to you first.â
He leads me back down to the altar rail, where Sister Anastasiaâs still kneeling. He pushes me down on my knees. She looks at me, glinting, her lips all pulled together, almost as if sheâs trying to keep from smiling.
âWell, what do you have to say for yourself, Kettleson?â
âIâm sorry, Sister. I didnât mean it. I donât know what got into me.â
âI think it must be the devil himself made you do a thing like that, Kettleson. If I were you Iâd stay here in church and pray for the rest of the morning.â
Father Lanshee is standing slightly behind me.
âThatâs a fine idea, Sister. Also, I donât think he should serve mass again until weâre certain heâs himself. What do you think of that, boy?â
âYes, Father.â
Iâm supposed to serve at nine-oâclock mass that next Sunday. Itâs the mass all the kids go to; they sit in the center aisles, girls on the left side, boys on the right, with the little kids up front and the eighth grade in back. My parents know Iâm serving this mass and will be there. How can I ever tell them that? I donât know how I can tell them how Iâve been exercised either. The trouble is, I donât even feel tired; that devilâs got to be in there still.
Father Lanshee and Sister Anastasia leave me alone in the church all morning. Iâm supposed to say five rosaries with all the mysteries, and when Iâm finished, keep saying the ejaculation âMy Jesus mercyâmy Jesus mercy.â Father Lanshee lends me his rosary. Itâs small, black, wooden beads, and he kisses the crucifix on it before he gives it to me. When the lunch bell rings, I can go home.
Sister Anastasia doesnât tell anybody, at least any of the kids, about my being exercised and I donât tell anybody either, not even Laurel. Sheâs too little to understand. I keep hoping God knows I didnât mean it; thatâs all that counts. He must know about how I am with metal in my mouth; the sisters tell us God knows everything, even some things we donât know ourselves. After school I give Father Lanshee back his rosary. I hope maybe heâll let me back in the altar boys, at least let me serve that nine-oâclock mass, but he doesnât say anything.
Sunday when Iâm supposed to be serving, I sneak off to Mr. Hardingâs garage and thatâs where I find the kittens.
There are all kinds of alley cats in our alleys and packs of dogs, too. The kids around our way are awful mean to the cats. They donât do much against dogs because some of them bite. But the cats mostly only run away. I used to think alley cats had shorter legs than most cats but they only look short because theyâre always crouched ready to spring away if you come near. They have little hollow places behind their heads and between the tops of their legs on the back when theyâre hunched down like that. When a catâs all set to spring thereâs almost no way you can catch it.
But Billy OâConnell showed me how you can always catch a cat if you just keep running long enough. Theyâre fast but they get tired out soon. Maybe they donât get enough to eat from eating only garbage. Sure enough, though, heâd keep running after a cat in the alley where they had no place to go and heâd run them down finally. Usually, at the end, the cat would run into an empty garage, where Billyâd shut the door and corner them.
What Billy OâConnell likes to do with cats is climb up on somebodyâs porch, one of the old ones with the steps still on them, and throw the cat through the air. He throws them any which way, and they spin right around and land with their legs spread out, then run off. He tells me he threw one out his bedroom window and it was the same thing. He wants to throw one from a roof someday. OâConnell has the idea cats can practically
Melinda Tankard Reist, Abigail Bray