Halo

Halo

GARY PROIETTI

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

This book is a work of fiction. The names of characters, events and locations are either created by the imagination of the author or are used by the author fictitiously. Any resemblance to places or events, actual people or persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

©2012 Gary Proietti. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 9/26/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3698-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3699-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912732

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1 .    An Inkling

Chapter 2 .    Choir Loft

Chapter 3 .    Handwriting

Chapter 4 .    Black Leather Belt

Chapter 5 .    Glen’s First Communion

Chapter 6 .    The Bully

Chapter 7 .    The Move

Chapter 8 .    Flat Top

Chapter 9 .    Sally’s Puppies

Chapter 10 .    Winter Winds

Chapter 11 .    Diagnosis

Chapter 12 .    Father Madsen

Chapter 13 .    Half a Penny

Chapter 14 .    A Good Boy

Chapter 15 .    Honey

Chapter 16 .    Can of Worms

Chapter 17 .    Storm Clouds

Chapter 18 .    Marble Staircase

Chapter 19 .    Melissa

Chapter 20 .    Juggernaut

Chapter 21 .    Night Terrors

Chapter 22 .    Glen’s Promise

Chapter 23 .    Resume'

Chapter 24 .    Bull’s Eye

Chapter 25 .    Sixth Sense

Chapter 26 .    Prom

Chapter 27 .    Reminiscing

Chapter 28 .    Ancient Oaks

Chapter 29 .    Monkey Business

Chapter 30 .    The Kiss

Chapter 31 .    Her Yearbook

Chapter 32 .    Revenge

Chapter 33 .    The Once Small Oak

Chapter 34 .    Glen’s Vow

Chapter 35 .    Performance Review

Chapter 36 .    Broken Promises

Chapter 37 .    Tall Prairie Grasses

Chapter 38 .    A Promise Kept

Chapter 39 .    Incorrigibility

Chapter 40 .    Love of Family

Chapter 41 .    Battle Ready

Chapter 42 .    Praying for a Sign

Chapter 43 .    Miracle of the Roses

Chapter 44 .    Bachelor Pad

Chapter 45 .    Slide into Madness

Chapter 46 .    Schizophrenia

Chapter 47 .    The Anniversary Party

Chapter 48 .    First Things First

Chapter 49 .    Doctor Seeley

Chapter 50 .    HALOperidol

Chapter 51 .    Enabler

Chapter 52 .    Moses

Chapter 53 .    Hell on Earth

Chapter 54 .    The Truth

Chapter 55 .    Two Teaspoons

Chapter 56 .    Doctor Janssen

Chapter 57 .    Eternal Damnation

Chapter 58 .    Get Out

Chapter 59 .    Mama Maria

Chapter 60 .    Wooden Steps

Chapter 61 .    Ray, this is Darlene.

Chapter 62 .    The Call - Child of Woe

Dedication

To Sandra, whose love, compassion, understanding, insight and incredible patience have given me a second chance at loving, laughing and living. I cannot begin to express the love, respect and gratitude that my heart holds for you.

Angel, you caused me to believe in myself and the world again. If it all ends today I will feel blessed to have known you not once but twice in my life, when hopelessness and loneliness had me in their crosshairs.

You are the joy, laughter and love in my life. I love you.

Chapter 1

An Inkling

She’d not seen a fog like this in years. It seemed to blanket the entire Catskill valley along the Saw Mill River Parkway between Thorntown and Mt. Kisco. Impatiently she waited for the traffic signal to change so she could finally head for home and put an end to this day…a long day, but face it when you deal with the public, they’re all long days.

The signal finally changed from red to green. Her restlessness suddenly subsided and in a split second turned to a hesitation, a momentary delay that she was used to, as if some inner voice had grabbed her conscious thought stream. Not at all vivid or haunting as in a premonition, but rather a nagging, imperceptible feeling to pause…just pause. She did.

Then, in what was only a matter of seconds, she saw the lights of the speeding truck blast through the intersection. The huge tractor trailer had fully cleared the crossroads before the driver apparently saw the red traffic signal and slammed his brakes through the floorboards.

