TOMMY

Early on, the nun’s sunk their claws deep into Tommy’s soul. No matter how old he grew or how far he banished them, they remained there, entrenched within his soul; one claw tethering, the other hammering guilt.

This is the most important day of your life. Try not to embarrass me. The boy knew he would. Embarrass his dad. He always embarrassed his dad. He was seven years old and in the second grade at the local Catholic grammar school. It was Sunday and he would make his first communion with his class that day and somehow he would embarrass his dad. Tommy was one of seven Toomey children. They lived in a red fire-brick bungalow on Chicago’s Southside. An odd child, Tommy was thought a bit pied and a pace apart. He was twitchy and noisy, jangling and jaunty, he had a body full of a music all its own making. He was generally thought weird and broken somehow.

Tommy’s the family embarrassment, his father liked to tell anyone who would listen. The family’s butthole baby. Aren’t you Tommy?

Tommy bore up to these public humiliations by immediately meeting and exceeding his dad’s expectations. Yeh Dad, he’d answer boldly, I’m the family’s butthole baby! He’d grin at his pa’s audience and say, Ma cut the cheese and out came me! Straining at the air with clawing hands, mime-like, stretching wide an imaginary orifice, grunting and making wet farting sounds, he’d raise a leg, pushing the imaginary hole even wider and as if sticking his head through the hole, he’d declare with a wide grin, Heeere’s Tommy! That’s Tommy To-me, or number two to-you! At other times, he’d just rush at his father with angry tears and bite at his knee caps. Yet, at still other times he’d just grit his teeth, clench his fists, and stop breathing until the floor gave out and he’d come to on the ground, crumpled in a fetal position, feeling all warm and fuzzy, his pants wet with piss.

The day was warm for late Autumn. The morning’s light streamed through the open bedroom window. A breeze fluttered the dangling tails of the tangled drape chords throwing shadow spiders tap-dancing upon the bedroom’s child stained, age-warped floor boards, entrancing Tommy. The bedroom was warm and quiet. The bunk beds were made, his brothers gone.

Tommy, snap out of it, his dad commanded as he walked into the room carrying a twine handled hand bag with a second hand clothing store label. The boy checked his new cufflinks. Look, dad, he smirked grandly, just like Prince, um, what’s his name, that guy in England? Tommy had never worn cuff links. He stretched his arms to loosen the starched press of his new shirt and puffed up his scrawny chest, grinning, I’m a regular Dapper Dan! he declared to no one in particular.

His dad frowned, Don’t get too comfortable in that, he said as he removed a clip-on tie from the department store bag. We’re returning the suit, tie and all, Monday.

His father handed him his “Junior Scholar” suit jacket like a jailer issuing stripes. Put it on and return it in one piece, he barked. He buttoned the boy’s collar, then snapped onto the collar a green tie imbricated with lyres and shamrocks, mumbling sarcastically, “the luck of the Irish!” Stepping back he looked disapprovingly at the boy, Tuck in your shirt. His mother rushed into the bedroom. For the love of Mike, I swear if you’re late for your first communion it will be your last.

That works for me, his father said, admiring his well tailored, morbidly obese self in the mirror while zipping his trousers.

Oh, step out of the mirror and let me move him along, will you? She edged her husband aside and shoved the boy into his place. She noticed the boy’s face was flushed. She placed the back of her hand to his forehead. Oh, shiddigitty, you’re warm! I suppose it’s just the excitement. You will not be sick, you understand me, boy? She declared this like a woman used to willing things her way. Just look at your hair, she said, daubing the flats of her fingers on her tongue and pawing down the boy’s cowlick with spit.

Ma, can I get a Beatles haircut? Billy got one. His dad bought him a Nehru jacket and granny glasses for a first communion present.

The Beatles look like girls. You want that?

Dad says they look like clowns. I want that, he said cheerfully. Am I getting presents?

He looked in the mirror. He deflated. His eyes welled. He didn’t like what he saw. He never liked what he saw.

His mother saw the fall in his countenance. Oh no, no you don’t. Don’t you dare fall out on us now!

She was already in her Sunday best and the other children were in the car, waiting. With the older kids’ encouragement, Spot, the youngest child, was in the driver’s seat playing at being his dad, laying on the horn and cussing stupendously out the rolled down window.

Oh, will you let him be, Susan. And go shut that foul mouth on that son of yours honking my horn.

The week before Tommy had been sent home with a note detailing how he had disrupted his catechism class and so was sent to the rectory to see Father Regan.

