I thought that since I'd be writing a lot of weirder and/or fluffier pieces that I'd do something a little more down-to-earth.

Also, I am posting this on a Sunday and am officially back on schedule! I've no idea what's up for next week.

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Week #19 - Sundays

I run my hand along the pew in front on me, tracing my fingertips along the grains and cracks. The wood is varnished and stained a deep red colour. My parents owned an end table made from similar-looking wood. The tabletop was a section of tree trunk, its whorls and rings still visible and the legs were three thick branches. That table was the perfect setting for playing with my Star Wars action figures. It became the Ewok's tree-top village where they fought the Imperials during the Battle of Endor. On the other side of our living room, my dad's glossy black stereo system was the Death Star where Luke confronted the Emperor.

I wish I had some action figures with me right now; this sermon is terribly dull. I don't know why I'm here. No, that's not really true. I know why I'm here, just not why I bothered.

In 1984, The Pope visited Canada for three days, with stops in Winnipeg, Edmonton, and Vancouver. In Winnipeg, he gave an outdoor sermon at Bird's Hill Park. Mom was very much an on-again, off-again Catholic. She'd go through occasional spurts where she'd decide we were a church-going family and my brother and I would be dragged kicking and screaming. These cycles would last sometimes five or six Sundays in a row, until we wore her down with our complaints. But she decided that a chance for her children to see Pope John Paul II live and in person was too important to pass up. Dad wanted nothing to do with it; for him Sundays were for sleeping in and watching sports. Golf if weather permitted and his friends were free.

So, the night before she'd explained to us — my brother Adam and me — that we were to be dressed in our good clothes, bathed and hair combed, by 10:00am sharp so we could drive out to Bird's Hill Park in time. My dad had made fun of us, telling us he was going to spend the afternoon playing Pitfall on our Atari.

I jump a bit, startled out of my thoughts, when the older lady sitting on the same bench as me lowers the smaller bench to kneel on. It screeches as she tugs on it; someone should come through here with some WD-40. The woman kneels down and I follow a moment later. I'm out of my element here; anything I knew of Sunday etiquette is long gone from my brain. I forgot to dab myself with holy water on my way in and almost forgot to genuflect before taking my seat. It felt as though I were dancing, and always three or four beats behind the music, and everyone else. I glance to my left, see she's got her hands clasped and eyes closed. I follow suit. The priest begins intoning in Latin. Oh fantastic, it was boring already and now he's not even speaking a language that anyone understands.

That morning, my brother and I were both out of bed before seven. I don't know how kids can do it. These days, if I don't set my alarm, I'll sleep until eleven, easy. Even if I go to bed at a decent hour. But when I was little, on Saturdays I'd be out of bed in time to pour my bowl of cereal and catch George of the Jungle, which was the first cartoon after the test pattern. Of course, on Sunday mornings, it was all religious shows and Coronation Street so my brother and I decided to go outside and play. We'd catch shit if we woke up my parents before eight. Excuse, I guess I shouldn't swear in church, even in my head.

My parents' place was out in St. James and we'd play along Sturgeon Creek. Most of our 'games' were trying to catch frogs or just Adam trying to push me into the water. He's three years older than I am and back then was at that transitional phase where he was starting to grow out of what he called baby stuff. He made it clear to me that it was no longer cool for him to play with toys, not even G.I. Joes. He still would at home, but it was only to indulge his little brother. He'd moved on to organized sports, hanging out, and other grown-up things. Our uncles had begun to talk about taking him hunting with them.

So, the morning of the Pope's visit, we slipped out of the house around eight. The sun starting to peek out above the tops of houses in our neighbourhood. It was September, but still pretty warm. I remember that neither of us wore jackets. All the way to the creek, five or six blocks, Adam made me walk in front of him so he could try to trip me.

"Stop it."

"Stop what." He'd started going to judo classes with a friend of his and he'd try to sweep out my back foot just as I lifted it up to take a step.

"Don't! I'll tell mom."

"I'll tell mom!" he repeated in a squeaky, mocking imitation of me. "Baby."

I ran, but Adam caught up to me almost right away, tackled me, pinned me and noogied me until I was nearly in tears.

"Baby," he said again.

Adam was always small for his age. I sometimes wonder if he got bullied a lot at school and that's why he bullied me. Because he could. Shit rolls downhill. Excuse me, again. I've never asked him about it. After another couple of years, I was as big as he was and that settled that.

Mom died in her forties, not too long after I graduated from university. She'd been ill for a long time, and hadn't been able to make it to my graduation ceremony. I still had to go, though, so that pictures could be taken in my cap and gown. She kept a picture of me holding my degree in her hospital room. Dad is still alive, although I don't see him much. He lives on his pension in a small apartment; his usual activities being smoking and television. I usually stop by on Father's Day and for a drink on New Years, on my way to a party.

Mom's birthday was a few days ago, so here I am at church on Sunday. When she got sick, she found God again in a big way, and attended sermons every Wednesday and Sunday that she was able to.

"You should go to church more often," she said to me during one of my last visits in the hospital, "You used to enjoy it when you were little."

"Mom, I hated it. Adam and I both did."

"Promise me you'll go sometimes. At least once a year. Around my birthday. I want someone from my family to get to Heaven with me."

When she said that, she somehow managed to shrink into the bed and look even smaller and more frail.

What was I supposed to say?

