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FRESH! Literary Magazine 2009 short story |
BAPTISM
I come home from my audition for the Last Comic Standing, holding a grocery bag containing two bottles of cheap merlot and an ounce of weed, and find a large Fed Ex envelope hanging out my crooked black mailbox. I hesitantly reach for it wondering if it’s a delinquent notice on a bill or a warrant for my arrest and tear it open. Inside is a note that reads:
Come back to
Love,
Your sister
Along with the note are a round-trip ticket and a check for any “incidentals”. I stare at the check for a few minutes then take it down to the Bank of Santa Monica, cash it, and buy a pack of Camels and head down to Sonny’s to get drunk. As I sit at the bar and sip my first Stella it occurs to me that my incidentals probably differ from my sister’s.
Nine months have passed since I drove my parents to my Uncle James’ funeral. My nephew, James was born a few months later, my sister’s first son in four tries. In the Catholic Church, there is no mandatory time frame for a baptism, it’s simply decided by the parents. As I finish my Stella, I realize my sister was waiting on me.
She also probably knew that I’d squandered all the envelopes of money and
inheritance that my dead uncle had sent me. For two months after my return,
there was nothing- I was broke and wondering if my days in
I sit at the bar drinking for a while and then order some Chinese barbecue
buffalo fingers and study the crowd. Everyone in this place is trying to “make
it” in Hollywood one way or another; it’s like Rick’s Cafe in the movie
I recall the night they ran my bank commercial for the first time on national
television. I was the one who bought rounds, the “local” hero, rubbing elbows
with a bunch of drunken expatriates from
The bartender, Mike, comes over and sets down another Stella Artois for me. He grew up south of
“Flying back tomorrow,” I say.
“For what?” he inquires. “It’s cold.”
“Gonna be a godfather,” I laugh, sipping my beer.
“Just like the movie,” he jokes.
“Yeah,” I reply softly. “Just like the movie.”
***
I am standing outside of Terminal B at
“When’d you get out?” he inquires.
“What?”
“Of rehab?” he questions. I cover it up my bracelet with my jacket sleeve, pick up my suitcase and walk quickly away.
***
My sister shows up an hour later and I get in her Volvo shivering but I don’t question where she was. She apologizes and asks if I’ve been drinking because I smell like smoke and that usually goes with it. I assure her I’m sober even though I had three drinks on the plane and a silver flask of Jameson in my coat pocket.
“Good,” she replies. “Because if you screw up this baptism, I’ll never forgive you Gabriel. And neither will Mom.”
I try to ignore her and turn on the seat warmer as she steers then digs through her Coach purse for the $3.50 toll to get into the Sumner Tunnel. She pays the toll then glances at me.
“You look skinny,” she says. “They feed you at that place?”
We emerge from the darkness onto Storrow and I look
out at the frozen river and joggers who move steadily down the path next to the
Charles toward Harvard as if they are unaware that it is actually winter. I
recall running here in college, miles and miles, all the way from
We get off at the Copley exit a few minutes later then drive up Beacon, the
streets scattered with students and tourists in town for the holiday, the
We get to my sister’s brick colonial house in
Inside, I take off my coat and feel the surge of heat from their brick
fireplace. This is not my home but it feels good to be in a real home again; in
I walk out of the room, sit at the kitchen table and study the paintings and drawings on the stainless steel fridge that my nieces have made at school and think of my own art as child, how good it felt when an adult acknowledged what I’d done. I watch my sister go into the other room and strain to hear her tell my brother-in-law to hide the booze and prescription medicine just in case I have a relapse.
The Swedish nanny suddenly appears holding the infant, my nephew, James and I smile at her but she seems to already know my story by the expression on her face and distance she keeps from me. She asks me cautiously if I’d like to hold my godson-to-be and I accept, taking him in my arms at the kitchen table while my nieces fawn over him. I look up at my sister, who is leaning against the alcove with her arms folded and tears in her eyes. I try to smile at her to say that it’s going to be okay but she fingers her wedding ring nervously, wipes a tear away, and announces that she’s going to start dinner.
I get comfortable on the couch in the family room and watch a preview on the Boston Marathon, then set down my cup of coffee and wonder when my parents are going to show up. My brother-in-law comes in and warms up by the fire place then smiles at me as if he’s forgotten.
