Michael.”
Michael laughed bitterly. “Ha! I have to do this on my own.”
As Father Pete stood there watching him, Michael started to pack his belongings: a few T-shirts, some torn shorts, a faded pair of jeans, and several socks, none of which matched. He grabbed some loose change and put it into the front pocket of his sweatpants. A dollar was lying near the side of the bed. He reached over to put it inside a shoebox.
He gathered up several of his own poems, including one about his father, and stuffed them inside the shoebox. Thoughts of the past year since his mom died almost overwhelmed him.
He turned around and looked at the priest. “Is this how God serves me?”
Father Pete glanced down at his folded hands, a sad look on his face.
“I’m sorry. I know, Father Pete. But can I just catch a stinking break?”
Father Pete shook his hand, passed him a hundred bucks from his dad, and told Michael it was time to leave.
Michael grabbed more boxes of food, following Laura’s and Elizabeth’s giggles and smiles up to the front of the church. An hour had passed, and now the area was cluttered with cartons leaning against the white marble fence surrounding the altar.
“The pile is getting too big,” Father Dennis told the volunteers. “I need two helpers to bring some of this down to the basement for now.”
He looked around. By now, most of the students were bored and tired. The parents looked pretty exhausted from climbing all the stairs. He spotted Michael and Elizabeth.
“What about you two?”
Michael looked suspiciously at Father Dennis. Why does he think we’re not tired from all the lifting and carrying? “Yeah, sure, Father.”
He felt a pat on his back. “You’re a good man, Mike,” said Susan, flashing a big smile at him. Michael returned the gesture with a wink.
Catching the exchange, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “We’d be happy to do it. Right, Dad?”
“Ah, sure,” Michael said, his voice echoing throughout the big church.
He felt the bulky cell phone and keys inside his pockets. “Father, can I leave these here?”
“Of course.”
“No one will steal them?” Michael said, trying to lighten the mood.
“I will bless them to make sure,” the priest responded with a smile.
Michael had already left his wallet behind in his car. He hated to be weighed down by items of any sort when working. In fact, he’d stopped wearing a watch in high school, feeling it restricted him too much.
Elizabeth and Michael began moving some of the cartons. The doorway to the basement stairs was just to the left of the altar. It was about fifteen steps down before they reached the floor of the darkened room.
He looked around. The room was fairly large, maybe forty by sixty feet. Collection baskets and random piles of outdated hymnals littered the floor. There wasn’t much room for more boxes.
“Great,” Michael said, annoyed. “We’ll have to move some of this mess before we bring down the rest of the cartons.”
“Chill, Dad. This is supposed to help the needy.”
“Chill? Okay, I’ll chill. But, you know, I’m pretty needy. When is someone going to help me?”
“Oh, Dad. You have to lighten up a bit. Life’s too short.”
He turned from her and muttered under his breath, “Yes, I know life’s too short.”
Elizabeth began bouncing around the room. She picked up all the baskets and stacked them in one corner. Then she sprinted around the other side of the room, grabbing outdated missalettes and organizing them into piles on a nearby folding table.
“Look, Dad, the Empire State Building,” she said with a smile, placing an old mustard-colored book on top.
Michael looked at the tall pile of books. “Great, but what about the cartons of food on the floor? How about making the Eiffel Tower with that so we can get out of here.”
“Chill, Dad.”
“Stop with the chill stuff . . . or I’ll start using that word.”
“Yuck, don’t use that word,” she said, laughing while picking up a discarded penlight in the corner and shining it on him. “You’re old people. You can’t talk like that.”
“Old people? Ouch!” Michael peered at her with puppy-dog eyes and his bottom lip stuck out. He sucked in his stomach and pulled up his sweats higher than his belly button. “Now I am as old as Fred Mertz!”
“Um, Dad, Fred Mertz is dead.”
“Yeah, so what’s your point?”
As if on cue, they both fell into a fit of laughter. “Okay, you’re totally freaking me out now,” Elizabeth said with a grimace.
“What is this?” Michael asked with interest, picking the mustard-colored book off the pile. He thumbed through it while Elizabeth continued to work. It appeared to be a worn diary. The word on the cover—Miraculum—was faded and barely legible. Michael thought the word might be Latin. Many of the pages were falling out and the handwriting was mostly faint and spidery. The first entry was not legible. But the next one said 1797. Michael let out a low whistle. “Wow. I should show this to Father Dennis.”
“Ah, Dad, don’t you want to get out of here?”
“Yeah, sure, but . . .”
“We’re almost done, Dad.”
Michael put the small book in his pocket. When everything had been cleared away and nearly all the boxes were neatly stacked, he noticed for the first time a steel door marked with a gold cross in the center of the floor.
“That’s strange.”
Elizabeth walked over to check it out. “What is it?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” Michael could hear Father Dennis up above thanking the volunteers for their help. “Let’s get out of here, Elizabeth, and get the rest of those cartons.”
“Go ahead, Dad. I’d like to see what’s in there.”
“Do me a favor: don’t open it. Just leave the door alone.”
Michael ran upstairs to grab the last of the cartons but bumped into Father Dennis, who was helping parishioners locate empty areas to place their food cartons. “I need to show you something, Father, when I’m done.”
“Okay. I’m a little busy right now. And thanks, Michael, for staying around to bring the last of these downstairs.”
“No problem, Father, glad to help!” Michael called over his shoulder. When he reached the basement, he dropped the cartons on the floor and looked around.