A Midnight Clear: A Novel (12 page)

I pull up Father’s sleeve and look at his watch. Time is creeping by. If one were on night guard in the snow all the time, a life would seem about five hundred years. Mundy’s watch is a Benrus, his family gave it to him when he went to seminary school. His father’s a bus driver and his family’s even poorer than mine, so they put out to buy that watch. About once a day, Mundy mentions his genuine Benrus watch. Sometimes he sounds like an ad.

“You know, Wont, I never made it. Twice I got to seven. Once I broke my fast taking a drink from the fountain right in front of church. Honest to God, sometimes it’s as if the devil himself is after me.”

“Probably is.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“If I were the devil, I’d go after a big prize like you; I’d never waste two seconds on some flawed bit of flesh like me. I’m already in the bag, anyway.”

I forgot to make the one o’clock call-in. It’s almost ten after. I crank up and it takes two rings. I get Shutzer.

“Everything OK down here, Stan. How’re things on top?”

“Fine, they’ve already called in. We began to worry about you two; thought you might’ve taken the chance to run across the woods and do a little parlaying with our distinguished enemy, like WE GIVE UP!”

“Sorry, no guts. Father’s converting me again. If we work something out, we’ll fly up there on angel wings. Don’t get confused and shoot us down.”

Mundy’s got his head against mine so he can listen in. Shutzer whispers into the phone.

“How about taking on one li‘l’ ol’ slightly circumcised angel; nobody’ll notice; I’ll wear a fig leaf.”

“We’ll consider it. Wait a minute; we have a pronouncement ex cathedra from Father Mundy himself. Here it is. He says if goldbricks like us get to heaven, he’s taking his chances with the devil. Unquote. You know, Stan, I think the devil’s got a thing for Mundy.”

“You bet your life, Won’t; big, soft, white Irish ass like that should be just the thing for Old Nick.”

“You sound hot for him yourself, there, Shutzer. What’re you doing, working it up as squad fairy?”

“If it moves and squeaks, I’ll take it. By the way, we’re almost out of wood again.”

“I’ll knock down a few more slats from the stable on my way in.”

“I was about to rip off some of these wooden walls here, but Mother went into a screaming panic, claims they’re genuine seventeenth-century ‘boiserie’ and part of our cultural heritage.”

“OK, Stan, don’t take any wooden walls, and
Schlaf gut.”

I hang up. Now it’s snowing like mad; if you hold your face up, you can scarcely breathe. I stay down with the phone and sit against the wall. Mundy slides down and joins me. There just can’t be anybody out there at this time of night in the snow and I’m not caring enough.

“You know what, Father; I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What kind of deal you gonna make? You want to show me one of those hands we’ll be playing so I can fake the pants off Shutzer one time?”

“No, listen to this. We’re dealing in futures, eternities. You see, I’ve got more First Fridays than I can use. Two sets ought to be plenty even for a big sinner like me. I’ll trade you one.”

“You and your big deals.”

“No kidding, Father; seriously; you never know, right? You absolutely sure you’re in a state of grace?”

Mundy turns his head and stares at me, then shakes it slowly in disgust. I just can’t resist.

“Look at it this way. If I can pray for your soul and have novenas said, or masses,
after
you’re dead, why can’t I do you a little favor while you’re still alive?”

“That’s sacrilegious. Cut it out.”

There’s still no wind but the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s not crisp cold, just the thick, fat, air-filling kind.

“Besides, Wont, if you say a novena for somebody, you’re not trading; it’s a free offering. It’s not the same. You can’t trade or buy or sell things like First Fridays.”

“Come off it, Mundy. Wars were fought over this; millions of people killed and tortured, torn in half, boiled in oil; kings made and broken. What do you think old Luther was pounding nails into church doors about anyway?”

“Aw, them was the olden days. So the church made a few mistakes. That doesn’t mean the church is wrong; it only made some mistakes.”

“OK, whatever you say. But, if your mother sends some more of those tollhouse cookies, you give me nine of them and I’ll sign over a full set of First Fridays.”

“Yeah, and I’ll buy Park Place.”

I look around; nothing. We sit and don’t talk for a while. I decide not to light up my last cigarette. Time’s going fast and soon I’ll be inside for two hours. I hate to think of going into that dark stable for wood. I look over at Mundy.