“Want a beer or something?”
“No,” I say with a surprised childlike expression.
My sister walks in and looks at him angrily.
“What did you just ask him?” she demands.
“Nothing,” I stammer and lay back on the coach.
“I’ll go make up your bed up,” she says storming out of the room.
“Sorry,” apologizes my brother-in-law, shrugging his shoulders before he awkwardly leaves the room. “I forgot for a minute.”
“It’s okay,” I say sitting back down. “I forget all the time.”
I lean back into the soft red Pottery Barn couch and feel the jetlag kick in a bit as the commentator talks about how it may snow again on Easter. I think to myself that it’s good to be home again but my body fights the wave of fatigue brought on by the east.
***
Sunlight shines upon my face and I open my eyes to see my father’s bald gray head staring down at me.
“Get up,” he says. “The goddamn coffee maker’s broken. We need to buy a new one. Let’s go.”
I sit up and put my bare feet on the cold hardwood floor and realize that it’s 7:00 a.m. on Easter Sunday. I stagger out of bed and find my jeans draped over a chair with my suede jacket and assume my sister put them there. I pull them on quickly then stumble out into the hallway with my shoes in hand and down the stairs to the front door and open it. The new used Grand Marquis sits in the driveway and my father beeps the horn. I take out a cigarette and light it then walk toward the car, the smoke billowing in the cold morning vapor. I open it and start to get in. My father points at me angrily.
“There’s no smoking in this car,” he yells. “Put it out and get rid of it.”
I toss the cigarette into the snow on the stone driveway, get in, and slam the door shut. I feel hung over but know I didn’t drink anything since the plane ride and assume it’s dehydration from flying.
“It’s Easter,” I remind my dad. “Nothing’s going to be open.”
He shakes his head and pulls onto Beacon driving through
“Your sister thought Target might be.”
“Dad, the Blue Laws. There are no stores open on Easter.”
“Things have changed around here,” he says gruffly. “More like
He points to one off of Beacon and shakes his head.
“I don’t like it one bit,” he says. “CVS is even open 24-hours.”
“There’s nothing open,” I repeat as he steers over the Mass Pike then into
“Gabriel, when the Jews are involved, it doesn’t matter. There’s money to be made,” my father says firmly. “Didn’t that Berman fellow take something out of your paycheck for getting your that commercial?”
“See you’ve changed your way of thinking,” I shoot back.
“What about you? Thirty days away change your thinking?” he asks.
“Haven’t had anything in three weeks,” I lie.
“Big deal,” he replies. “It’s the damn
My father shakes his head and we cross over to
“You want me to drive?” I ask.
“No. I don’t want to get lost,” he sneers.
“I went to college here,” I remind him. “I think I know my way around.”
“I was born in
I nod and laugh for a minute. He’s right; he’s the only true Bostonian in our family.
“I think there’s a Target up by
“Roxbury?” he says. “Jesus. You think I’m taking this car to Roxbury?”
I sink back into the seat and look out to my right at the Hancock and Prudential as we emerge from the darkness of the tunnel.
“You bring your good suit? The three-button one?” he asks. “The one your Uncle James bought you?”
I glance at him quickly. I didn’t think he knew I’d used his brother’s money for that.
“Yeah, I know about those envelopes,” he says shaking his head.
“The suit is pressed, in a garment bag back at the house,” I reassure him. “I wear it to a lot of auditions too.”
My father looks at me betrayed.
“You better not,” he says. “Your uncle would be rolling in his grave if he knew what you spending his money on.”
Ten minutes later, we are sitting in the empty parking lot of Target and Home Depot and my father shakes his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he says hitting the wheel in a fit.
“There’s always Dunkin Donuts,” I say.
He looks at me viciously.
“Is that your answer for everything?” he says. “Fast food solution? Well, let me tell you some Harry Hollywood: life doesn’t work that way. And you’re going to be dead like your damn aunt if you don’t stop this crap right now.”
We pull back into the city and pass through
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“She’s sleeping in,” he says. “Going straight to the church.”
***
I walk back into my sister’s brick colonial holding a tray of Starbucks for everyone, set it on the hallway table and go upstairs to my room to get ready. I shower quickly and put on the Brooks Brothers suit, hoping that my sister will be impressed with my appearance. I hear my father shouting at my nieces to get ready and that we’ll be late.
