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Authors: Richard Russo
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the garage, but she did have one. Still, not many cars pulled up in front of our house, and though no one in Mohawk had seen my father in years, my mother quickly got up from the table to make sure. She got into the living room just in time to see the young priest, his forehead glistening and a dark ring beneath each arm, getting out of the parish station wagon. He was carrying a bottle of wine.
I don’t know what my mother was most confused by—the fact that a priest was coming to visit, that he was carrying a bottle of wine, or that he hadn’t common sense enough to avoid dinner hour. It had been a warm day, and the heavy, inner door was already open so that the house could air, so there was just the screen between them when Father Michaels mounted the porch steps. When he saw my mother staring at the bottle of wine, he raised it timidly and said, “For purely sacramental purposes.”
This was a joke, but it confused my mother even more. She had made no move to open the door, but it was clear from the expectant way the man was standing there smiling at her that she was expected to. Surely this was no casual social call at such a time. Did the man intend to say mass in the living room? There was nothing to do but let him in.
My mother’s hesitance finally tipped my friend that something was amiss. “I hope I’m not late,” he said. “Ned didn’t say what time.”
They were both looking at me now. I’d started backing up when I saw who it was on the porch, but I was caught. I could feel myself flushing, but so was everybody else. My mother, no doubtremembering the small beans-and-hot-dog casserole already steaming in the center of the kitchen table, looked homicidal, and I was glad the police had confiscated my grandfather’s revolver. Of the three of us, however, Father Michaels looked to be in the worst shape. He was not only red with embarrassment, he looked as if he might faint. Three distinct trails of perspiration disappeared into his collar.
My mother was first to rally, and she refused to hear of the priest leaving, though he expressed a fervent and sincere desire to. Instead, she got him to sit down on the sofa, and she left me, as she put it, to entertain our guest. I had no idea what that might entail. Father Michaels was too kind to say anything, but he wore the expression of a man cruelly betrayed by a trusted ally. We both stared at the floor and listened to the sounds emanating from the kitchen. I heard the casserole return to the oven and the sound of anxious, angry chopping on the drain board.
“Ned?” my mother’s voice floated in, high and false from the kitchen. “Would you ask our guest if he’d like something cool to drink?”
I looked over at Father Michaels, who shook his head at me, as if speech were an impossibility.
“Nope,” I yelled.
“Perhaps he would like to open the bottle of wine?”
He nodded this time. He was still holding the bottle and had read the front and back labels several times, rotating the bottle again and again, making me wish I had something to read too. My mother left the salad she was tossing in order to hand me the corkscrew along with a scalding look. Working on the bottle, Father Michaels appeared to regain his composure. He thanked me for handing him the corkscrew and I felt like thanking him for thanking me. “Ever see one of these in action?” he said.
I hadn’t. The corkscrew’s presence in the utensil drawer had always perplexed me since it was the only item in there that was never used. Father Michaels used the pointed tip to cut the outer wrapping and expose the cork, which he then extracted so deftly I was surprised. His movements on the altar and even in the sacristy always seemed clumsy, as if he were remembering what he was supposed to do at the last second. No matter how many times he wore certain vestments, he could never seem to remember where the clasps were and would circle himself trying to locate them like a dog chasing his
I don’t know what my mother was most confused by—the fact that a priest was coming to visit, that he was carrying a bottle of wine, or that he hadn’t common sense enough to avoid dinner hour. It had been a warm day, and the heavy, inner door was already open so that the house could air, so there was just the screen between them when Father Michaels mounted the porch steps. When he saw my mother staring at the bottle of wine, he raised it timidly and said, “For purely sacramental purposes.”
This was a joke, but it confused my mother even more. She had made no move to open the door, but it was clear from the expectant way the man was standing there smiling at her that she was expected to. Surely this was no casual social call at such a time. Did the man intend to say mass in the living room? There was nothing to do but let him in.
My mother’s hesitance finally tipped my friend that something was amiss. “I hope I’m not late,” he said. “Ned didn’t say what time.”
They were both looking at me now. I’d started backing up when I saw who it was on the porch, but I was caught. I could feel myself flushing, but so was everybody else. My mother, no doubtremembering the small beans-and-hot-dog casserole already steaming in the center of the kitchen table, looked homicidal, and I was glad the police had confiscated my grandfather’s revolver. Of the three of us, however, Father Michaels looked to be in the worst shape. He was not only red with embarrassment, he looked as if he might faint. Three distinct trails of perspiration disappeared into his collar.
My mother was first to rally, and she refused to hear of the priest leaving, though he expressed a fervent and sincere desire to. Instead, she got him to sit down on the sofa, and she left me, as she put it, to entertain our guest. I had no idea what that might entail. Father Michaels was too kind to say anything, but he wore the expression of a man cruelly betrayed by a trusted ally. We both stared at the floor and listened to the sounds emanating from the kitchen. I heard the casserole return to the oven and the sound of anxious, angry chopping on the drain board.
“Ned?” my mother’s voice floated in, high and false from the kitchen. “Would you ask our guest if he’d like something cool to drink?”
I looked over at Father Michaels, who shook his head at me, as if speech were an impossibility.
“Nope,” I yelled.
“Perhaps he would like to open the bottle of wine?”
He nodded this time. He was still holding the bottle and had read the front and back labels several times, rotating the bottle again and again, making me wish I had something to read too. My mother left the salad she was tossing in order to hand me the corkscrew along with a scalding look. Working on the bottle, Father Michaels appeared to regain his composure. He thanked me for handing him the corkscrew and I felt like thanking him for thanking me. “Ever see one of these in action?” he said.
I hadn’t. The corkscrew’s presence in the utensil drawer had always perplexed me since it was the only item in there that was never used. Father Michaels used the pointed tip to cut the outer wrapping and expose the cork, which he then extracted so deftly I was surprised. His movements on the altar and even in the sacristy always seemed clumsy, as if he were remembering what he was supposed to do at the last second. No matter how many times he wore certain vestments, he could never seem to remember where the clasps were and would circle himself trying to locate them like a dog chasing his
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