savage, yanking my surplice over my head and tearing open the snaps—so much easier than buttons—on my cassock.
“Are you going up to the pond?”
“Yes, Father. And I’m late.”
“In that case, I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m not
that
late.”
He raised his hand. It was a characteristic gesture. It meant: No problem.
He played his car radio the whole way, and at the pond he insisted on buying me a hot dog and a root beer. He said the beach looked very nice, and bought himself another lemonade. I introduced him to the policeman and the lifeguard and the matron of the girls’ locker room, Mrs. Boushay. “That’s my Buick,” she told him. “I wish I’d never seen it.” He didn’t call himself Father Furty. He stuck out his hand and said, “Bill Furty.”
“You’ve got a nice crowd here,” he said to the policeman, and he talked to the lifeguard about Fort Dix, New Jersey, where he was about to be stationed.
I hoped that they would not bring up the subject of people getting polio at the pond, and they didn’t.
Father Furty stood in his civilian clothes and gazed across the murky pond, seeming not to notice the kids in their bathing suits—swimming, splashing, running, howling, hanging on the floats, throwing sand.
He said, “If I go in, will you watch me?”
I must have looked bewildered. I did not want to ask him why, but he sensed the question.
He said, “Because I can’t swim.”
He changed in the locker room—I gave him a locker—and he returned to the beach. He did not swim. He waded in and lay back and floated for a moment; and then he stood up and the water streamed down his body and his black trunks. It wasn’t swimming, and it wasn’t a dip. It was more like a baptism.
“A lot of fishermen don’t know how to swim. It’s deliberate. There’s less agony if their boat sinks. They just go down with it. That’s the way I’d want it.”
His eyes glittered as he spoke. He looked happy again, and a little healthier—it was past noon.
“Oh, I’m just wasting your time,” he said.
I laughed at the way he put it—wasting my time!
When he was gone, I told the lifeguard and the policeman he was a priest. They said, “Cut the crap, Andy.”
It made me admire Father Furty all the more to think they did not believe me.
6.
Father Furty had a whiskery off-duty look, and his Hawaiian shirt flapping over his black priest’s trousers, and the way his loafers squeaked today, made him seem relaxed and thankful. A hot day in this part of Boston—we were just getting out of his Chevy on Atlantic Avenue—was made hotter by the soft tar bubbling around the cobblestones, the dazzle of car chrome in traffic, and the smell of red bricks and gasoline.
Speedbird
was tied up at Long Wharf, among the fishing boats and other cabin cruisers. The high sun was smacking and jangling the water.
My mother had said, “Who’ll be on the boat with you?”
I didn’t mention Tina. I had told her that I did not know, which was a good thing, because there were ten ladies from the Sodality, and if my mother had known she would have felt left out.
They wore dresses and blouses and hats and big blue clumping shoes, as they had before. Besides Mrs. DuCane, Mrs. Corrigan, Mrs. Prezioso, Mrs. DePalma and Mrs. Hogan, with the same picnic dishes they had brought on the last outing, there was Mrs. Palumbo with Swedish meatballs, Mrs. Bazzoli with a basin of coleslaw, Mrs. Skerry with a fruit basket and a loaf of Wonder bread, Mrs. Hickey with a homemade chocolate cake, and Mrs. Cannastra with two bottles of purple liquid that looked like Kool-Aid.
Mrs. DuCane asked what it was.
“Bug juice,” said Mrs. Cannastra.
“Poor Edda Palumbo,” Mrs. Hickey said. “God love her. She lost her husband to a tumor.”
“What’s your name, honey?” Mrs. Hogan said.
“Tina Spector.”
“You got a mother here?” Mrs. Hogan was confused.
Tina just shook her head and blushed.
“Give me a hand
“Are you going up to the pond?”
“Yes, Father. And I’m late.”
“In that case, I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m not
that
late.”
He raised his hand. It was a characteristic gesture. It meant: No problem.
He played his car radio the whole way, and at the pond he insisted on buying me a hot dog and a root beer. He said the beach looked very nice, and bought himself another lemonade. I introduced him to the policeman and the lifeguard and the matron of the girls’ locker room, Mrs. Boushay. “That’s my Buick,” she told him. “I wish I’d never seen it.” He didn’t call himself Father Furty. He stuck out his hand and said, “Bill Furty.”
“You’ve got a nice crowd here,” he said to the policeman, and he talked to the lifeguard about Fort Dix, New Jersey, where he was about to be stationed.
I hoped that they would not bring up the subject of people getting polio at the pond, and they didn’t.
Father Furty stood in his civilian clothes and gazed across the murky pond, seeming not to notice the kids in their bathing suits—swimming, splashing, running, howling, hanging on the floats, throwing sand.
He said, “If I go in, will you watch me?”
I must have looked bewildered. I did not want to ask him why, but he sensed the question.
He said, “Because I can’t swim.”
He changed in the locker room—I gave him a locker—and he returned to the beach. He did not swim. He waded in and lay back and floated for a moment; and then he stood up and the water streamed down his body and his black trunks. It wasn’t swimming, and it wasn’t a dip. It was more like a baptism.
“A lot of fishermen don’t know how to swim. It’s deliberate. There’s less agony if their boat sinks. They just go down with it. That’s the way I’d want it.”
His eyes glittered as he spoke. He looked happy again, and a little healthier—it was past noon.
“Oh, I’m just wasting your time,” he said.
I laughed at the way he put it—wasting my time!
When he was gone, I told the lifeguard and the policeman he was a priest. They said, “Cut the crap, Andy.”
It made me admire Father Furty all the more to think they did not believe me.
6.
Father Furty had a whiskery off-duty look, and his Hawaiian shirt flapping over his black priest’s trousers, and the way his loafers squeaked today, made him seem relaxed and thankful. A hot day in this part of Boston—we were just getting out of his Chevy on Atlantic Avenue—was made hotter by the soft tar bubbling around the cobblestones, the dazzle of car chrome in traffic, and the smell of red bricks and gasoline.
Speedbird
was tied up at Long Wharf, among the fishing boats and other cabin cruisers. The high sun was smacking and jangling the water.
My mother had said, “Who’ll be on the boat with you?”
I didn’t mention Tina. I had told her that I did not know, which was a good thing, because there were ten ladies from the Sodality, and if my mother had known she would have felt left out.
They wore dresses and blouses and hats and big blue clumping shoes, as they had before. Besides Mrs. DuCane, Mrs. Corrigan, Mrs. Prezioso, Mrs. DePalma and Mrs. Hogan, with the same picnic dishes they had brought on the last outing, there was Mrs. Palumbo with Swedish meatballs, Mrs. Bazzoli with a basin of coleslaw, Mrs. Skerry with a fruit basket and a loaf of Wonder bread, Mrs. Hickey with a homemade chocolate cake, and Mrs. Cannastra with two bottles of purple liquid that looked like Kool-Aid.
Mrs. DuCane asked what it was.
“Bug juice,” said Mrs. Cannastra.
“Poor Edda Palumbo,” Mrs. Hickey said. “God love her. She lost her husband to a tumor.”
“What’s your name, honey?” Mrs. Hogan said.
“Tina Spector.”
“You got a mother here?” Mrs. Hogan was confused.
Tina just shook her head and blushed.
“Give me a hand
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