Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,17
head through the open kitchen window as Pop jumped up to let the dogs out onto the veranda to welcome him home.
“Hey, take your shoes off, you slob,” I spoke without thinking as Bingo came in through the door, his running shoes leaving a trail of oozing black footprints on the floor.
He looked baffled. “Why?”
“Look at the mess you’re making,” I said as Pop finally took notice of Bingo kicking off his running shoes.
“What are you doing removing your shoes at the door?” Pop asked.
“Ask Collie,” Bingo said, fighting off the dogs.
“I’ve told you boys a thousand times, removing your shoes at the door brands you as a hopeless member of the middle class. Next you’ll be clipping coupons and asking questions about the state of the eaves trough.”
“Don’t forget to rake the lawn, Pop,” Bingo contributed in good-natured fashion as he drank from an open carton of orange juice. Pop didn’t believe in raking leaves. “That’s why they call them leaves,” he used to say.
“What’s going on?” Bingo said, taking quick measure of the room’s temperature.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with your teacher. I hope never again to hear a child of mine talked about as you were talked about tonight,” Pop said, straining for solemnity.
“Sister Mary Ellen’s had it in for me since grade four,” Bingo said.
“And why is that?” Pop asked as I looked on incredulously.
“Because I told her I didn’t swallow all those stories about the lives of the saints—all that junk about flying around on magic carpets and stuff. . . .” He glanced over in my direction, squinting, his lips pressed together as he tried to conceal a grin.
“Oh, that perpetual nonsense! Is that what this is about?” Pop was instantly galvanized. “Did you mention St. Euphrosyne and her penchant for cross-dressing?”
“Yeah, and St. Uncumber, too,” Bingo added as Pop characteristically pumped the air with his fists.
“Good for you! Did it shut her up?”
“Yeah, but she still smacked me on the back of the head with a ruler,” Bingo said.
“Bullshit,” I muttered.
Pop was obsessed with debunking the notion of sainthood—from the time we were babies, he used to read aloud to us the lives of the saints and loved to deride church claims of miracles. St. Uncumber was a personal favorite of his. She took a vow of virginity, and when her father tried to force her to marry the king of Sicily, she prayed to God to make her unattractive. She appeared one morning sporting a full beard and mustache, putting an end to the marriage plans. Her father was so mad, he had her crucified.
“This changes everything,” Pop said. “I forgot my cardinal rule. Never trust a nun.”
Uncle Tom was searching through the cupboard, pretending indifference.
“You over there, the one with all the disfiguring marks on your face,” he said, turning around to face Bingo. “What’s the collective for a group of pheasants?”
“A bouquet,” Bingo replied, zinging me in the cheek with an elastic band he’d picked up off the floor.
“Good. What about woodpeckers? Rattlesnakes? Hawks?”
“A descent of woodpeckers, a rumba of rattlesnakes, and a kettle of hawks,” Bingo said, rattling off the answers, reveling in my earned contempt.
“A perfect score so far,” Uncle Tom said, staring over at me. “It seems as if there is some confusion as to who is the real genius in the family.”
Ma laughed so loudly, we heard her from the living room.
“Ignore her,” Uncle Tom instructed Bingo and me, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s a biological fact. Try as they might, witches can’t conceal their delight.”
Later that night, I awoke in time to see Bingo climbing out of the open window of the bedroom. We shared a room until we were in high school and I finally rebelled and claimed one of the empty bedrooms as my own.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I asked him as he dropped out of sight. He’d just started sneaking from the house at night, a practice he kept up all through his teens. By the time he was sixteen he’d often stay out all night, climbing in and out of my bedroom window because it was easier.
On the weekends, he used to head out around ten and would come home just before daybreak, me listening for him in the dark, the snap of wisteria signaling his return. I’d wait for the sound of the first broken branch, hyperalertness fixing me in place. I could hear his jeans scraping against cedar shingles as he scaled the