The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich Read Free Book Online Page B

innocence, pouring whiskey into the coffee cup that Father Cassidy gripped in his shuddering fingers.
    “A nose!” cried Father Cassidy.
    “And what piece of good Saint Joseph is lodged in our church’s altar?” asked Mooshum. He spoke in a nunlike voice, gentle and reproving.
    Father Cassidy’s mouth shut hard. He frowned. “To compare , even to compare …”
    “I was told,” said Joseph readily, “as he is my name saint of course, I was told that our altar contains a bit of Saint Joseph’s spinal material.”
    Father Cassidy drank the whole cup back.
    “Sacrilege.” He shook his head. Wagged his empty cup, which Mooshum promptly filled again.
    “It saddens and outrages me,” Father Cassidy said, sipping moodilyoff the brim. “Saddens and outrages me,” he repeated in a fainter voice. Then he got all stirred up, as if some thought pierced the fog. It was the same thought he’d had already.
    “To compare …” he blurted out, almost tearful.
    “Compare, though, I must,” said Mooshum. “When you stop to consider how the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, is eaten at every Mass.”
    Father Cassidy’s tears vanished in a wash of rage. He blew up at this—his cheeks puffed out and he swayed monumentally to his feet.
    “That is the transubstantiation , which is to say you speak of the most sacred aspect of our Mother the Church as represented in the Holy Mass.”
    Father Cassidy was building up more and more gas, and soon a froth of fresh bubbles dotted the corners of his mouth. Mooshum leaned forward, questioning.
    “Then do you mean to tell me that the body and the blood is just, eh, in your head, like? The bread stands in for the real thing? Then I could see your point. Otherwise, the Eucharist is a cannibal meal.”
    Father Cassidy’s lips turned purple and he tried to roar, though it came out a gurgle. “Heresy! What you describe. Heresy. The bread does indeed become the body. The wine does indeed become the blood. Yet it does not compare in any way to the eating of another human.” Father Cassidy wagged a finger. “I fear you’ve gone too far now! I fear you have stepped over the edge with this talk! I fear you will be required to make a very special, and grave, confession for us to allow you back into the church.”
    “Then back to the blanket I go!” Mooshum was incensed with delight. “The old ways are good enough for me. I’ve seen enough of your church. For a long time I have had my suspicions. Why is it you priests want to listen to dirty secrets, anyway?”
    “All right, be a pagan, burn in hell!” Father Cassidy restrained a belch and put out his cup for another shot. The bottle was nearly empty now.
    “We don’t believe in the everlasting kind of hell, remember that?” Shamengwa said primly.
    “We put our faith in a merciful hell,” said Mooshum.
    “Then there’s nothing for me to do!”
    Father Cassidy threw his hands up and staggered to the door, fumbled his way out, made it down the steps. Joseph and I sat on the couch still sipping cold water. Shamengwa and Mooshum stared musingly at the door. Shamengwa had just stirred himself to pick up his fiddle when there was a terrific sound from outside, a resounding thud, like a dropped beef. I was closest to the door and got out first. Father Cassidy was laid out on the grass like a massive corpse. He looked quite dead, but when I bent over him I saw that his breath still moved the froth bubbles at his lips.
    “Oh no!” Joseph cried out, kneeling at the other end of Father Cassidy. He peeled something from the sole of Father Cassidy’s black cleric’s shoe, and cradled it in his two hands. He walked away with the flattened salamander, glaring back once at the felled priest.
    Mooshum gaped at us, holding on to the wood railing. He and Shamengwa did not trust their feet to negotiate the front steps and were picking their way down sideways, as if descending a steep hill.
    “He slipped on a salamander,” I said.
    “Does