Page 178 - What They Did to the Kid

166 Jack Fritscher

“So do you,” I said.
“You handle it, Lock.” Mike begged him. “This has to be han-
dled right. I might or might not have a vocation, but I don’t want to
get shipped. If I leave, I want to leave by my free choice.”
“You handle it, Lock,” I said. “You’re the most respectable semi-
narian at Misery.”
“You’ve got clout,” Mike said to Lock.
“You’re actually ship-proof,” I said. “You’re the golden boy.”
“I bet you, Lock,” Mike said, “those old priests would believe
anything you said.”
“This is a temptation,” Lock said, “to vanity.”
“That’s better than impurity,” I said.
“But harder,” Lock said, “to resist.”
Mike swore us both to secrecy, which we sealed by each throw-
ing a rock into the mirror of the lake sending Misery’s reflection out
in loony rings of moonlight.
The next afternoon, after Hank the Tank and his bevy of choir
boys and sacristans had erected a lavish white silk May altar, the
annual May Crowning of the Virgin Mother wound in long proces-
sion through the main chapel. In crisp white surplices over black
cassocks, wearing our black biretta hats foursquare on our heads,
we carried a hundred vases of lilies and lilacs and peonies and roses
in procession to the statue of the Virgin Mary, singing in unison to
the Mother of all priests.

“Bring flowers of the fairest!
Bring flowers of the rarest
from garden and hillside
and woodland and dale!
Our full hearts are swelling,
our glad voices telling,
the praise of the loveliest
Rose of the vale!
Oh, Mary, we crown Thee
with blossoms today!
Queen of the Angels!
Queen of the May!”

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