As the driver frantically attempted to correct the fish-tailing trailer and pull to a stop, he lightened his death grip on the steering wheel and realized how lucky he and any unsuspecting drivers were to still be alive. Dead lines weren’t worth dying over and the ten tons of steel he was hauling were more like a speeding battering ram that would have decimated anything in its’ path, him included. After a deep breath, a mental ass-chewing and a prayer to Saint Christopher he cautiously proceeded through the damp fog, thankful, incredulous and scared shitless.

Some people just have…they’re born with it. It’s there just under the surface revealing itself in subtle and sometimes not so subtle ways. It’s not the same thing as life-experience that teaches the lesson only once you’ve flunked the test. It’s like a sixth sense, a voice that speaks to you a warning, an inkling, a hint, a portend of things of come. It’s a gift and a curse. It’s a heavy burden and weight to be borne and it’s a freeing of the shackles of ignorance. Though it ostracizes more than it unites. It polarizes and is a responsibility that few understand and even fewer appreciate. Most view it, and those who claim to have it, as meddlesome and irritating.

Maryann Burton had it. She’d always had it. Sometimes it would steer her away from trouble and other times it would alert her to trouble on the horizon like on that foggy night on the Saw Mill River Parkway. This, coupled with her vast knowledge and compassionate care made her a well-respected nurse, yet somewhat of an outcast in the nursing circle at Westchester County Memorial Hospital. Her sixth sense was working overtime on this cold, dark winter night in 1956. The hair had prickled on her arms and the nape of her neck as she paused before entering the recovery room just off the Maternity Ward. She closed her eyes, inhaled a gust of chilled, sterilized air, held it and let out an all-to-familiar sigh as she opened the double doors. Once again, it was show time…

Wednesday’s Child, hmm. Let me see if I remember this one. Oh yes…‘Wednesday’s Child has far to go’. That’s it., cheerily chimed Nurse Burton. Mrs. Ellen Romani, the exhausted, second-time mother who was frankly relieved to be done with the entire process was in no mood for merry banter.

You’re wrong! ‘Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe!’, El sniped.

Ah, caught in a truly a harmless white lie that the well-meaning nurse had tried to spin. Of course Nurse Bertie knew the Olde English poem, forward and backward, but she was trying to deflect some of the mother’s obvious anger.

Will you start nursing now, or maybe in the morning?, she asked.

I am NOT nursing him., Ellen answered her mincing no words in the process.

Her curt reply to the nosey nurse, who had already overstayed her welcome, should have been the final word on the subject.

Still Bertie persisted… Well you know there is no good substitute for mother’s milk, at least for the first month..

Ellen, not wanting to engage in a battle of wits, for clearly this nurse was unarmed, instead ignored her comment and set her gaze outside the window of her room on the third floor of the Westchester County Memorial Hospital.

God damn it’s snowing again. El muttered.

You know it IS only early February and the groundhog DID see his shadow, snickered this pain in-the-ass of a nurse who must have been told at one time or another she had a terrific bedside manner. All Ellen could think about was getting her carton of Kent cigarettes, a chilled bottle of Christian Brothers white wine and…a babysitter. Unfortunately it would be years before her five year old daughter Katie would be old enough to watch her baby brother. She continued to contemplate her current situation, looking for options.

Her thoughts ran to her husband Raymond. He was probably passing out cigars and toasting the birth of his first-born (and last-born if she had anything to say about the subject) son. Being the eldest of three first generation Italian-American sons to poor immigrants who landed at Ellis Island some 45 years prior, he could hold his head high, comforted by the fact that his son could now carry on his family’s name. God knows she couldn’t count on Ray to lend a hand. If he wasn’t working he was playing golf, baseball or bowling. Nights and weekends he was usually transfixed to the television set watching all of the above or sitting with one of his buddies in the corner of the basement by the wet bar. Ray’s mother was an exceptional woman. Every Sunday she prepared six to eight course homemade Italian feasts…fresh, homemade macaroni, hand-rolled and stuffed ravioli, spicy meatballs and homemade sauce that simmered for two days with fresh herbs and tomatoes from the garden. And the cream puffs. My God, you couldn’t forget Mama Maria’s cream puffs,…light as air and a puff pastry that cleverly hid the creamy, milky, vanilla cream. The woman could cook, and would always prepare half again as much food as needed, in case someone comes to visit. .