He has his helmet on his lap so it’s getting filled with snow; his woolknit cap is pulled over his ears. Snow’s sticking to the cap and he’s sitting there, elbows on his knees and thumbs hooked over the swivel of his Mi. There’s snow piling up on his knees. The bottom of one pants leg has come out of the boot. Snow’s sticking on his shoulders and even on the grenades hooked to his pockets. He’s like a statue inside himself, but awake. I don’t know it but I’m absorbing the main picture I’ll have for all my life, of Mundy. As an artist now, sometimes I try to register an image in my memory bank and can’t; then other times, when I’m unaware, unprepared, something will sneak in intact. I don’t have enough control of my mind.

“You know, Wont; if we didn’t trade, it might be all right. If you
give
me those First Fridays as a free offering, as a Christian gift to my soul, it’d probably be all right.”

“OK, Father, put them in the golden book; they’re yours.
Et cum spiritu tuo.”

Mundy fumbles in his pockets and lights another cigarette; then he lights a second one on his. He gives it to me.

“Don’t tell Gordon.”

He’s quiet again. I’m thinking at first he means don’t tell Gordon about the First Fridays; but he means the cigarette. He takes a deep drag and exhales slowly.

“In fact, the whole box is yours, but we’re not trading.”

I pull one in myself; the smoke goes all the way down to my lungs and I hold it, some warmth to keep out the cold. It’s almost one-thirty and I crank up the phone again. The line’s busy, so I hang up. I’m feeling better, no cramps since I took the crap. I crank up again, get Wilkins this time.

“Things OK here, Mother. How’re things on top?”

“Fine. Gordon says he and Miller are playing ‘paper, rock, scissors’; his arm’s so sore he can’t lift his Mr. Says after the war he’s taking Miller with him to Las Vegas and they’ll both get rich.”

“I’m with that. Miller’s psychic. Maybe that’s part of what being a poet is; you know things you have no right to know.”

“Could be. You guys cold down there? I can bring shelter halfs if you want. The guys on top are luxuriating with two each.”

“No, we’re OK. Would you put on some coffee before we come in? How’s the wood?”

“Almost finished. You know, Shutzer was going to start burning down the château. He’s some kind of Philistine-Neanderthal. I had to threaten him with a grenade to stop the beast from ripping off these hand-carved, oak, two-century-old walls.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring in some wood.”

“Wont, try not to rip out anything that looks valuable, will you? Remember who the enemy really is.”

“OK, Mother. I got it.”

 

I hang up in the quiet. There’s some wind now and the snow’s blowing. Only twenty-five minutes more. I can almost smell and taste the coffee but it doesn’t start my stomach rolling. Maybe I’m getting past it.

“Mundy, one last question. Why does an in-line character like you, practically sitting at the right hand of God already, want to worry about a mere set of First Fridays? What big sin do you have on your soul, anyway?”

Almost soon as it’s out, I feel my foot in my throat. I’m doing it again, mucking around in somebody else’s private world. There’s a long quiet and I hope he’s half asleep and didn’t hear.

“Why do you think I dropped out of the seminary?”

I stay quiet. Even I know when you’re not supposed to answer a question.

“In the second from the last year before ordination, we took our first vow. It was the vow of chastity. The vows of obedience and poverty are taken at ordination. I took the vow but didn’t keep it.”

“What do you mean, Mundy? Are you trying to tell me that there were
two
non-virgins in the squad back there at Shelby? I don’t believe it.”

“It wasn’t that, Wont. It was . . . well, you know, self-abuse. I took the vow and then did it. I couldn’t face up to telling my confessor either. Honest, I think I’m oversexed.”

“You mean, that’s all it was; you jerked off? That’s what chastity
is,
Mundy. How else do you think priests manage it, anyhow?”

“That’s not true, Wont. Self-abuse is a sin against purity. I could
never
say mass, touch the sacred host with the same hands that did such a thing.”

Mundy actually holds out his hands and looks at them. Snowflakes settle on the brown leather fronts. They’re huge hands, breaking out the sides of his gloves.

“You wipe your ass; what’s the difference?”