The Latin bit finishes and we clamber back onto the hard, wooden benches. The church is maybe a quarter full, with the mean age probably being in the low sixties. Even higher if you consider the few little kids, hauled there by their grandparents, as outliers and drop them from your calculation. I'm sorry Mom, but the Catholics could learn a few things from the more modern churches. Comfier seating, a priest with a bit more pizazz; or at least doesn't look like he's about to topple over. It's not asking for so much. I'd ease up on the guilt trips, too.

The little girl was probably a year younger than I was. In my memory, she's wearing a loose, flowing skirt. Yeah, there must have been a skirt. I remember her top, though. It was a pale blue sweater that perfectly matched her eyes. My brother and I were standing on a large rock on the bank of Sturgeon Creek, deposited there during the last ice age. He'd been learning about the ice ages in school and had been explaining it all to me. Sheets of ice that pushed boulders down before retreating. She was walking down the gravel path towards us, and I must have been staring at her; Adam smacked the top of my head like he did whenever I didn't paying attention to his stories.

He turned to see what I was looking at.

He smirked, and said to me, "Ooo — checking out girls?"

"Shut up."

"Timmy has a girlfriend."

She had brown, curly hair.

"Shut up."

She stopped, looked at us for a moment, and asked us, "What are you guys doing?"

"Looking at ducks on the stream," my brother answered, "There's a nest around here somewhere."

"There's no-" I started, but was cut off by Adam smacking me again.

"Ducks?"

"Yeah, even some baby ones."

"I can't hear them quacking," she said, and crossed her arms.

I looked around to see if maybe there were some and I hadn't seen them yet.

"They're being quiet because we're here. In case we're hunters. You should come check 'em out. They're awfully cute."

The girl looked dubious, but climbed up onto the rock with us.

"I don't see any ducks."

"My little brother thinks you're pretty."

"Shut up, Adam." I was probably blushing.

She looked at Adam and then at me. I shrugged and before she could say anything, Adam grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her in a bear-hug and hopped off the rock into the reeds. She started to scream but he covered her mouth with one of his hands.

"Have you had a girlfriend yet, Timmy? I'm going to do you a favour and teach you about girls. It's what older brothers do."

"Adam-"

"Shut up. It's time you stopped acting like a baby all the time."

She was kicking her legs while her face turned red. Adam shoved her to the ground and pinned her like he had me earlier, but kept a hand over her mouth. He was so much bigger than she was.

"Have you even seen a girl's panties yet?"

He reached down, yanked her skirt up, exposing her underwear to me. They didn't look at all like boys underwear; I wouldn't have referred to hers as 'gitch'. They were clean and white and delicate looking.

Tears were streaming down her face. She must have bit Adam's hand because he swore, let go, then slapped her.

"Adam, stop. You're hurting her."

"Shut up. Both you. What are you a homo?"

She tried to get up, but Adam caught a hand around her waist and hauled her down again. With his other hand, he pulled off her sweater and threw it into the reeds. She'd have been too young to even be in a training bra probably, but I turned away before I really saw anything.

"I'm telling mom!" I shouted before taking off running. Looking back, I think I started running because I was about to start crying, too.

I ran for maybe a minute before Adam knocked me to the ground with a shove and followed that up with a punch to the back of my head. But this time I tried to fight back and flailed at him with my fists. Adam punched me in the nose and I saw stars and then he got on top of me and knelt on my chest with my arms pinned under his legs. I tasted blood from my nose mixed with snot running into my mouth.

"You are so going to get it from mom," I told him between sobs.

Adam smirked down at me, then grabbed a handful of dirt and grass and shoved it into my mouth.

"You're not going to tell her anything," he leaned down so that his mouth was beside my ear. "When we get home, I'll do the talking. If you say anything to mom, I'll come into your room one night and smother you with a pillow. They'll think someone broke into the house and did it. Hell, they'll probably buy me a new bike because of how upset I'll be that my baby brother was killed by a burglar. You got that, homo?"

One of his hands was on the top of my head, the other on my jaw, squeezing my mouth shut. The dirt didn't really have much of a taste. Maybe sort of like potatoes. I nodded yes, though, because I couldn't breathe.

I don't remember what bullshit excuse he made for my appearance when we got back home. Something about me running off down the path by myself and getting into a scrap with some other kids. It was almost nine when got home. My mom didn't say really say anything. She just walked into my parents' bedroom, closed the door, and stayed there the rest of the day.

We missed the Pope and I was grounded for two weeks. Which was just as well; I was terrified of running into that girl again. I was for years.

When I visit Adam I see his two little girls and think of her. Although I don't visit very often.

It's toward the end of the sermon, and everyone lines up to receive the Eucharist. I slip out the back, since I don't want to take part.

Author's Note

I wanted to write something with a serious tone, but I was a bit surprised at how dark this one turned out. It's not what I usually write, but I hope it's at least effective.

2 responses to "Week #19 - Sundays "

jess wrote: Sunday, 13 Apr 2008 22:06 yikes, dana... that was serious. good job.

Karen wrote: Sunday, 13 Apr 2008 22:15 Whoa! That was very dark near the end, and I definately wasn't expecting it. I don't even know if I liked it or not, since I ended up really hating his brother and thinking that he (the narrator) was a bit of an idiot for taking all that, even if there were threats against his life. Great writing, sad story.

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