Mama Maria worked doing laundry for neighbors and friends and was known as the best babysitter in town, but she was so busy. Would she, could she make time for her first grandson, Glen?

Glen? What the hell kind of name was Glen with a last name like Romani?, she muttered.

She believed the first name should have two syllables when the last name that has three, and a Scottish first name with an Italian last name was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Once again, it had to be Ray’s Way. Like with Katie, he didn’t want his progeny to endure any of the scorn or ridicule that he had to put up with for being known as a Dirty WOP, Dago or Greasy Guinea.

Her point to Ray, which went totally unacknowledged, was once you get to the last name Romani…Bingo! Guess what? You’re Italian!

Times have changed., she’d tried to convince Ray, but his hypersensitivity to his heritage was much too powerful. When someone asked him upon hearing his last name,

Romani. Is that Italian?, Ray got his hackles up. You could just see the wall rise and his defenses kick in as he’d explain,

Well yeah, but I’m Calibresi..

Big god damn deal! she thought. What the hell is Calibresi anyway?

A particularly sharp, high-pitched squeal from her infant shattered her deep thoughts and shocked Ellen back to her reality.

Shit! Why in the Hell is he crying so god damn much?

Nurse Bertie proffered, He may be colicky, but it’s too soon to tell. Could be he’s hungry. Why don’t you try feeding him and see if he stops crying ? Bertie seemed very pleased that her opinion and expertise had finally been requested. After a long breath and exhale El looked deep past the nurse’s eyes and in a voice rolling from a simmer into a full blown boil yelled,

Are you deaf? I told you I’m not nursing him. If you want to get a bottle to shut him up, do it!

The smile left nurse’s face. She had seen women deep in sorrow, regret, pain and discomfort that did not want to nurse their babies. In such cases she would take the newborn child and begin the process of bottle-feeding to encourage the suckling reflex. She had seen some tough cookies in her thirty-six years in the delivery room. The graying nurse gathered up the tiny, screaming red bundle from his mother and proceeded to set out to give this future president his first official state dinner. Bertie just loved thinking that the little ones that she had the privilege to help birth were destined for greatness. They could be a future movie star or perhaps a future congressman or senator. With the lungs this kid had he could be the next Sinatra or Dean-O.

The infant’s crying persisted despite her best efforts to feed him. The formula that somehow did escape the un-suckled nipple ran down the baby’s cheeks. Cooing, gently touching and kissing his red hot cheeks and softly singing had no effect on the poor, screeching infant. The experienced nurse knew that what would be best for him now was to be laid in a crib in the viewing room of the nursery where perhaps he could fall asleep and rise later to be fed and changed. She laid the squirming infant facing the observation window where she signaled to his exuberant father that this was his newborn son. She pinned the blue ribbon stating Romani …Son on his swaddle and almost immediately her little future crooner fell quiet. She checked on the other babies hoping the recent ruckus didn’t awake anyone. A short time later, with all quiet on the newborn front, the loving nurse and caregiver thought …

Ah! Asleep. Finally.

That was until she viewed the Romani baby’s eyes gazing skyward to the cold, humming fluorescent bulbs. A shiver ran the length of her spine and a quick chill caused her to cross her arms and seek the warmth of her heavy woolen sweater. All the other children were asleep. How could this tiny infant fall so quiet when left alone and not crave the closeness of physical human touch?

Instinctually, the nurse reached for the quiet child who was still gazing at the cold, blue lamps. Bertie held the infant close to her, while still propping him up to be seen by the excited family at the window. Young Katie had to be held in her father’s arms for she was too short to see over the window’s ledge. Ray beamed the glow of a very proud papa and his mother and father brushed tears of joy from each others eyes. This was indeed a happy day for this family…irregardless of the run-in she’d had with the child’s mother. Within seconds the baby’s wailing resumed to the ecstatic excitement of the family… and the consternation of nurse who had thought she had seen it all in her many years of caring for newborns and their families. But, she had never seen anything like this. The high-pitched screaming of this tiny human parcel once again ceased when she laid the boy in his crib.

