Laughter in the Arc of Life

By W. Thomas Leonard

'Laughter in the Arc of Life' is a short story collection that explores laughter at the v
various stages of life: from playing-prankster children, up through adolescence,
adulthood, into retirement and finally, the Assisted Living Facility. Laughter is
one of the few constants in human nature; it applies to all people, in all places, at
all times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543974683

Book preview

Seniors

Altar Boys

The two Irish-worn women from the old country were gossiping on the first-floor landing of the tenement they lived in; they were wearing their threadbare coats since it was January and cold in the hallway. Mrs. Lenahan was rail-thin, had red curly hair, and a sharp tongue. Mrs. Murphy was squat, built like a tank, and had two missing front teeth. They could talk for hours, for days, for weeks, mostly about the good Catholic Church up the street, their boozing husbands, and all the goings-on in this working-class neighborhood with the precision of prosecuting-polished attorneys.

Now Mrs. Murphy, what church does your husband worship at? Mrs. Lenahan asked, shivering.

The Three Swans on Second Avenue, Mrs. Murphy answered with a lisp, her tongue darting out between her thick lips where there was a space. It’s just a hole-in-the-wall gin mill, but he has a fondness for the one-eyed bartender who gives him a free one after every second drink.

That’s pretty generous, Mrs. Lenahan commented with a snap of her thin head. Well, he tips good. I think that’s part of it. What about your man; where does he worship?

At The Tumble Inn on First Avenue. It’s a bucket of blood, I tell you. Someone is always fighting in there over some stupid baseball score; they’ll fight over anything.

It’s the curse on the Irish, that John Barleycorn, Mrs. Murphy stated. Surely it’s the Devil’s brew.

We can’t let our little boys grow up to follow their fathers into the pubs, Mrs. Lenahan declared.

Well what can we do about it? We can’t separate the boys from their fathers?

We’ll go over to the Church and talk to the good Father about making our sons altar boys, Mrs. Lenahan suggested.

I like that idea, Mrs. Murphy confirmed resting her balled fists on her squat hips. They’ll have to get up real early. That will be good Catholic Church discipline for them.

Between being altar boys and school, they won’t have time to get into trouble.

Ay, the Catholic priests will set a good example for them, Mrs. Murphy said. They’ll grow up to be fine Christian men, nothing like their boozing fathers. When do you want to talk with the Father?"

We’ll make an appointment this Saturday. We’ll make sure our little boys won’t get their hands on the Devil’s brew.

Ay; it’s destroyed many a good Irishmen.

And many other people of all the races on God’s good earth, Mrs. Lenahan added. Saturday came, and Father Callahan met the two women in the rectory. He was a red-faced corpulent man with blue eyes and pleasant manners.

Now what can I do for you two? the Father asked.

We’d like our sons, my Billy, and Mrs. Lenahan’s Willie – to become altar boys, Mrs. Murphy said.

They’re nine years old, Mrs. Lenahan added. They’re both fourth graders here at Saint Archies’. They’re in the same class together and always getting into trouble. We want to occupy them good.

Ah, the Lord’s discipline will be good for them, the Father stated, sitting erect in his chair. We’ll start them off early, at six o’clock mass. They’ll have to get up at five o’clock, before sunrise, and you’ll bring them to church?

Yes, Father; we’ll make the sacrifice to keep our boys in God’s good graces, Mrs. Murphy said with pert directness.

Well all right then, Father Callahan said, getting up. Have the boys come here to the rectory after classes on Monday, and I’ll train them properly in the duties and obligations and responsibilities of being an altar boy.

Ah Ma, I don’t want to be no altar boy, young Willie complained. I can’t get up at five o’ clock in the morning.

You’ll do as your told or it’ll be that beautiful bar of white Ivory soap in your mouth, Mrs. Lenahan threatened with a severe scowl.

Mrs. Murphy delivered the same message to young Billy, and he knew better than to talk back to his mother for she would give him a bonk on his head with powerful fists, so all he could do was to kick the floor and pout.

