When I was nine I wanted to be a priest. Clearly, I knew that Roman Catholics didn’t believe that women had any place in their covens, except for the nuns who were referred to as “brides of Christ.” I used to watch them as they walked down the halls of our school, often in pairs, their habits fluttering.
Andrew and Michael were my good friends at Saint Nicholas of Tolentine School. They were altar boys and told me stories about how much fun they had getting Father Kneafsy ready for Mass. Father Kneafsy was a short beefy man with thinning red curls and fat pugilistic hands. I avoided him; he was scary. I always tried to get Father Meany for confession and waited an extra long time to avoid Kneafsy at all costs.
Michael said that he and Andrew would always fill the chalice too high so that Father Kneafsy would have to drink way too much wine at that hour. Michael and Andrew probably didn’t know how much the priest liked to drink anyway. I often saw him at the cheapo liquor store two blocks from my house where my own father visited too frequently. Frustrated with church, school, my parents, and life in general, I came up with what I thought was an excellent plan. At nine, nearly ten, I was thin, angular and flat-chested. I decided that with my short hair combed with some Brylcreem, I could pass for a boy.
Andrew snuck me in, and Michael watched the door. The short vestments slipped over my head and the small white stole hung around my neck. Both boys showed me the way into the church from behind the altar. I wasn’t going to help serve the Mass, it was Saturday; but sometimes the altar boys would prepare the day before so if one of the priests was running late Mass would still come off on time. I breathed the lingering smell of incense from High Mass, and the only light was the flickering of candles: blue jars under Mary’s statue, red under Jesus.
Against the wall, at the back of the altar, was a cubby that contained the unblessed hosts, the chalice, server, and a cloth. I took a host and ate it; same old boring cracker as always. Somehow the whole Eucharist thing didn’t ever hit me. There always seemed to be something missing. Reaching deeper into the wooden box I brought out the chalice. It was covered in a tent-like white cloth with a red cross embroidered on it.
The smell of wax, smoke, and flowers was starting to make me a little dizzy. It was also very early in the morning, still dark, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I removed the cloth and held the chalice, one hand underneath it and one around the middle where the metal felt cool to my sweating fingers. I stepped back from the altar. With my back to the pews, in the shadowy light, facing the enormous crucifix above, I closed my eyes.
Opening my eyes, my hands began to tingle as I brought the cup up to my face. Looking at the golden metal, I saw what seemed to be my own image, tiny and upside down. I raised the cup over my head, still staring at the light reflected on it. My entire body vibrated gently, not unpleasantly, and I knew this was what the priest must feel. This was what I had wanted, an unmediated experience of the Other. Then there was a flash and a bang.
All the church lights had come on at once, and one of the windows in the anteroom door had broken out of its frame, as Father Kneafsy slammed into the room. Andrew and Michael were scurrying out the small hidden door behind the altar to the sacristy. I stood, chalice held chin-high, looking into the priest’s fevered eyes. I didn’t know then what it was I saw there, in those eyes, but I knew without any doubt I was being deliberately kept away from a power, a current, that could alter my life. I saw his arm come up, felt the blow, and landed backward, my lungs emptying of air. He glared down as I wheezed. I looked up at him no longer frightened, but defiant.
I never went to church again. But I never dropped the cup, either.
