The Easter Bunny Conspiracy

By William F. Powers Jr.

Set in late-1950s Los Angeles, the Easter Bunny Conspiracy is a grippingly funny coming-of-age tale told from the point of view of a precocious 12 year-old Catholic boy, Chris Kelly. Chris is struggling to find himself despite the burdens of his being as overweight as he is obsessed with and equally confused by girls, being as agnostic as he is Catholic, and as unsure as he is (almost) poised about coping with all the crazy but accepted traditions, customs, prejudices, contradictions and hypocrisies with which hes confronted each day.

Chris problem is that he hasnt yet figured out that hes right to be confused about everyone around him so readily accepting being grounded in one way or another on deceits such as what Chris calls that Easter Bunny thing. Chris needs are simple - just to make his way in the world.

Aided by flashbacks on his own experiences, Chris story is about his overcoming the fiery crucible of the 3 days before his Confirmation, which enable him to reach his personal epiphany and stride with semi-confidence into his still-uncertain future with an ethically tolerable plan. Our voyage through these stormy adolescent seas is at once poignant and hilarious. Its bittersweet comedy at its best. You cant help but love it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462031115

William F. Powers Jr.

The first child of an Italian Catholic mother and Irish Catholic father, Bill Powers was born into a heredity of guilt that rivals even the Judaic tradition. Working a variety of jobs to get through college and law school earned Bill his J.D. and a successful legal career. He and his wife Moonyeen (don’t ask) are blessed with two grown sons and two beautiful and brilliant grandchildren. Don’t get him started. He promises not to sue you if you don’t love his first book… but how could that possibly be?

Book preview

The Easter Bunny

Conspiracy

Written and Illustrated by

WILLIAM F. POWERS JR.

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Easter Bunny Conspiracy

Copyright © 2012 by William F. Powers Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3109-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3111-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3110-8 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910499

iUniverse rev. date: 5/22/2012

Contents

Chapter 1      The Earthquake

Chapter 2      Ice Cream

Chapter 3       The Ice House

Chapter 4       Waking Up

Chapter 5       Corduroy

Chapter 6       Choosing Up Sides

Chapter 7       Finding Religion

Chapter 8       The Nun Killer

Chapter 9       The Jews

Chapter 10       Slow Dancing

Chapter 11       Making The Grade

Chapter 12       True Confessions

Chapter 13       Confirmation

About the Author

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Chapter 1

The Earthquake

Christopher Joseph Kelly, Jr. was in the middle of one of his dreams, as usual.

It started out very vague and hazy. Sort of like one of those Hollywood scenes where the dry ice fog rises from the ground and deep, dark music seems to resonate off an obscure horizon with storm clouds forming up, poised to thunder. He squinted to get the focus, but like a nearsighted man bursting through the surface of a newly-chlorinated swimming pool, his vision was blurred.

It was dark and moist all around—like being immersed in a warm jacuzzi, comfy and relaxed, like when you’re floating on your back or lying on an air mattress in the pool on a warm summer afternoon, both arms and legs dangling in the tepid water, your mind switched off but feeling the sensations all around. In a way, it was strangely focused, too, but the object was still obscure.

But Chris’ pleasant dream was rudely interrupted by a sharp tremor, the first of several soon to come.

The first was just a quick jolt, like when your wife jabs you in the ribs in the middle of the night because you’ve taken too much blanket. Or you’re snoring so loud you might wake the kids. As most anybody would, Chris just grunted, rolled over and went back to sleep, mumbling something incoherently about the indignity of the interruption. The dream faded to that place where all forgotten dreams go when you wake up in the morning, knowing you had a great dream but not quite remembering what it was all about.

Almost immediately, Chris fell again into a deep sleep and dream, this time one of his rapid-fire philosophical ones. Unlike the first one, this one was a visual kaleidoscope of color, bright and full of life.

The first flash showed a family of people standing in front of their small white house surrounded by a white picket fence—the perfect vision of a mid-Western family of four. The Cleavers incarnate. Like a cameraman with a mega-powered zoom lens, Chris tried to focus clearer on the scene. Closer and closer it came. Soon he could see the pores on their faces. But then a strange thing happened. Everything reversed, and geometrically began expanding, as if he were looking back at earth from an ever-increasing distance in space. The family picture expanded to a view of the neighborhood surrounding it and then to the larger city of which it was a small part. Then it broadened even further to a series of cities, then a state, a nation, and finally, a world. He was like an astronaut in space overlooking the green planet Earth.

