The H-Bomb and the Jesus Rock by John Manderino Page B

“Who are you supposed to be?” He wouldn’t answer. Then he finally just went home. I still don’t know who he was supposed to be. Probably someone from a story. I told you, he reads a lot of stories, whole books even. But I don’t. So how am I supposed to know? Or anyone else?
    We put the head on the dresser. It looked good up there.
    So. Now what? I sat on the mattress. “What’re we gonna do now?”
    He kept standing there with his arms folded staring at the head, thinking hard.
    I flopped on my back and spread out my arms and looked up at the ceiling. “What’re we gonna do now , Ralph? What’re we gonna do? ” I like whining.
    He told me to stop.
    I got up on my elbows. “Are we in a story? ” I like when he puts us in a story. “Is this a story we’re in?”
    He was still staring at the head. He said he wasn’t sure. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and went walking around, frowning down at the floor.
    “What’re you thinking, Ralph?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “Ralph?”
    “Quiet, will you?”
    I whispered, “What’re you thinking?”
    He covered his ears.
    I let him think.

Toby
    I checked at the rectory—it’s on the way, behind the church. You should have seen the two lines for confessions: all the way outside the church and down the block in both directions.
    You gotta chuckle.
    I banged on the rectory door. This little bitty lady opened it and said, “Can I help you?”
    I said, “ Hello down there.”
    She didn’t even crack a smile. “Can I help you?” she said again.
    I asked her if two greasy little kids happened to come by here with a Jesus-looking rock.
    “Yes they did and I sent them away. Father is much too busy to be bothering with—”
    “What about the rock? They leave it here?”
    “No. I suggested they leave it. I told them—”
    “So they took it? They still got it?”
    “And I hope they don’t return. As I said, Father is much too—”
    “So what did you think?”
    “What did I think?”
    “About the rock. Think it looked like Jesus?”
    She gave a shrug. “Slight resemblance.”
    “Aw, come on. Did you put your glasses on?”
    “ You’re a bold thing, aren’t you.”
    “Do you like that?”
    “No, I do not. I find it very offensive in someone your age.”
    “Oh, now...”
    “Have you been to confession?”
    ”I think that’s kind of personal, ma’am, don’t you?”
    “Our Lord is ‘kind of personal.’”
    “Good point. So let me ask you this . Would you pay a dime to visit with Him for a minute? On a personal basis? Just you and Jesus? A full minute? For ten cents?”
    “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
    “Never mind. Enjoy the weather.”

Ralph
    I remembered something. “What about those little books they handed out at the movie—what’d we do with those?”
    “What books?” Lou said.
    “About the children of Fatima. Little booklets they gave everyone. I didn’t even look at mine, did you?”
    “They gave out booklets?”
    Extremely inattentive, that’s what Sister Marie Monica wrote last year on Lou’s report card. “Get up for a second,” I told her.
    I checked under the mattress—that’s where everything ends up—and sure enough, there it was, one of them anyway. We sat together. I let her hold it and turn the pages. There were pictures: a church they put up where Mary appeared...a picture of a crowd all waving hankies...then a picture of the three children of Fatima, the real ones, standing there in a row.
    “They look grumpy,” Lou said.
    They did.
    Their names were underneath. Jacinta, the little girl, was about Lou’s age, in a veil, with her eyebrows down low and a hand on her hip. She looked like someone who didn’t put up with a lot. Her older brother, Francisco, was wearing a long stocking cap like in the movie, standing there real stiff. He looked like he had to use the bathroom.
    We didn’t care about the other one, the cousin.
    “Hang on,” Lou said, handing me the booklet. She