CATHECISM
We were early that Friday because we had expected to be detoured by the barbed wire that usually prevented our going past the King David. We were pleased to be able to go on through but I was also anxious, wondering where the grim barrier would turn up next.
My dad was driving and how I happened to be riding along, I can't remember. My dad was not fond of taking me anywhere then because that year I was particularly solemn. I couldn't talk because of a tumor which had grown on my vocal chords. I was very scrawny because I wouldn't eat the dehydrated eggs. And I had the eerie habit of letting my hair fall about my face in such a way that I could squint out without, so I believed, being seen. I was six years old.
My brother was twelve and my dad and I were picking him up at Terra Sancta College which didn't seem to be a college at all but a monastery school. It was in a westerly direction if I have my navigation correct and a good long ride from our house in Talpiot, Jerusalem.
Since we were early and there was nothing to discuss, my dad told me to contemplate the doors of Terra Sancta College and promptly dozed off. They were magnificent doors. Urged on by their beauty and the terrifying sound of my dad's snoring, I quietly got out of the car and went up to touch them. The wood was very hard and smelled sweet like the rosaries sold by the Wailing Wall. I was pretending that I was a leper come to be healed when the left door with the carving of St. Jude opened and there stood Father Anthony.
I knew it was Father Anthony because he had been many times to our house to try to shake my father's atheism and to share a spirited talk. Every time I had seen him, I had excused myself as politely as I could. It seemed to me that the crucifix which hung from the cord of his dark robe was as large as I was and I was sure if I didn't stop thinking bad thoughts, I was going to end up hanging on it with my bones all turned to silver.
“Ah, it is Zeppha. Where is your father?” he asked.
I motioned with my hand to the car and noticed that my fingers were still in my leper pose, so I squinted.
“Well,” Father Anthony said. “Let us leave him to his meditation and I will show you where your brother does his very special work.”
I followed obediently down long tiled corridors. The regular tapping of his sandals and the shuffle of my shiny green leather shoes made a sound to me like plainsong and I felt centuries old.
We went up three flights of a spiral staircase and down to a large room which turned out to be the chemistry laboratory. Adjacent was the church with its baroque bell tower and flat roof.
Father Anthony arranged some beakers and sorted a few ingredients with the same delicate grace he used in touching the chalice at Mass. With a satisfied air, he carefully gave me directions as though examining me on the nature of God.
I was to go out the window with my crystal flask, climb into the bell tower, blow through the clear glass reed and say hello to Jerusalem.
The height of my nook was exhilarating. I could see the Dome of the Rock to the east and far south, the glazed serenity of the Dead Sea. I began to blow and millions of tiny shimmering bubbles sprang out. I looked at Father Anthony in amazement. In all of my bad thoughts, I had never thought of anything so irreverent as sitting in the bell tower blowing bubbles all over Jerusalem. I stayed a long time and when the bubbles were finished, I watched birds follow them.
Every Friday after that, Father Anthony would come and take me through the same ritual. Until one Friday that will remain always in my mind as a lesson too hard in the winning.
We arrived early and my dad dozed off quickly. Eagerly, I let myself in the doors of Terra Sancta College and went up to the laboratory. Father Anthony was saying his prayers. He didn't look at me but paced the rows between the high tables slowly. I could tell from the tap of his sandals that there was no song in his steps. I waited patiently for about fifteen minutes and then he turned and said gravely, “Oh, Zepphita. There will be no bubbles today.”
I left. I sat on the spiral staircase until it was time to meet my brother and tried to understand. I was certain Father Anthony was the meanest man alive and yet, who but Father Anthony had let us go into the bell tower in the first place?
I never blew bubbles again, there or anywhere. Sometimes, my children on a windy summer's day will bring out their bubble pipes. And as I watch the romping and squealing, I can see the silver crucifix and hear my dad's snoring and feel the smoothness of a slender glass reed that taught me the lesson of freedom.
And I am grateful.
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