The magnification grew. At what seemed like the speed of light, Chris’ worldly panorama now became an entire solar system—the sun, its planets and moons like an atom and its revolving electrons and neutrons. The implosion grew now so that the solar system was engulfed in an astral mass—sort of like a creamier fuzzy Milky Way. It was hard to make out because of the haze. But the particles of the fog seemed to gather together now into recognizable form that was vaguely familiar. Chris’ eyes grew wide as the form finally fully assembled, and he realized that what he was looking at was his own image. Was he, then, also one member of the family in his dream or in someone else’s? Where did it end?

Before he could answer his questions, the second shock hit.

The second tremor hit harder and lasted considerably longer. It rocked him awake. When he looked around, the walls were trembling and shivering. He began to become concerned. But then, just as quickly as it started, it was over.

Chris couldn’t see any real damage around him. He felt around. Nothing seemed broken, so he decided to try again to get back to sleep. This is really getting to be a pain in the ass, he thought. He gutturally mumbled that’s what you get for living in L.A., interspersed with expletives, as usual, for emphasis.

He fell off again to light sleep, this time not quite as willing to go all the way under. He was glad he was in good physical shape, so he could handle the shock of those last two jolts. He wondered whether startling dreams were the reason so many people died in their sleep.

So, partially out of fear and partially out of irritation, Chris was only napping when the big tremor began. Only about ten minutes had gone by since the first one, when it hit. The Big One started with a series of low, grumbling, groaning, rolling motions, sort of like being on a slow-moving roller coaster ride on tracks that were also bending and twisting, so that you never knew when the ride would stop or if you’d fall off.

His whole room was now groaning and in motion. It was still very dark, so he couldn’t see anything but the outline of the walls. Outside, he could hear the familiar voice of a woman screaming and a lot of other excited voices shouting.

Instead of slowing down, the tremor grew in intensity. The walls that had started off just rolling now became totally elastic. They shook and groaned as if they were alive, obviously on the verge of total failure. The floor began to shake and seemed to drop underneath him like in one of those nightmares you have when you are falling, falling, falling, to a bottomless destination.

Even the walls and ceilings seemed to be pushing him along now too, to a point unseen through the confusing darkness as if he was toothpaste being forced through a tube in the middle of a tornado in the dead of night.

The temblor’s fierce power and intensity grew. The force of it finally overcame the room. Almost at once, the ceiling, walls and floor collapsed together. He crashed through the floor with the ceiling and walls following him. It was like he was caught up in a whirlpool with a plunger pushing down on him. He became totally disoriented, lost both in space and time, falling further and further downward to a bottom that never came.

But the temblor wasn’t slowing down. On the contrary, it was accelerating, with him captive, like a driver strapped into a funny-car dragster careening out of control, its unbridled power relentlessly causing it to swerve all over the dragstrip track until it crashes and burns out in flames. He could do nothing. Helpless, his heart racing, he was caught up in the power like a leaf in midnight rapids. Careening off what was left of the walls of his room like a billiard ball off the cushion, twisting, turning and gasping for air, he finally caught sight of the brightest light he had ever seen, toward which he was falling.

As he was being pushed along, the light grew brighter and brighter until, still panting and exhausted from the struggle, he was spit out like spent chewing gum into a white windowless room with huge beacons of light overhead.

About five or six huge ugly beings loomed over him. He heard the familiar woman’s voice behind him, screaming. The others were mumbling something in a language foreign to him. They all wore sinister masks over terrifying beady eyes. The largest one reached for him. He tried to squirm away but the huge monster was too much for him. He grabbed Chris by the ankles, turned him upside down and slapped him on the ass! Itzaboy!, he declared. Sonofabitch, I’m a goddamn father!, another voice shouted from a distance.

The woman screamed again—this time so loud and shrill that Chris reflexively bolted upright and threw both arms in front of him like how a boxer covers up when under attack by a barrage of punches. He sat there, startled. After a moment, he opened his eyes. It was still dark. He looked around. His room was just as it had been when he had gone to sleep.

As his head cleared, Chris realized that the screaming woman hadn’t stopped. But now he knew the voice. It was his mother. You fucking sonofabitch!, she yelled. Where in the hell have you been this time, you goddamn drunk! We’ve been worried sick while you’ve been out screwing around! It’s 3 A.M., for God’s sake! You’ve woken the children again!, she said as an afterthought.