“OK, OK, Wont. You’d never understand. But the worst of it was I couldn’t tell it in confession. I could never serve as subdeacon at mass with that sin on my soul. And don’t try to tell me it isn’t a sin. I spent seven years learning all about sin; this is
my
specialty.”

“So you’re a great sinner, Father. I’m not going to fight you on that one. To be honest, I’ve never been able to figure out if I’m the biggest sinner since Cleopatra or I’ve never committed a sin in my life. It depends on which side of things you look. All I’ve got to say, Mundy, is if that’s why you dropped out of the seminary and got drafted, it makes the ASTPR saga seem like poetic justice.”

 

It looks as if it might snow all night. I get to thinking about our uninvited visitors. What made them come sneaking around, taking chances like that. They must be bored out of their minds; it’s one of the worst things about a war: you’re either scared shitless, bored to death, hurt or dead.

At two, Shutzer comes down; I’m pooped so I start right up the hill. I wonder what Shutzer and Mundy will talk about, maybe comparative religions. No, Shutzer will try to improve Mundy’s bridge game. At least, it’ll maybe get Father’s mind off how big a lech he is.

I go and kick slats from the stalls in the stable. Miller comes in and scares me so bad I hit dirt in the dark. When I recover, we kick away until we each have an armful. At least we’ll be warm. There aren’t that many slats left; it’s amazing how fast things burn up.

Inside, there’s hot water ready for coffee. I open a can of sardines. We agree we’ll each take an hour at the phone. I pull the second hour, crawl into my sack feeling not sleepy but go out like a light. When I’m awake for the phone, I’ll make the call into regiment. That’s my last thought.

The phone ringing wakes me. Miller’s climbing into his sack; he points to his watch and turns over. His poem’s on the floor beside his mattress. It’s all crossed out and reworked. He wouldn’t mind if I read it, but I’m too tired. On the phone, Mundy says it’s all fine down there; then Gordon calls, same thing; all quiet.

I warm up the radio. It’s set for the regimental frequency. I get Leary. He’s half asleep; there’re no instructions he knows of. I tell him to tell Ware we’ve made contact with a German patrol but no exchange of fire. We go through the whole Wilco-Roger-out crap and I close down. Leary’s reasonable but his partner Flynn’s a bastard. One time Flynn reported me to Ware for sloppy procedure when I was on an OP. I’m crouched in a wet hole on the edge of a churned-up field, trying to see through steamy field glasses while he’s sitting in a warm tent with hot coffee, worrying about
my
procedures.

I sleep again, but catch the calls when they come in. We’re all half drunk with sleep. I dread going out in the cold; I wonder if it’s stopped snowing.

 

This time I’m up on top with Wilkins. It’s black cold, even though it’s snowing white. I remember I haven’t put on coffee water for the guys coming in; Miller forgot, too. I hate being dumb like that.

It’s slippery going. The ground’s hard with frozen leaves and about two or three inches powdered over top. I fall twice working my way up. Wilkins waves without challenging and goofy Gordon throws a snowball at me.

“Good snowball snow, Wont.”

Nothing seems to get Mel down. Some people have it, some kind of inside rubber resilience that keeps them bouncing. He makes another snowball; I duck, holding my rifle close against my side, turning my back. The snowball hits lightly on the rifle butt and crumbles. Gordon does a perfect imitation of Hunt.

“What kinda sojur is you, there, Knott. That there coulda been a’ enemy grenade. I oughta stomp the pissin’ outa ya, mollycoddled lousy quizkid.”

“Cut it out, Mel. I’m freezing already.”

He folds up his shelter half, leaving mine.

“Out of my way then, if you don’t want to play; I’m ready for a fire.”

He slips and slides down the hill, grabbing trees to stay up, his rifle still slung on his shoulder. Wilkins and I decide we’ll take turns sitting deep in the hole and change on the ten minutes. That’s what he and Gordon have been doing. This manning two holes at night can’t go on. I’ve got to work out something else.

 

I ask Wilkins about chess. It’s something to keep us going and I’ve been wanting to know for a long time.

“Vance, why is it you won’t play chess with the squad? Is it because there’s no competition?”

Long silence. Am I doing it again? Is it any of my business, even? Vance is standing; I’m squatting in the hole; he looks down at me.

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“Promise on Father Mundy’s honor.” He stares out into the dark.