Bertie left the viewing room quickly, deftly and silently coursing through the hallways to find Dr. Fishman who had just recently delivered the baby boy.

Doctor Fishman, we have a serious problem with the Romani baby.

She’d found the seasoned baby physician as he emerged from the doctor’s locker room, obviously on his way home, clad in his muffed wool cap, heavy winter coat, boots, scarf and gloves.

Not fit for man nor beast. he volleyed to his nursing partner, looking to deflect her hyperactive speech and minimize her concern. He just was not in the mood for anything other than home.

Although he respected Bertie’s knowledge, insight, warmth and experience and not many physicians did, the elderly physician was simply exhausted. The twenty hour labor and the subsequent paperwork and post-delivery care meant he was going on 24 hours non-stop. It was damn near as close as he had ever come to having to perform a Caesarean section without actually having to do it. The mother was fully in the throes of delivery, properly dilated and having strong regular contractions. Painful back labor was taking a heavy toll on the mother. This little guy just would not come. Stuck in the birth canal for what seemed like an eternity caused great concern. The inability for the forceps to adequately obtain a hold of the infant’s skull left the physician for no other option than to wait. The medicated mother screamed and cursed the likes of which hadn’t been heard in recent memory. He did not attempt to get her to convert her energetic use of expletives to pushing, for fear she would unleash a stream of foul language at him. When the child finally let go of his corporeal residence of the last thirty-seven weeks, ear splitting screams let the hospital staff know that this little one would be okay. He was fine. Dr. Fishman knew he was fine. Ten fingers, ten toes. Mucous and liquid removed quickly from the nose and mouth. Flailing arms and legs…obvious gross motor movement. What the hell else could be wrong with this baby ?, he thought and wondered why was this nurse now helping the esteemed elder doctor out of the warmth of his scarf, gloves and old winter coat.

Ira, I have NEVER seen anything like this! You must come quickly!. The nurse was now at least five lengths ahead of doctor who was still sporting the clumsy rubber boots. He had put them on in the hopes of traversing home through the heavy snow and making love to a Johnnie Walker before collapsing comatose into his old leather armchair. Trudging around the corner, he found Bertie holding the door to the nursery open awaiting his arrival. She waved him through the doorway and shushed him as he began to ask the nature of her intrusion into his all-to-rare off time.

As they arrived at the Romani bassinette Bertie’s heart fell although what she had suspected , and the reason for her interrupting the good doctor on his way home to subtle inebriation, was now set before her. There was the baby, still gazing at the fluorescent haze of the ceiling in the nursery. She knew the baby hadn’t eaten, slept or relieved himself since his birth, four hours prior. Then, as she raised the baby and held him close to her, the young infant’s face became wrinkled and gnarled. The tiny mouth opened and for a moment no sound emanated. Suddenly a burst of agonizing crying that quickly turned to the pained screeching that had first caused the nurse such grave concern erupted, shattering the silence.

See Doctor? This poor child can’t tolerate being held!

Dr. Fishman wiped a smudge from his glasses and fought back a yawn, Bertie, please. You’re over-reacting. The call of the Scotch was now stronger than any Hippocratic calling he had answered in his youth.

He’s a newborn that is just curiously exploring his surroundings. Feed him. Bathe him. Change him and put him down to sleep. We’ll check on him in the morning. Now you and I need to retire to our respective homes and collapse. Goodnight Nurse Burton. By the way I just think you’re just upset that this little guy hasn’t melted in your arms and caved to your obvious maternal charms., the doctor joked as he smiled, touched her arm and grabbed his outdoor winter garb. Bertie, not smiling chided him,

There’s something wrong here Ira, really wrong.

Well Ms. Burton, (feigning formality) whatever it is, it’s not life threatening and it will still be wrong after I am well-fed, well-rested and properly intoxicated. My dear lady, I bid you adieu.