On the ride to the church, my dad looks over at me and shakes his head.
“You look good,” he says softly. “But I think you’d better go to Confession before you go up on that altar.”
“Why?” I ask. “Rehab isn’t penance enough for you?
“30-days in an outpatient program?” he laughs. “You think I don’t know about this stuff? I work with substance abuse counselors on a daily basis.”
I laugh and shake my head.
“You’re a high school guidance counselor.”
He slams on the brakes and I think for the first time since I was eight when I accidentally elbowed my sister in the teeth that he might smack me. I brace myself but he pulls back his hand and shakes his head.
“God is watching you, Gabriel,” he says as he pulls in the church parking lot. “You can fool your family but you can’t fool him.”
***
Inside the church, everyone gathers around the altar. The
baptism will take place before the 10 a.m. Easter Mass as my brother-in-law’s
uncle is the pastor of St. Loyola, a Jesuit from B.C. and pretty much calls all
the shots. The buzz in the crowd is that he may be considered for bishop soon;
he has been talking with someone from the
“It’s good that you’ve come home,” she says softly in my ear. “How are you, Gabriel?”
“Good, Ma,” I replay. “I’m better, really.”
“Stand up straight up now. You look skinny,” she says fixing the collar and lapels on my three-button suit then frowns. “You wore the maroon tie? It looks sharp but it’s Easter, honey. Something purple would’ve been more appropriate.”
I can feel the anxiety rise up in my chest, the same nervousness I felt before I walked out on the altar as a kid and looked down at her in the pew, studying how I did things. I would shake as I poured the holy water on the priest’s hands from the glass pitcher and nervously handed him a towel before I bowed then knelt for the next ten minutes. It was important for me to get her approval, to see her smile from afar. I kiss her on the cheek.
“Did you go to Confession this morning?” she inquires.
“No, Mom.”
“When are you moving back,” she asks. “This summer?”
“Not yet, Mom.”
“You meet a girl out there yet?”
“No, Ma.”
“That’s good,” she says with a sigh. “You might be tempted to stay.”
The baptism begins and I stand on the altar with my sister, brother-in-law, his sister from Wellesley, and the priest. My sister holds the baby tight in her arms and looks at me then to the priest with a smile as he begins a long-winded speech about Satan and rejecting his beliefs. I look down at my hands and see that they are visibly shaking. I immediately jam them in my pockets as we are summoned to the baptismal pool to pay witness to this ritual, which will magically remove the original sin from this small infant’s soul. I watch as the priest puts ointment on James’ tiny forehead and smile for a moment with a feeling inside that everything might be okay in life, that a little ointment and some holy water aspersed on his head will make it all go away, wash away any thoughts of sin his fragile mind. I wonder if that’s available for me. The priest suddenly produces a golden scepter from beneath his flowing purple alb and dips it in the baptismal pool again then sprinkles holy water on my nephew’s head as he responds with a screaming cry. My sister pulls the baby back instinctively and looks over at me.
“Gabriel,” she says. “Take him please.”
She hands me the child as her and my brother-in-law’s foreheads are blessed by the priest’s hands. I cradle my nephew securely in the arms of my navy suit and look down as his innocent blue eyes study my failure of a face. As the priest gives his final prayer, I feel ashamed inside, ashamed that I’ve let my family down because of my selfish dreams of success and addiction. I look at my mother and my father as a tear runs down my face and embarrassed, hand my nephew to my sister abruptly. Then, without anymore contemplation, I run down off the altar to the gasps of all of my relatives.
***
Around
I look at the empty square by the
***
I end up in a coffee house on
“Sir,” he says. “We’re closing in five minutes. It is Easter.”
His tone is condescending as if I may not have checked the calendar today.
“No problem,” I respond handing him my empty cup. “I’m all done.”
The door opens and the overhead bell rings. I look over quickly and notice a blonde girl walk in. She’s wearing a tan coat and a purple beret. I laugh and think of my mother’s comment about my tie earlier at the baptism.
“Do I have time? Are you still open?” she asks.
The barista looks at me annoyed as if it’s my fault since I’m there last customer there and I laugh and shrug at him. She looks at me, pauses, then points.