Young Willie and Billy went through a severe regimen of altar boy training with the good Father in the rectory after classes; they had no time to play. Once they got home, it was dinner-time, and then homework.

The following Monday morning at 5:00 a.m., the red-cold sun wasn’t even up as a sharp wind cut the darkness. The boys, as they were being dragged off to church, were each wearing their snow suits with hoods while their mothers each wore two overcoats and their husbands’ fur hats.

Now you’ll be doing the Lord’s work, so do it well, Mrs. Lenahan advised Willie.

Don’t forget, the Lord will be watching you, Mrs. Murphy added for her Billy, and the two mothers watched their boys enter the sacristy, then dashed back to their flats.

This sucks, Billy said with his apple-red frozen face.

I can’t feel my feet, Willie managed through still chattering teeth. The boys put on their black cassocks and white surplices and made their way through the catacomb passageway behind altar into sacristy. Their cheeks were still frozen rosy as they waited in the tomb-like silence for the priest. Then, out of the dark silence came Father Sterling. He was a man of medium height with dark, close-cropped hair; he hadn’t shaved yet, and he wore funny-looking black, square shoes. His eyes were open but saw nothing; it was as if he was sleepwalking, being directed by his subconscious. He stood there waiting for the altar boys to assist donning his vestments.

Willie took the first step and sacredly handed Father Sterling the amice. Sterling kissed the long piece of white linen and draped it around his neck. While Willie was helping the Father slip into his alb, the white liturgical robe, Billy busied himself pouring water and wine into the cruets. The sweet aroma of the good church wine entered Billy’s nostrils. He sniffed at the full cruet, inhaled, took a sip, then a taste, then a gulp. His frozen body thawed immediately. He motioned Willie over and pointed to the refilled cruet; then he dashed over to help the Father on with the weighty chasuble, an ornate garment embroidered with gold, intricate designs. While Father Sterling draped the stole around his neck, Willie drained the wine cruet, then quickly refilled it. As the Father put on his Biretta, Willie set the cruets out on the side of the altar.

Precisely at 6:00 a.m. the church bell sounded out into the empty streets; only the nuns were standing in the first pew. Out came the two drunken altar boys and the sleep walking priest. The nuns, mumbling faint prayers, looked like frozen penguins with their black-long habits and their meek faces all squished up in wrapped-tight, white starched headgear.

From years of repetition, Father Sterling’s subconscious guided him through the mass smoothly. The two new altar boys were kneeling on the lower step of the altar, trying to maintain their balance, and gave slurred responses to the priest’s holy intonations. But since Father Sterling was asleep, and the nuns were chanting prayers with their cocoon-wrapped heads bowed, no one noticed. The mass went off without a hitch, and young Billy and Willie were now devoted altar boys. They quickly tracked down Father Sterling’s schedule for six o’ clock mass, and promptly volunteered; they would be assisting the Holy Father four times a week. Their mothers were overjoyed.

Ah that was a good idea I had, Mrs. Lenahan boasted to Mrs. Murphy, making them altar boys.

Ay, there’s no denying it, Mrs. Murphy confirmed. Did you see the glow on their faces when they came home?

They’re filed with the light of the Holy Ghost, the little angels. I’ve never seen my little Willie so anxious to get to church.

Surely they’ll grow up to be good Christian men, Mrs. Murphy declared, nothing like their boozing fathers.

Surely the good Lord is smiling down on them both, Mrs. Lenahan concluded with a snap of her thin head.

Rearview

Sister Mary Thunder, gripping her pointer, was an imposing figure rigidly standing in front of her fifth-grade class of young Catholic children. She was tall, had down-curving small shoulders, and was rather thick through the middle. Past middle-age, jowls hung from her squeezed, puffy face within the white, stiff-starched habit. She had whiskers growing on both her upper and lower lips, which caused her a great deal of embarrassment. She was about to shave them off when