With a smile and woosh of his scarf around his neck the elderly doctor pranced down the hallway and into the cold, snowy Mt. Kisco night.

With no one left to postulate her concerning theorem to, this proven, time-tested, skilled caregiver attempted to feed, bathe and change her Little Future Mr. President. She kissed the screaming bundle and returned him to his bassinette.

As if a power switch had been doffed, the child’s wailing ceased and wide-eyed, looked to the ceiling and to the damned fluorescent lights that seemed to hold such a remarkable fascination for him.

Son of a bitch!, she thought. The strains of the Olde English poem returned to her as she muttered to no one there,

Yes, young man…‘Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe!’.

Chapter 2

Choir Loft

Baptism in the Catholic Church came early in those days. As early as the mother and father could arrange it, lest a child die, un-baptized and suffer the pain of the Holy Innocents. The Holy Innocents…those poor souls, held in Limbo that were not saved prior to passing from the Earth, who were excluded from God’s Holy Kingdom until the end of time.

Most children either sleep, cry or scream through their Baptism, especially when the cold water hits the hot skin of their tiny skulls. Not so with Glen Raymond Romani. Although the snow had finally melted and it appeared that Spring might actually have taken a hold in this small town in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains, it was a particularly cold morning when little Glen’s soul became counted as one with his Lord.

Not a whimper was heard as the baby’s head was crossed with the holy chrism. The little boy’s eyes seemed wide and transfixed upon the shimmering image of the Holy Ghost painted upon the smooth plaster ceiling over the baptismal font when the cold water from the marble well was poured over his tiny crown. He smiled to the delight of the Reverend Monsignor Boyle , Katie his sister, Ray and El his parents, grandparents and his godparents. Even the high school-aged altar boys grinned as they saw the smiling infant. It was as if this little baby had understood and appreciated the grandeur and significance of his own spiritual salvation at this very blessed moment. Unlike many young babies who seem to shriek and protest their induction into Catholicism with crying and wailing, Glen was at peace…a peace all too infrequent for this Child of Woe.

It seemed to defy logic how even at such an early age a young child could seem to possess such a fanatical devotion to God. It certainly wasn’t due to any parental influence or pressure. Of course the Romanis never missed a Sunday Mass. They’d taught their children to pray at an early age and even coached them before they could speak. The children always said their nightly prayers before going to sleep. They were in church on every Holy Day of Obligation. Grandma Maria never missed a Friday night novena and usually had her grandchildren in-tow as she would then take them to babysit for the weekend. The children always had their tiny addressed envelopes crammed with pennies and nickels for their weekly donations. It was a big deal when they got to gently put their envelopes in the handled wicker baskets. They imagined the money going directly to help the poor, under-privileged children in Africa. The Romani children had been taught how to pose upright on the worn and deflated padded kneelers. They knew to sacrifice and pledge the endurance of all of the pain and discomfort as a prayer for the poor souls in Purgatory.

But for little Glen it was different. It seemed to be his life’s purpose to give honor and glory to Almighty God, and he took this responsibility seriously. Clearly he couldn’t understand the Latin that poured seamlessly from Father O’Brien at the High Mass every Sunday at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church. He couldn’t even read yet, although that didn’t deter young Glen from holding his little missal and mimicking the thunderous voice of the priest.

DOMINUS WOBISCUM, Glen sang on-cue with the priest.

Shut Up!, Katie chided to her little thorn-in-her-side of a brother. The admonishment came with a secretive pinch to his back which set the little boy into a full blown scream. The smack that landed on the back of boy’s head from his father did little to extinguish the din, instead only fueled it.

Of course Tommy Garcetti heard the kid’s high-pitched voice sing and the subsequent screeching. He’d also seen the masked pinch which sent the kid into a serious crying jay. He laughed silently and pointed at Katie. She shrunk and simmered at the thought of yet another in a long line of embarrassing moments, compliments of her little brother, Glen. She looked at Tommy and brooded…

He WOULD have to hear…and see. How embarrassing!

