St. Bart’s? Can I hitch a ride?” he asked.
I’d
never seen Vito at a church service. Then again, I’m not a regular.
“Sure,”
I shrugged. “Hop in.”
“Boy,
I sure hate walking into a service all by myself.”
I
glanced at him and noticed he’d lost his bridge again. But I was proven wrong:
we hit a red light. While we waited for it to turn green, he reached into his
blazer pocket, withdrew his bridge and slipped it into his mouth. Then the
light turned green. I floored it. I was determined not to stop at any more
red lights with Vito or his teeth.
I
parked the van on Mulberry and we walked toward church. Or really Vito walked
and I limped behind, my foot barking at my cute spikey sandals.
Mulberry
Street was a picture perfect slice of Americana on a hazy Sunday morning. Just
the quiet hum of cars passing, cicadas, and someone washing breakfast dishes.
“You
wanna sit together?” Vito bellowed shyly.
“Sure,”
I said, “but we have to look out for Aunt Muriel. I’m supposed to meet her.”
“Oh,
hey, that’s great!” Vito smiled enthusiastically. Somewhere in the dim
recesses of my ancient love-life, I vaguely recalled this was what attraction
smelt like. Vito was oozing something very much like this at the mention of
Aunt Muriel’s name. Huh.
We
headed into church and scoped out Aunt Muriel. I walked down the aisle and
tapped her on her shoulder. She slid over, while I offered Vito first dibs to
sit next to Auntie. Aunt Muriel’s eyebrows flew to the ceiling and she pursed
her lips together into an asterisk. Vito responded by flashing his
game-show-host-with-bridge-in grin at her. I sat at the end of the pew and
pretended to memorize the hymnal. But maybe things were looking up. My foot
hurt a bit less, and my eyes felt adjusted. I took Auntie’s sunglasses off.
Maybe I didn’t look like I had eyeball aneurysms anymore. Vito tapped me on my
arm. I looked over, and saw Auntie waving at me to put her sunglasses back
on. I put them on.
We
went through the service with some confusion, which is typical for Episcopalians
and visitors alike. We quickly realized poor Vito was a visitor. I tried to
explain the Prayer Book vs. Hymnal vs. Contemporary Hymnal vs. Weekly Insert,
nudging him when to pick up his hymnal, put his knees down, put his right foot
in, put his right foot out, that’s what Salvation’s all about. The Eucharist
began, and eventually it was our turn to walk up to the altar. I stood up and
let Vito and Auntie out of the pew. Vito got ahead of us, but I figured we’d
catch up. I shrugged at Aunt Muriel and she smiled her thin-lip look back at
me. We shuffled up the aisle and took our turn to kneel – Vito, me, and Aunt
Muriel.
The
first pass with the Host went okay, with Vito starting the lineup. Then the
chalice with the Blood of Our Lord was offered to Vito. Instead of gently
guiding it to his lips, Vito grabbed hold and gulped it all down. Aunt
Muriel’s jaw dropped. I stared in amazement. I’d never seen anyone like tawny
port that much.
Once
the chalice was wrested back from Vito’s fervent grasp, there were a lot of
blank looks. While we were one of the last pews up to bat, there was still a
line of people waiting to partake of the Eucharistic feast, which meant sharing
the One Cup. Except that Vito had chugged it.
Suddenly
the organist whipped up a Toccata, and vamped for sacramental wine time. This
allowed for some new wine to get blessed asap. Tawny port might be getting a
new claim to fame in the Episcopalian church. “We bless no wine before its
time.” Yup. It was eleven-thirty.
We
kneeled for a while and waited for the sacramental backup to appear. Vito was
polite enough to hang around kneeling with those of us who remained dry. New
wine appeared, got poured into the chalice and was offered to the start of the
line, beginning with Vito. Which was probably why Aunt
I’d
never seen Vito at a church service. Then again, I’m not a regular.
“Sure,”
I shrugged. “Hop in.”
“Boy,
I sure hate walking into a service all by myself.”
I
glanced at him and noticed he’d lost his bridge again. But I was proven wrong:
we hit a red light. While we waited for it to turn green, he reached into his
blazer pocket, withdrew his bridge and slipped it into his mouth. Then the
light turned green. I floored it. I was determined not to stop at any more
red lights with Vito or his teeth.
I
parked the van on Mulberry and we walked toward church. Or really Vito walked
and I limped behind, my foot barking at my cute spikey sandals.
Mulberry
Street was a picture perfect slice of Americana on a hazy Sunday morning. Just
the quiet hum of cars passing, cicadas, and someone washing breakfast dishes.
“You
wanna sit together?” Vito bellowed shyly.
“Sure,”
I said, “but we have to look out for Aunt Muriel. I’m supposed to meet her.”
“Oh,
hey, that’s great!” Vito smiled enthusiastically. Somewhere in the dim
recesses of my ancient love-life, I vaguely recalled this was what attraction
smelt like. Vito was oozing something very much like this at the mention of
Aunt Muriel’s name. Huh.
We
headed into church and scoped out Aunt Muriel. I walked down the aisle and
tapped her on her shoulder. She slid over, while I offered Vito first dibs to
sit next to Auntie. Aunt Muriel’s eyebrows flew to the ceiling and she pursed
her lips together into an asterisk. Vito responded by flashing his
game-show-host-with-bridge-in grin at her. I sat at the end of the pew and
pretended to memorize the hymnal. But maybe things were looking up. My foot
hurt a bit less, and my eyes felt adjusted. I took Auntie’s sunglasses off.
Maybe I didn’t look like I had eyeball aneurysms anymore. Vito tapped me on my
arm. I looked over, and saw Auntie waving at me to put her sunglasses back
on. I put them on.
We
went through the service with some confusion, which is typical for Episcopalians
and visitors alike. We quickly realized poor Vito was a visitor. I tried to
explain the Prayer Book vs. Hymnal vs. Contemporary Hymnal vs. Weekly Insert,
nudging him when to pick up his hymnal, put his knees down, put his right foot
in, put his right foot out, that’s what Salvation’s all about. The Eucharist
began, and eventually it was our turn to walk up to the altar. I stood up and
let Vito and Auntie out of the pew. Vito got ahead of us, but I figured we’d
catch up. I shrugged at Aunt Muriel and she smiled her thin-lip look back at
me. We shuffled up the aisle and took our turn to kneel – Vito, me, and Aunt
Muriel.
The
first pass with the Host went okay, with Vito starting the lineup. Then the
chalice with the Blood of Our Lord was offered to Vito. Instead of gently
guiding it to his lips, Vito grabbed hold and gulped it all down. Aunt
Muriel’s jaw dropped. I stared in amazement. I’d never seen anyone like tawny
port that much.
Once
the chalice was wrested back from Vito’s fervent grasp, there were a lot of
blank looks. While we were one of the last pews up to bat, there was still a
line of people waiting to partake of the Eucharistic feast, which meant sharing
the One Cup. Except that Vito had chugged it.
Suddenly
the organist whipped up a Toccata, and vamped for sacramental wine time. This
allowed for some new wine to get blessed asap. Tawny port might be getting a
new claim to fame in the Episcopalian church. “We bless no wine before its
time.” Yup. It was eleven-thirty.
We
kneeled for a while and waited for the sacramental backup to appear. Vito was
polite enough to hang around kneeling with those of us who remained dry. New
wine appeared, got poured into the chalice and was offered to the start of the
line, beginning with Vito. Which was probably why Aunt
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