The parish rectory sat like a castle atop the hill across the street from the grammar school. The boy looked at it in fear. It was framed from behind that day by a darkgray sky of racing,  menacing storm clouds. The wind had been steadily increasing, whirling around everything, snapping like a whip, snipping leaves and twigs from trees, causing limbs to bob and whine. One overarching limb on the oak tree next to the rectory was sweeping back and forth against its wood cladded sidewall like finger nails screeching across a chalkboard. The trash incinerator hidden and burning behind the rectory breathed a hell black smoke heavenward. It’s belch of smoke spangled with orange star-sparks rose in a swirl as if from the rectory itself, whirling in dervish fashion like Saint Vitus on holiday, disappearing into the darkening clouds. Sister Gilberta looked skyward, eyeing the churning sky and starry smoke rushing to join it. She blessed herself, saying to the boy with a nod, tornado weather. Tommy felt the Autumn chill sneaking through the thin weave of his plaid twill pants as the nun marched him up the path to the rectory. Blowing leaves tumbled up the walk behind them, chasing like the child-withering claws of the nuns filing into the convent next door. Supper time. The light had fallen and he knew he’d be late for dinner. Again. He stared at the ground. He hoped Father Regan wouldn’t notice his unshined school shoes. Sister Clemantine sternly knocked on the door, saying like a ventriloquist, as she often did, her lips not moving, Ok, Dummy, you’ve been here before, you know the drill. The double doors frightened him. They were made of stained and highly polished marbled wood elaborately carved with holy figures in various tortured states of portentous suffering. A crucified Jesus was wrought vertically up the middle, his arms, spanning the doors, nailed in double wide pain from hinge to hinge in welcome. The boy stared in fear as the old maid Margaret, a perpetual penitent, opened the door, splitting Jesus up the middle. We’re here to see the Monsignor about the boys first communion next week. In silence the maid showed them to the monsignor’s office.

They sat down into small child sized, rickety, squeaking, school chairs beneath and facing a high and wide regal desk of polished mahogany. A throne back chair upholstered with burgundy-red crushed velvet sat empty behind it. Built into one wall was a brick fireplace tall enough for the boy to stand up in. It had a small fire going and smelled of pine smoke. The entire wall opposite was a bookcase, tiled floor to ceiling with handsomely bound volumes. Somewhere a clock was ticking as they waited wordlessly.

Finally the priest came in briskly, saying, alright, hello, I’m Father Regan, what do we have here? Oh, right, the boy of a million questions, yes? He cleared some space on his busy desk and sat down.

Coffee, tea, turning to the boy, cocoa?

Oh, no father, the nun jumped in as the boy opened his mouth to say yes, we won’t be long. Tommy has been sent to the rectory because he was disrupting the catechism class’s first communion instruction on how to receive the Holy Eucharist.

A troublemaker? He looked scornfully at the boy. But, why bring him here? Still looking at Tommy, he smiled kindly, Our dungeons are full.

Well, the problem, father, is he has an abundance of intelligence burdened by a compulsively inquisitive mind. Never stops with the questions. Nothing just on faith. No sir, not this one! Annoying actually.

Hmm, a Doubting Thomas? A Jesuit perhaps? Are you a little Jesuit, son?

Again the nun beat him to the docket. Mother Superior begged him to accept the mysteries of the mass, but he wouldn’t shut the questions down, so she sent us up here.

The little Jesuit! What’s that noise?

Him sir. He’s always twitchy and noisy, like a nervous animal. She seriously eyed Tommy, yes, a ferret perhaps? Anyhow father, he’s constantly squeaking, jittering, clicking, sometimes he barks! I mean, just look at this mess, she said gesturing to Tommy, see, clicking his teeth and scissoring his legs like he’s about to piss himself. She slapped him upside the back of his head, Heel, Boy, heel! Sister Norice says he’s concerned about fumbling the host. Worried I guess about one of his tongue fits sending the host flying from his mouth like a bird freed from it’s cage. He asks what happens if it flies out of his mouth and, Oh, sweet mother of god, hits the ground?

Leaps out of his mouth? Are you a mouth breather, son? A Dominican after all?

Mother Superior had explained to him that they, meaning you, would pick up the host and set it aside. But he insisted that minute pieces of Our Savior could be left on unholy ground to be trampled. Then one answer led to ten questions as they will with this one.

She turned to Tommy who was staring into his own alter world. Tell him. Tommy?

Um. Well, Sister Norice says Jesus can only be taken from the anointed chalice by anointed fingers and put into a mouth cleansed and sanctified by the hell fire of a perfect confession because putting him anywhere else is like placing him into Hell’s fire. Which is where she says I’m going directly if I dare spit out Jesus. So father, what happens if Jesus hits the unanointed floor?