Tommy was so good looking and really had a way about him. He was even cooler than Elvis Presley. Tommy was only twelve years old and already shaving! He looked so handsome in his tight black slacks, starched white shirt, short thin black tie and long-pointed black leather shoes, a look he did grab from Elvis the Pelvis, her Dad’s name for the gyrating singer. Best of all (worst of all at this present moment), was he was her next door neighbor. He could play the drums along with Frankie Valli and Leslie Gore records and never miss a beat. He had a wink that set her heart a flutter and a dark side that frankly scared the living daylights out of her.

She had seen Tommy and his older brother Gino beat up four older guys that came up Spring Street looking for trouble in a dizzying flurry of fists and kicks that left the gang of four leveled, crying and disoriented. They tried to run away, but not before Tommy hurled a golf ball-sized rock that hit one of the thugs in the back of the head and sent him sprawling unconscious onto the gravel in the road. The badly beaten and bloodied threesome grabbed their fallen brother… ran, limped and slithered away, never to return. Tommy grabbed the street sign and levitated into a handstand using only his massive upper body strength. He then flipped around in a gymnastic move she’d never seen before as he cursed at the top of his lungs..

And Don’t Ever Fuckin’ Come Back You Cock Suckers! Katie still blushed at the thought of such vulgar language, but told herself,

That’s the way boys talk.

Yeah, Tommy was cool. And Katie was the envy of all of her friends at school because she got to live next door to the coolest, cutest guy in town…and it was wonderful! Except in moments like this when she wished she could fall through the planked floorboards of the church.

Years ago Katie thought it would be really neat to have a baby sister or brother. She had seen her friends’ families welcome newborns into their folds. Patty Kelley, her best friend, had a cute little brother, Kevin. The two of them were allowed to pick him up and hold him. Katie was even allowed to feed him and burp young Kevin, but only when supervised by an adult.

She was almost five when Glen was born and the little brat didn’t stop screaming until he was three, about six months earlier.

Colic. her mother told her.

He’ll grow out of it in time. Yeah, how about three years’ time.

And Glen had a BIG mouth. When he wasn’t crying, screaming or wailing, he was usually saying something to piss off the older kids in the neighborhood. Don’t curse in front of Glen or you got a stern lecture about the perils of using the Lord’s name in vain. Then she would have to intervene and rescue him from the impending ass-whooping he had coming. It truly angered her when someone beat up her little brother. As hard as it was for her to admit at this current moment, she loved her little brother and would do anything to protect him. When she got wind of someone hitting Glen, Katie’s blood would boil (compliments of the Italian-Irish-German influences her Dad had told her she possessed) and she would quickly gather up any implement of pain infliction she could grab, usually a plastic bat, stick, tennis racket or rock and set out to make the transgressor pay for harming her little brother. It seemed that Tommy was always there, wearing that same shit-eating grin that he was still flashing at her at this moment in church. He would feign shock and terror as the physical punishment was meted and back away in a sign of insincere respect as she passed him, the matter now resolved. Little brothers, face it, were a pain-in-the-ass…and Glen was the biggest one of all, but no one messed with her little brother. No one except her.

Katie had finally learned the fine art of ignoring the wailings of the little brat. As long as he stayed out of her room, which was a pre-requisite for his continued existence on this planet, she could shut the door, put on a record and forget she even had a brother. Her 45’s were her refuge…from Glen and his constant chatter, questioning, babbling and pontificating.

And, as fate would now have it, Katie had another little brother, just born. That’s where her Mom was now, at home with the baby. She missed her Mom at moments like this…she was outnumbered. Her thoughts returned to her little baby brother, Greg.

The strangest thing, she thought, The kid never cries. Glen never stops. All he does is eat, sleep and poop his diapers. Huge loads that seemed out of proportion to the relatively small size of the tiny pooper.

Greg was cute. He was rounder and chubbier than Glen was as a baby. He smiles and coos a lot, something Glen never did. She’d imagined that he would be less of a thorn-in-her-side when he grew up than Glen was. She was hopeful.

