Read Online The Last Season by Roy Macgregor - Free Book Online Page A

dry thing Batcha made which was supposed to cleanse us of all our sins of the past year. Naturally my National Geographic thoughts quickly led to Lucy Dombrowski’s ass and from there to Danny Shannon’s hands, and so by the time Uncle Jan’s big Chevy pulled in to the St. Martin’s parking lot I was desperate for news of Danny’s Christmas resolution.
    He was already down in the basement, picking through the cassocks for one that would show off his new snake boots to best effect.
    â€œWell?” I asked.
    Danny smiled his coolest. “Got my hand on a boob last night.”
    â€œWhose?”
    â€œWhose do you think!”
    â€œLucy’s?”
    Danny just smiled wider.
    â€œYou shoulda felt it,” he said.
    I could feel my heart skipping. “Inside or out?” I asked.
    Danny snorted. “Shit, I was outside last summer.”
    Danny said this as if he was talking about a twelve-pounder that had been taken out of Black Donald Lake, almost as if his accomplishment should have been in the Renfrew paper, Danny standing there with a big smile and one hand on the outside of Lucy Dombrowski’s fabulous boob, and the reeve, Hatkoski, in his chain of office standing there shaking Danny’s other hand in recognition.
    Father Schula assigned me to candles and the Gospel side, meaning I had little to do during the actual communion mass but think about Danny getting inside on Lucy. I tried taking my mind off it — staring up first at the sad, black-faced Our Lady of Czestochowa and then off to the plaster heaven-and-hell sculpture to the right, with the worried skull separating the peaceful angel above from the poor tortured bugger burning below, even thinking of Jaja’s funeral — but it was no use. A slight cough from the congregation and I’d be staring out over Pomerania, each family in their named pew, the clothes deteriorating visibly the further away from the altar they sat, the round and flat faces, the dark and poorly shaven faces, the awed look of the young, the desperation of the old. They were all there, even old Sikorski and his wife with the runny eyes. She did not look at all well. I thought of the poor cat and its missing heart and wondered who would pray for it. A few dollars for the witch, a few more for the collection plate. Covering their bets.
    Ah, who could say? Perhaps they’d been right in going to Batcha. I looked back down the pews and saw Ig’s hair sticking up. Jozefa had done it this time and it looked almost natural, from a good distance. Ig was blowing his nose, loudly. Poppa was praying beside him, and Jozefa and Jan, Sophia….
    Batcha was staring right at me!
    She was kneeling but not praying. Her face was the only one turned up in the entire congregation. Father Kulas was mumbling in Latin and Father Schula and Danny were busy with the wine. Only Batcha and I were aware of anything at the moment but prayer. I could feel her wolf eyes rake. I looked away, off toward the confessional, but could not prevent myself from looking back. And she was still staring, scowling. I looked away again and shortly, a sneak peek back. Still she stared.
    I coughed. I coughed again and this time my throat caught and I choked. I coughed and choked and my eyes started to water and Father Schula had to leave the wine and come over and slap me on the back and have me sit in the bishop’s chair along the side, where the choir girls stared and giggled and where finally I gathered myself enough to stand back up and move back into position. But still I had to look. I glanced quickly as I could back toward the Batterinski pew, but this time she was not staring back. Her head was down and covered with her black shawl. Praying, of course. I kept fighting the thought that she was laughing. At me.
    The choir and sidesmen went to work. The Dombrowski pew spilled out its contents and suddenly I was caught up in Lucy’s floating twist to the communion