On either side of the big altar, there are two much smaller ones that are not as lush but still quite nice. The one on the right belongs to the Virgin Mary. I can see that there’s no mustache above her chipped pink lip anymore so it must’ve got scrubbed off this morning by the gal who is taking our friend and church cleaner, Gracie Carver’s, place while she’s in Mississippi nursing her sister back to health.
On the altar to the left, there’s a statue of Charlie’s and Birdie’s all-time favorite saint. The same way our pal Mr. McGinty is very devoted to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers? That’s how gaga those two go over St. Francis. Charlie adores him for two reasons. Frances was his mother’s name and that saint also liked birds the same way my fiancé does. And, of course, that means my animal-loving sister also goes nuts for that olden-days holy man who has three cute sparrows sitting on his shoulders with little cocked heads like Birdie gets when she’s hearing something nobody else can.
After The Mutual Admiration Society gets done dipping our fingers into the Holy Water font and crossing ourselves—Birdie splashes some on her face, too, she always does—and once my eyes adjust to the dimness inside the church, I easily spot who I’m searching for. Lighthouse-tall Kitten Jablonski towers above all the other kids waiting in the confession line, the ones who always show up at the last minute on Confession Thursday.
Charlie tells me when I complain to him about the stiff penances Father Ted doles out to me, “According to my most recent survey, when Father starts hearing confessions, the largest penance he doles out is three Hail Marys, but once the church bells clang twelve thirty, he switches over to the Stations of the Cross.”
He’s probably right about that, because not only does Charlie keep track of what he observes happening in the neighborhood and in movies and the sports page, etc., another hobby of his is going around the neighborhood with a clipboard and questioning people. He’ll ask what cereal someone ate for breakfast or what television shows they like, their favorite colors, and whatnot. Charlie bugging kids like this is enough to make them say, “Ya writin’ a book or something? Buzz off, Cue Ball.” But to me? This is a lot like sweating the truth out of someone, so it might turn out to be a real plus in our family detecting business.
So, I’m going to consider confessing to Father Ted earlier from now on, because he does go very crabby and very thirsty for his Jameson’s whiskey at half past noon and who can blame him?
I’d be raring to throw back a stiff one, too, if I had to sit around in a box that’s hardly bigger than a coffin for two hours straight while every sweaty and farty kid in the parish files in to tell him their list of sins. Having to listen to what unholy screwups we all are week after week has got to make that priest feel like he’s falling down on the job, which is probably why he drinks so much.
After I check Daddy’s Timex, I tell the boy I’ll be blissfully wedded to someday, “I only got nine minutes left. Give me the rest of the money ya took out of the willow and take Birdie over to St. Francis and trim her bangs, and whatever you do, I’m warning you, batten down your hatches, dear. Our little dreamboat has been a very slippery character all morning.”
Soon as Charlie digs the last of our treasury bills out of his black hightop and says, “Good luck with Father Ted and getting the skinny offa Kitten,” I take off toward the confessional on the other side of the church that the rest of the bad kids are standing outside of, including the worst of the worst, the delinquent who I wanted to see least of all today, the kid who’s got me at #1 on his WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE list—Butch Seeback. It is my general policy to avoid him at all costs, but there is no getting around him this time. (Standing next to Kitten the way he is, Butch looks like a bowling ball about to knock down a pin.)