Father O’Brien, undeterred by the recent outburst, returned to his Latin and whispered into the round wafer he now held in his venerated fingers. He hoisted the Host high, as if to the gilded crucifix suspended above him. Glen ceased his sobbing and returned to reading from his tiny missal. The priest then held the Chalice high to the crucifix above and together he and Glen had consecrated the body and blood of the Lord. God was well-pleased and with that the rows of the faithful made their way to receive the body of Christ .

Katie, still red and embarrassed from her dealings with Glen silently moved past him banging him hard on the knee with hers. Alas, a momentary respite from her brother, which was more of a brat time-out than it was a Communion with the Lord. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at Tommy whom she knew was still looking and laughing at her. Yes, if she looked at him, he would be looking, laughing and pointing at her. How humiliating! The very thought of it made her want to give Glen another pinch.

Glen mimicked the priest as he reached into his cupped left palm with his tiny thumb, index and middle fingers…

Corpus Christi., he muttered.

Amen., he responded as the miniscule monsignor moved down the now empty pew administering the evanescent holy wafers to the invisible church faithful.

The boy retired to his original seat and awaited the return of his father and sister. He thought that it wasn’t fair that he didn’t get to join them in receiving Communion. Glen would have to wait four more years until he was in the second grade to have his First Communion. He sat alone and craned his neck to look behind him as the organ thundered and the choir sang to the high strains of, Now Thank We All Our God.

The organ’s deep bass reverberated in the tiny boy’s chest as the voices melded into a harmonious din. He wondered what mysteries were held in the ascent to the choir loft. The marbled steps that led to the loft were forbidden to a little boy. Glen knew this because he had asked his father to take him up the stairs to see the loft. He was neither pleased or appeased by his father’s curt refusal. Glen gazed and marveled at the heavy dark timbers that supported the huge expanse of the ceiling. He strived to understand how the voices and music seemed to come from the roof down instead of from the back of the church forward. Was that where God was? In the rafters in the ceiling? He longed to see God and the choir and the organ which at this moment was even more thunderous in refrain.

The little boy arose and made his way to the side aisle and towards the back of the church. As he climbed the white marbled stairs, holding the head-high railing as it spiraled toward the loft, the anticipation of what was to come piqued his curiosity…would he finally be able to SEE God? He confidently strode past the adult choir members who were now descending the stairs to receive their communion.

Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, young Glen looked out and saw the tiny altar and pews below. It was not uncommon for children to be with their parents who sang in the choir. The organist smiled at him as she made her way to the stairs, leaving him alone. Glen was alone to explore, to look and figure out the mysteries that had baffled him all of his short life. He knew not to touch, but proceeded down the wooden steps to the banister of the loft to spy and see if he could recognize his father and sister.

As he approached the solid wooden obstruction his view was blocked. Too short., he thought. Undeterred, the little boy climbed onto the seat of the pew closest to the banister and felt as though he was soaring through the ceiling and timber trusses. He could see his father as he rose from the railing by the altar having received his communion. Ray turned and headed down the side aisle and to the now empty pew which should have been inhabited by his son.

In a panic Mr. Romani looked around the crowd of giants for his dwarfed son. It was unclear as to why he looked to the choir loft when he did, but he did…and there he saw his little boy, standing on the seat of the pew by the edge of the banister waving a demure gesture to his father. With a grave, stern glare the terrified father signaled silently for his son to stay put. Ray cleared pews and parishioners in athletic fashion and climbed the stairs three-at-a-time up to the loft.

Upon reaching the top he yelled GLEN in a hushed, whispered voice to his son who was now expectantly looking to the rear of the loft for his father.

DOMINUS WOBISCUM., Glen sang to his angry red-faced, panting father.

The boy was swept up and confused in the turmoil of being grabbed from his perch, not receiving a faithful response from his father and the pummeling that was now being administered. Once the realization of what was occurring set in, a screeched wailing resonated throughout the church for the second time during the Sunday High Mass service.