I never thought I’d say thank God for Vatican two, the Reverend said to the Sister before turning to Tommy. Don’t worry, son, that’s all going to change soon.

Not comprehending Tommy continued, Sister Norice says…

Ok, Tommy, Father O’cConnel interrupted, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll wipe the area down with my hanky to pick up any tiny pieces. Are you good with that?

But what if one molecule of Jesus fell off into a crack and was left behind to be stepped on. Wouldn’t that be my sin?

Molecules? Who’s putting molecules in his jesus-spitting head? Ok son, How about we wash the area with holy water to anoint any tiny pieces. Are you good with that?

But, what happens to the holy water containing pieces of Jesus?

The father said to Sister Gilberta, when does this stop?

She pointed to the boy with up-turned hands, you see? 

Ok, boy. We’ve got a special purification ritual just for Jesus spitting little boys like yourself that I will perform that will send all the fallen molecules and atoms belonging to Jesus Christ flying like a puck off Bobby Hull’s hockey stick back into heaven. Ok?

Dubious, the boy nodded, Ok. Sisiter Gilberta got up motioning the boy to do the same. The boy having to have the last word, reminded Father Regan, Hockey season doesn’t start until October 23, a week after my communion, Bobby’s  stick will be in his locker.

Father Regan Barked loudly at the nun, Get him out of here, pointing angrily at the door.

The following Sunday he received his first communion, the living flesh of Jesus, without fumbling. His family and it’s familial genetic extensions, in anticipation of and loyal to the Irish Catholic tradition of turning any event; wedding, baptism, wake, funeral, first communion, into a drunken party, filled three church pews.

After the ceremony he met them all outside on the church steps. His father smiled at him and turned to the others and said, He got through this and managed not to embarrass me! He rubbed his hands together and with a dreamy grin said, and for that, we’ll celebrate with a stop at the bakery to pick up donuts! His mother looked disapprovingly at Tommy and put the back of her hand to his forehead, Ahk! You’re burning up.

Back at his house he sat at the small “kiddies” table in the rearest room behind the kitchen with a pack of sticky fingered, powder and jelly smeared children. He shoveled eclairs and jelly rolls into his mouth as the center plated pile quickly dwindled. He was suddenly overwhelmed with fever and fell back in his seat, dropping his donut. He clutched his stomach. Feeling a sickening urge, he up and ran past his grandparents, his aunts and uncles, his parents and siblings, and all the family friends and neighbors who had gathered that morning to witness his first communion and his ensuing, stupendous fall from its grace. He ran for the bathroom, upsetting the cakes and pastry covered cart along with everyone greedily surrounding it. His hand covered his mouth holding it all in. His cousins were laughing and pointing at him, look at him go, the little cum stain is gonna puke. Laughing, they chanted, go, go, go! He slid into the bathroom on his knees and hugged the commode. An orange and strawberry jelly colored swirl of vomit jetted from his mouth and into the toilet. His father stormed in behind him, What the hell? That’s not Tang you’re wasting there, boy. Your mother fresh-squeezed those oranges I paid for! Dad, call the priest, the boy pleaded. Priest? His father snorted. Let the s.o.b. get his own jelly doughnuts. Clean yourself off, boyo. But dad, they have to do the ritual! The, the, purification thing. What the hell are you on about now, his father asked? Jesus, dad! Jesus! He’s, look see, he’s in the toilet! I threw up Jesus! His father shrugged, reached over the boy and placed two fingers on the flush handle, saying, well goodbye Jesus. He flushed. Tommy felt himself swoon. A rush of demons came over him as he watched the swirling vortex of vomit disappear into the emptying toilet, down into the dark hollow along with Tommy’s very soul. He had cast Jesus into the province of all things born of the butt.

The crushing weight of his sin with its separation from God’s grace fell upon him like Cain condemned to the outer dark. Filled with self pity he felt himself a creature apart. God’s lonely unequal. He moaned. Then, he suddenly giggled a little. Then he giggled harder as his brow furrowed in thought bringing with it a great smile to his face. Yes! Amen, he exclaimed! Grinning into the toilet of his sudden epiphany, he felt himself surprisingly light hearted as he realized he could never top this,  never again in life could he do anything so sinful, so debased, as puking up Jesus.

Later in life he would tell his cellmate, It was like I was given a blank check to hell. I could fill in any amount of wickedness I pleased and never have to worry about making good on it. I was damned already!