You harping bitch, get off my ass, Chris, Sr. slurred. I just was out entertaining some clients and lost track of the time!

Then use your goddamn watch!, Chris’ mother retorted. The bars closed an hour ago. So what’s the bitch’s name this time, you lying bastard! Get out, you prick, she cried, throwing his pillow after him in the hall.

Chris heard his parents’ door slam shut and his mother turn the lock behind his bedroom-evicted dad, who was still shouting obscenities and pounding on the hall door to his bedroom, behind which sat Marna on the floor, arms clutching her legs, cowering in fear and despair. Finally he gave up, drunkenly stumbled out past his frightened sons’ rooms to the bathroom, slur-mumbled something about the f…ing bitch for the duration of a long loud piss, and then tripped into the living room to crash on the plastic-covered couch to sleep another one off. Better than the time he made the wrong turn and pissed in Joey’s face, reflected Chris on the memory that would forever haunt him.

There wasn’t anything that he could do at times like these, so 12-year old Chris, Jr. had learned to just pull his covers up around him. It helped muffle the stereo sobbing from his parents’ room on one side of his room and his little brothers’ on the other. The same old miserable drama almost every night, Chris thought, as he surveyed his room. He knew that all he could do was just lay there silent. He stared at the wall at the foot of his bed, his eyes finally settling on the crucifix nailed on the wall. Gruesomely wounded, Jesus seemed to be looking down on him. How could He let that shit go on?, he wondered on two levels…His crucifixion and all the crap going on in his house. If Jesus died for our sins, what was the point of Chris’ family still having to turn to shit? He quickly pulled up, realizing he’d said shit in the same sentence where he mentioned the Son of God. He didn’t want to worsen that Mortal Sin he’d already committed. The nuns had repeatedly implied that something like that would be messing with eternal damnation, and Chris had too much on his plate already to risk that, too.

Chris said an apologetic silent prayer, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. It’d be morning soon and, hey, you never know. Tomorrow could be a better day.

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Chapter 2

Ice Cream

Tossing and turning, Chris’ mind wandered relentlessly in search of peace. Answers, direction … hope. His stomach grumbled like a waking lion, shaking its mane, gazing out at the horizon for food, the ultimate solace. The grumbling lion roared—its hunger now uncontrollable and not to be denied. There was no doubt what this meant. Only one food could meet the test—Chris’ favorite—ice cream. Although he knew there was a new half gallon of his cherished vanilla in the freezer, he also knew he couldn’t make his move until all the sobbing had stopped and everybody had gone to sleep—or passed out, as the case may be. He’d have to bide his time.

So Chris laid in bed, saucer-eyed, for almost an hour. His stare again caught the crucifix. He again abstracted about how all this pain was consistent with a loving God, but not being able to find an answer, Chris turned his attention to various other points in his room and just outside his window. He wondered what mysteries and adventures lay in the moonlit night just behind his curtains.

After about an hour, he slowly and quietly slid out of his bed. One had to be sure that the bed springs didn’t squeak, as that surely would wake up somebody. Certainly not his brothers, who were too young not to sleep deeply, and obviously not his father, who was still comatose, so his main concern was that his mother would catch him. He was certain she was capable of hearing a pin drop behind closed doors. She was super-sensitive to everything, ready to explode on any issue like a great trial attorney about to cross-examine a lying witness. In view of such a primal force, Chris knew he had to be careful, but he was undaunted. Slowly he put both feet down on the floor. That way his body weight on the bed was spread evenly and the springs wouldn’t squeak when he got up. He lifted himself up off the mattress. He’d gotten up clean! Squeak-free. He ventured forth, tiptoeing carefully to his door, making sure that he missed the creaky floor boards beneath. When he got to the hall, he looked first in the direction of his mother’s room and verified that the door was shut. Check. A left turn down the hall would get him past the bedroom wing of the house. Rather than taking any chances on the hallway boards creaking, he determined to walk along the hall’s sides where he knew the floor was stronger. You see, he’d been here before.

A few careful steps down the hall took him to his brothers’ room. They were 5 and 6. He looked in. They were both balled up in fetal positions, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. Remembering their sobbing earlier, he knew that wasn’t true, however. Oh well, he sighed the sigh of helplessness, and turned to the hall leading to the kitchen.

