Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,16
him by the collar of his jacket, gave him a push, made him kneel down, and ordered him to bury his face in a freshly shoveled bank of snow.
“Fuck off, Sister,” he said, kicking snow up into the air, so high that it reached the treetops, landing lightly like a dusting of icing sugar. He grinned over at me and, running, cleared the iron fence in a single leap; then, whooping, he left the churchyard and disappeared down the street. He vanished into a shower of snow and rebellion, and when the priest came later that day, we were told to pray for his soul.
In a lot of ways, Bingo was a chip off the old block. Every night was devil’s night as far as Bing was concerned, the clergy his favorite target and toilet paper his weapon of choice, toilet paper streaming from every tree in the churchyard. He got into big trouble when Father Woodward, setting up for morning Mass, and after discovering that his vestments were missing, fell to his knees at the sight of Jesus on the cross wearing a T-shirt, “Too Fuck to Drunk” emblazoned across the chest.
His stolen vestments were found by a hiker later the same day, floating in the ocean, seagulls circling, swooping in closer for a better look. I think the most outrageous thing I ever did as a kid was drink Pepsi before ten o’clock in the morning.
After the vestments’ prank, Pop was summoned to an emergency parent-teacher conference, where Sister Mary Ellen delivered an impassioned review of Bingo’s crimes.
“The prosecutors at Nuremberg were indifferent by comparison,” Pop said, standing in the middle of the kitchen, unbuttoning the jacket of his navy blue suit, and loosening his tie as Uncle Tom and I looked up from where we sat together at the table, drinking hot chocolate.
“And you let her spew this nonsense unchallenged?” Ma demanded, appearing in the doorway at the first sound of Pop’s voice. “What kind of a father are you?”
“Well, according to the teachers, the same as the one who raised Charles Starkweather.”
Pop pulled a chair out from the table, scraping it along the floor and into the middle of the room. He sat down with a thump and, preoccupied, began tapping his foot. Brightening suddenly, he gave me an admiring glance. “On the plus side, Sister Mary Ellen raved about our Collie. Said he was the smartest and the finest boy she’s ever taught.”
Ma made a noise like a car backfiring and ricocheted out the room and down the hallway, announcing that she was pulling us out of the school. I wasn’t concerned. Ma never followed through on anything—saying it was the same as doing it as far as Ma was concerned. Uncle Tom poured some Murphy’s Oil Soap on a cleaning rag and started to polish the table, his hands moving in vigorous circles. He claimed to have worked for a traveling circus when he was young and told Bingo and me that he used Murphy’s Oil Soap to clean the elephants.
He looked over at me, and then just as quickly he looked away. “Well, I’m not convinced. That nun must have worked a crop of lemons over the years to put you at the head of the class. I’d like to know one thing that you’ve ever done that makes you so smart.” Pausing to apply more oil to the cloth, he turned around and confronted me. “Say, did you know there’s a species of crab that can climb a tree? Top that, Socrates.”
“Tom, for God’s sake, you’re eroding the boy’s sense of self-worth,” Pop said, heading for the fridge to seek out his daily consolation of ice cream.
“You can’t possibly be referring to this cathedral of conceit? I’m doing him a great favor, dismantling his vanity piece by piece. It’s the work of a lifetime. Answer me this,” he said, focusing his full attention on me. “What do you call a gathering of ravens?”
“A murder,” I answered, staring back at him. I knew this game.
“All right,” he said. “That was easy. What about a group of goldfinches? Hares? Goats?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Uncle Tom. Who cares?”
“A charm of goldfinches, a drove of hares, a trip of goats. Well, it seems your reputation for brilliance notwithstanding, you’ve been exposed as an imbecile in less than thirty seconds. I rest my case.” He resumed his cleaning.
“I thought this was supposed to be about Bingo,” I said, mildly exasperated.