Katie shrunk into the kneeler of her pew. She knew that cry anywhere. This time she did look at Tommy who, of course, was splitting his side with silent laughter and pointing at her yet again. This was too much to endure! Katie arose and fumed to the back of the church where she pushed open the heavy wooden door to reveal her father, just at the bottom of the steps whipping Glen with his belt. Legs, back, butt, it didn’t matter. It all got lashed in a frenzied beating that Katie was frankly glad to see and happier yet to witness. He had it coming. Maybe this time a beating would straighten Glen out. It was amazing, she thought, how quiet Glen’s crying was, the shrill sound was so effectively diffused into the chilly morning air. The busy Sunday traffic actually seemed to absorb much of the brat’s screaming. The statue of Saint Francis of Assisi on the front façade of the church seemed to smile in agreement for the punishment being administered to the young transgressor. She heard her father ask Glen, once the terror and panic began to subside, what the hell was he was doing in the choir loft.

Glen sobbed his response. I-I-I wa-wa-wanted to s-see G-God.

The sarcastic segue that followed was wasted on the young boy with his father’s swift reply,

Well you’ll god damn meet him a helluva lot sooner than you’re supposed to if you ever try that stunt again!

Fa-Father…you’re n-not supposed to use the n-name of the L-Lord…

Shut up god damn it! You scared the shit outta me!

Glen thought about what had happened and knew he was wrong for disobeying his father, but couldn’t understand why his father was so upset. He just wanted to see God.

The loft remained one of the great mysteries he had to silently ponder every time he stepped foot into the church. The image was forever emblazoned in his mind…how small the altar looked, how small the people were, especially his father. He would often look back at the loft in wonder and dream. Dream of the day he would go into the choir loft of the church and once again, be with his God. But that day would be years away…three years to be precise.

Chapter 3

Handwriting

The same fervent love and respect that Glen paid to God was also afforded to the nuns and members of the clergy. After all, these were God’s holy servants on earth. To say that he also loved school was a monumental understatement. He attacked his studies voraciously and seemed to master all of his classes. All except, Handwriting.

Sister Aloysous, the Principal at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic grade school made no bones about how disappointed she was with Glen’s apparent lack of ability to stay within the blue lines of his ruled paper. She called his parents, Ray and El, in to meet with her and discuss remedies, prior to handing over his report card to them.

Glen is sloppy and undisciplined. Look at this horrendous example of his printing. I don’t know how Sister Dennis can make heads or tails out of his papers!, the ancient nun exclaimed. The parents sat shocked at the horrible hen-scratching before them. An untrained monkey could have done a neater job of staying within the lines.

Do you have him practice at home? He needs to practice at least one hour a night for the rest of the school year. This is going to hold him back, especially next year when the children start script., she piled on.

For a moment both parents were shocked by this revelation. Ellen thought that perhaps Sister Aloysus had called them both in to discuss moving Glen up a grade. This would be a step she would have welcomed, for Glen needed to be challenged. He seemed to thrive on mastering knowledge, wisdom and tasks beyond his years.

I don’t get it., stated the embarrassed mother.

All we ever hear is how remarkably intelligent Glen is and how he is at the top of his class.

Well he won’t be at the top this year!, the nun chided.

This year we start counting the scores on penmanship and handwriting towards their overall grade and Glen’s score this period is forty-nine percent. That’s a failing grade! That looks ridiculous next to all of his straight 100’s. And please, don’t say that he’ll make a great doctor with that terrible scribbling. I don’t buy it.

Well I guess great penmanship is next to Godliness., joked Ray.

You can poke fun, or you can realize that this young man has a serious problem. Address it and CORRECT it. If he was in my class, I’d use a ruler on him and smack him on the hand every time he strayed outside the lines.

Simultaneously and silently both embarrassed parents thought how glad they were that this old bitty of a nun wasn’t still engaged in classroom teaching.

We’ll work very hard with Glen to make sure he does a better job in his handwriting…as you know he can be a little headstrong., offered Mrs. Romani.

Do you beat and punish your children?, asked the stern nun.

Of course. We always have., answered Ray defensively. He remembered back to the unusually cruel treatment he suffered at the hands of his own father. It was a father’s obligation to curb undesirable behavior in one’s children, particularly with the sons. They were the progeny who would carry on the family name. Nip the bad behavior in the bud while they were young and they would grow to be good men. His own father used a belt, shaving strap or whatever was within