Crouching low and walking as softly as his bulk would allow, Chris tiptoed through the hallway, peeking into the living room at his father. There himself was, splayed out on his back, his drooling mouth open and snoring, one arm up over the sofa back and the other over his head, his belt and tie loosened, his fly open, his left leg drawn up and his right leg outstretched. He still had his shoes on! Boy, is Mom gonna be pissed!, Chris thought, being all too well aware of the no shoes on the sofa taboo. –gotta protect that valuable plastic. He smiled. Too bad most of his good ones like that never got outside his head, he thought.

Dead drunk, Chris thought, No problem there! He wondered why his Dad did this to himself. Seemed like a helluva price to pay for partying. Or was there more to it?

Turning from his father, his pulse racing from the excitement of his stealth, Chris looked once again over his shoulder to see if he was being followed by mother or brothers and successfully traversed the few steps remaining to the threshold of his goal. He was in! The wonders of the kitchen, and especially the freezer, lay before him, his for the taking.

Only one remaining obstacle separated him from his reward. He had to bribe the guard, his cocker spaniel, Rex. Rex slept in the service porch next to the kitchen. He was starting to snort, which Chris knew meant that he was not far off from barking. That would clearly blow his cover, and he would be turned over. Chris went to the cupboard, pulled out a couple of milk bones, quietly slid back the pocket door and threw them in to Rex to disarm the alarm. Check.

His infiltration now complete, Chris slowly pulled the drawer open to grab a spoon (silently, so that the other spoons wouldn’t rattle, a technique he acquired in playing pick-up-sticks), leaving the silverware drawer open so that he’d be able to replace the spoon quickly if he had to beat a hasty retreat. He now turned, triumphant and smiling, to that magnificent white obelisk, his friend, the refrigerator.

With spoon at the ready, mouth pursed and salivating, Chris lovingly regarded the door to his icy tabernacle. He ceremoniously pulled it open, slowly, enjoying the sound of the freezer door’s rubber lining separating. It was sort of a schlump!, a cross between the sounds of a suction cup and a velcro fastener being pulled up.

He breathed in as the rush of cold fresh air from the freezer smacked him in the face.

There it is!, he marvelled. God is good. Before him was not only one, but TWO half gallons of his beloved vanilla ice cream. One was already opened and a brand new replacement lay behind it, beckoning. The mother lode.

It took a trained eye to pick up the new second half gallon, since Chris’ mother had carefully hidden it behind several TV dinners. But his radar was much too much for simple devices. He could pick an ice cream container out at 50 yards buried beneath a pile of logs. Some had it. Some didn’t. To Chris’ finely-honed detective skills, this was mere child’s play.

He reached into the freezer and removed both containers, carefully placing them on the adjacent counter. He bent over the counter, in a priestly bow over his holy vessels. He grinned at what some would call his blasphemous thought. But Chris was just hungry. He’d wondered if priests felt the same about the hosts when they said Mass before breakfast.

Chris decided that a definite plan of attack was necessary. He should sample the partially-used carton first. That way, the new carton would start to melt, making it softer and creamier. Then he would attack that one. Win/win.

As he started to open up the partially-used container, unfolding the strange spade-shaped opener from the slit that kept it closed, Chris reflected on his Mom’s painstaking efforts to hide the second carton from him. She had been nagging him (You’d be so good looking if you weren’t so fat, she liked to say) for about a year now to lose weight. He had ballooned to 165 pounds, which at 5’4" made his middle look like the Michelin man on corduroy steroids. Thus his ultra-thin mom who couldn’t relate to his obesity had regularly been putting him through the third degree on the morning after one of his nightly raids about the whereabouts of the ice cream that had disappeared overnight.

He reflected on the first time that he had been confronted. It was as if he had stepped on a land mine and pieces of shrapnel had exploded around him, forcing him to dodge barbed questions at every corner. His parents were clearly aware of the fact that he was the one responsible for this homogenized evaporation, but being so deeply immersed in the American way of justice (his Dad was a lawyer and his mother was the daughter of a lawyer, both families liberal Democrats), they wouldn’t have dreamed of accusing him without hard evidence to prove his guilt. Inconsistently, Chris thought, they had instead plotted to trap him in the act, with various sinister tricks and devices Chris was sure were obviously unconstitutional.

First, they tried deception. They had "looked in the container and knew how full it was before