Dark Mondays by Kage Baker

Valentine’s Day approached, and there were no red construction paper hearts.
    The rituals of life went on, or they didn’t; when they ceased, it was astonishing how quickly they were forgotten. St. Anthony still had his day, but for how many more years?
    Father Souza sat in his office and looked out at the vacant school building, at the rows of empty windows. His gaze settled inevitably on the jagged cracks that had shot up through the old brickwork, like black lightning out of the earth, on the morning the earthquake had hit. He had long since learned to accept acts of God, but this one had rather surprised him.
    Phantom children moved on the weedy playground, in the plaid woolen uniforms or salt-and-pepper corduroy of a generation past. A tetherball swung listlessly against its post, as the fog blew by.
    A real child was coming up the walkway to his office, followed by a woman. Startled, Father Souza rose and opened the door.
    “Hi, Father Mark,” said Patrick. “We have to talk.”
    “Patrick,” said his mother, in tones of reproof.
    “Mrs. Avila?” Father Souza guessed, extending his hand.
    “Hi,” she said. “Do you have a minute to talk to us?”
    “Okay,” said Father Souza. He let them in and they settled in the two chairs that faced his desk. He returned to his chair, wondering why Patrick was wearing gardening gloves fastened over his sneakers with duct tape.
    “I, ah, I’ve met Patrick’s father at Mass, of course,” he said.
    “Oh, I don’t come because I’m Lutheran,” she said, amiably enough. “Well, not
Lutheran
Lutheran, but… you know.”
    “Sure,” said Father Souza.
    “My dad is away on Campaign,” said Patrick.
    “Campaign is where he and the other re-enactors go up to Lassen Campground in full costume and pretend they’re sixteenth-century Italian troops fighting battles,” Mrs. Avila explained patiently. “Which is why I had to take the afternoon off to deal with this.”
    “I have this really big problem, Father,” said Patrick.
    “What kind of problem?”
    “Well…” said Patrick, “we were supposed to make holidays, right? And so I had this really great idea, and—”
    “Ms. Washburn gave them this creative assignment at the beginning of the semester,” said Mrs. Avila. “They were supposed to invent holidays. Come up with a reason for the holiday and make up customs for it, and pick a day of the year, and that kind of thing. So Patrick came up with Monkey Day.”
    “Which is this really cool holiday all about monkeys?” said Patrick. “Like everybody wears monkey shoes, and eats monkey food like bananas and banana bread and banana milkshakes? And chicken strips only you call them monkey fingers? And—” He jumped to his feet and waved his arms. “Just do everything monkey! Like playing Monkey Island on your dad’s computer and watching monkey DVDs and stuff. King Kong. Mojo Jojo. Tarzan. You know.”
    “He put a lot of work into it,” said Mrs. Avila.
    “And I got an A and a gold star!” said Patrick, husky with fresh anger.
    “He did too,” said Mrs. Avila. “But, this morning, he asked me for permission to take his Tarzan DVD to school.”
    “Because today
is
Monkey Day,” said Patrick. “And I even put on monkey feet and we stopped at the store and bought bananas for everybody in my class—”
    “And I asked him if he had permission to bring a cartoon to school,” said Mrs. Avila, looking at Patrick sternly.
    “Well, it’s Monkey Day!” shouted Patrick, “So I said yes, okay? But then when I got to school I was giving everybody bananas—and Ms. Washburn said there was no eating in class—and I said it was Monkey Day, and she—”
    “She laughed at him,” said Mrs. Avila.
    “So then I said I was going to go to Audiovisual to get the DVD player, and
she
said no, and I said but it was Monkey Day, and
she
said, Patrick, don’t be silly, that was five months ago, and I said no it wasn’t, Monkey Day is on February