“Hey,” she says laughs. “Your that guy from the Capitol Credit commercial. The one with hobo on the train. Right?”
The barista looks at me for a moment as he continues to clean up.
“No,” he responds as if he’s suddenly an expert in television studies. “He was in that Boston Lawyers episode.”
I look at the girl and smile. She smiles back.
***
I’m walking with the blonde girl in the purple beret down
“So what are you doing in
“I had a baptism today,” I say.
“Oh, how cute.”
“Yeah, I was godfather. Not a very good one but a godfather none-the-less.”
She smiles and sips her coffee, blowing some cold vapor out of her mouth into the crisp air.
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m meeting my family for Easter dinner,” she says. “They’re staying at
the Hyatt in
She points out across the Charles at the pyramid shaped hotel on the other side.
“And I’m kind of late,” she says.
We are standing in the middle of the bridge now and I look at her. She’s
traditionally pretty, not in the same way that those actress girls were out in
“Listen,” I say. “Do you want to come by my sister’s place in
She looks at me awkwardly.
“You want me to meet your family?”
“Not like that,” I say. “Just, you know, come over for a hot chocolate or something.”
“Hot chocolate?”
“I don’t get to ask that much in
She laughs and looks at the Hyatt.
“I’d love to meet up sometime but I really have to get going. My family is waiting and I tend to be late all the time. They hate that.”
I nod and reach out my hand to hers.
“I understand that feeling,” I say. “It was real nice to walk with you.”
I shake her hand and turn to walk away, feeling the cold wind blow off the
“Wait a second,” she yells.
She runs across the crunchy snow, takes off her purple beret, and reaches in her pocket.
“Here’s my card,” she says handing me a small rectangular piece of cardboard. “Why don’t you call me when you come back home again?”
I take the card and look up at her. She leans in and kisses me on the lips then puts on her purple beret then runs toward the other side of the river. I watch her go and look down at the card and read it.
Susan Wright
Alcohol Abuse Counselor
***
I make my way back to
I walk in the living room and my father sees me, shuts off the television with the remote, and gets up. I can tell he’s had a couple Budweisers to relax.
“Get your coat,” he says gruffly. “You’re staying with us at the house.”
“Dad- wait.”
“Your sister doesn’t want you here. She made that clear this afternoon. Hopefully, she’ll forgive you by Christmas.”
He picks up his car keys and walks past me toward the front door, opens it, and walks out. I stand and look around at my sister’s living room for a minute and notice that the fireplace has gone out. I feel very cold, then turn and follow him outside.
***
I am lying on my old bed in my childhood room. I look around at the ripped Celtics poster on the wall and realize that I am truly home again. Something inside me clicks and I softly say the words aloud, “It’s good to be home.” I look over at my airline ticket on the bedside table for the morning and feel the pit in my stomach, that same pit that occurred each Sunday night before I had to go back to college after a long weekend home.
I think about not drinking anymore; I think about Susan Wright; I think about the letter I’ll write to my sister apologizing; I think about how I will have to explain myself to my mother as we drive to Logan in the morning as she chain-smokes long Salem 100’s in the Grand Marquis; I think about the future and coming up with a plan, one that will make me rise to the top of Hollywood and be the big star I know I can be. But most of all I think about God and my Uncle James looking down on me, wondering what to do with my lost soul.
I walk to the window sill, open it, and light a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the cold air, looking out at dilapidated tree house in the giant oak tree, visible in the back porch floodlight. I think about how I’ll break my godson’s arm if I ever see him touch a cigarette.
My cell phone rings on top of my dresser and I go over to look at the caller. It’s my agent, Mel Berman. As I stare at the torn Celtics posters on the wall, I pick up the phone.
“Hello, Mel,” I say. “Long time.”
“Kid. How are you?” says the raspy voice with a
I look at an old Little League photo on my bureau, one of me swinging a bat, my hair grown long and I nod.
“Ready when you are M.B.”, I reply. “What do you have?”
He begins to tell me about some open call at Sony Studios in
“Who the hell is calling at this hour?”
I smile at my dad as my agent’s voice drones on in the background and have a feeling inside that everything might just be all right for the first time in a long time.
Copyright © 2009 by Michael J.
Atwood
Michael J. Atwood is a graduate of