In 1959, my father gave me a Toronto Maple Leaf jersey. To this day, to this very hour, I wear it. It was the last gift he ever gave me.
Out of everything I’ve worn, I refused to get it dirty. When I would sleep on the vents, under my cardboard blanket, I would take it off and fold it neatly. Putting on a frayed sweatshirt instead. Sure, my pants were splattered with mud and splotches of condiment sauces. But today, I wore my nice ones with the least amount of stains on them. I had three pairs in all, and this one only had a blot of hot chocolate near my pocket.
They smelled, no doubt. To a point where even I had grown weary of it. At least the cold would conceal most of it. The one good thing I could say about the cold. I hoped it wouldn’t bother anyone when I walked inside. I didn’t want to disturb, but the trains had stopped running for Christmas Eve. I had no choice. I imagine that’s why the vents stopped foaming heat, too.
I kept my head down. I hadn’t been here for two years, so it wasn’t like anyone would recognize me. My hair was overgrown, I imagine I’d gotten taller, and I would usually wear nicer clothes to church. The door made that fulunk sound as it swung behind me. As I stepped in, the heat melted my skin. It was so nice. So warm. So… comfortable.
A serene narrowing of my eyes was the only expression I could make.
It got cold here in the city. A bone-breaking cold. Most the time, my lips would get blue. But at least the trains ran last year.
Fortunately, no one was in the church. As empty and hollow as it ever could be. So, I strolled up to the altar. And no offence to God, but I kind of forgot what to do. So, I gave a curt nod and walked around it. My eyes set upon a large nativity scene near the pulpit.
I don’t know what they were smoking in this church, but they gave Jesus a full bed. A pillow. Sheets. Maybe they forgot that wooden thing. But it didn’t matter. A pillow. That’s all I wanted. I hadn’t set my head on one of those for a long time now. And my heart ached for it.
I only needed a moment.
I glanced around. To the back. To the front. No one was there. I’m sure nobody would notice if I just took baby Jesus, put him to the side, and rested my head just for a few…
The church doors clunked. Someone was coming. I shot my head up from the pillow and rubbed my eyes.
I was so tired. I could sleep anywhere at this point. Except outside. I just needed to sleep for a little while. I could find another place here. Then I wouldn’t need to bother any more of these church folk.
But the priest was here. I stumbled off the altar, and in a quick sleight of hand, I put baby Jesus back where He belonged. As I hopped over the altar rail, I pretended as if nothing had happened.
I strode off to the back of the church, where the priest couldn’t see me. I glanced up to the church balcony, whatever that thing was called. I figured that’d be a good place to sleep, since no one would see me up there.
My eyes grew heavier.
My head started to throb. I snuck up the steps to the loft. At least no one would be up here. For now. I strode to the pew in the back and collapsed upon it. The wood was somehow softer than the street. And I closed my eyes…
Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.
Christmas bells. People must’ve been coming already. I rubbed my eyes again, hoping for just five more minutes. But I couldn’t afford it. Not here. I wearily flung my hand over the arm of the pew and hoisted myself up. Sure enough, people began to flood on through. All dressed fancy in suits and dresses.
I studied my jersey. Surely, I’d stick out. So, I had to be careful and pretend I wasn’t here for church. Just to stop by and, uh, pray or something.
I sighed. I just needed five more minutes of sleep. Then I’d go back to the station. I kept close to the sides. And although I earned a glance or two, I’m pretty sure I tricked the onlookers with a slight bow and a sign of the cross.
And the memory entered my head of the last time my family and I went to church. I remembered that no one ever occupied the side pews to the left of the altar. In that little alcove. Ah, that would be the place.
I rather hastily walked there. Acting my way through an elderly couple and a few raucous children.
I made for the last pew at the end of the alcove. I sat on it. Rested. Then laid.
In an effort to hide myself from any onlookers, I figured the carpeted floor beneath the pew would be a better place to rest. And boy, did it feel like a mattress.
“We begin this Midnight Mass liturgy with a few announcements,” said a woman in a loud voice. “As a special occasion for after this Mass, we will be hosting a European-style, late night repast with baked goods and hot coco for the families of the parish in the school’s gymnasium. So, put away your night caps and join us! In this way, we thank all of you who have contributed…”
My stomach grumbled. Thank God I heard that before passing out. Food would hit the spot after a nap. Plus, it was food I didn’t have to steal.
The choir started to sing. The humming of soft melodies, beautiful hypnotic voices, music I hadn’t heard in ages. I imagined the birds under the sun as I put my ear to the ground. The deep singing. A symphony of angels. In a language unknown to me. They lulled me to sleep. Soft. Like warm milk…
I woke to a voice in English, although my eyes refused to open initially. But whoever was preaching sure was loud.
“While we’re all blessed with so much on this Christmas Night,” said the priest, “let us remember those who suffer. Those who despair. Those who have no one to go to.” He paused.
My eyes were now fully open, and I leaned up.
“We remember the worst with the best. For they are a constant reminder on what we have and who we must pray for. Let us remember one of the most heart-rending events that we had to endure. It’s been two years since Salvatore and Danielle Dimichi, and their daughter Isabelle passed away in a tragic accident on highway 52 two years ago on this very day.”
A stinging burn, like a cold fire, sliced the inside of my chest. Time to run.
I shot up from the pew and rubbed my head. It started to hurt like a nail against my temple.
“Their son Fabio, who was in the car with them, was reported missing and never found. Presumed dead. Let us keep all those who have faced this tragedy in our prayers. Remembering what we have and how we can help others…”
I shook my head and lurched from the pews, pacing steadily in the corners. Avoiding the crowd, keeping my head down. I left through the side door. Breathing. A heavy relief fell over me. And… an emptiness. The dark sky overshadowed me. The icy wind sent knives against my cheeks.
Burning my flesh like my heart hurt in that place. That… Church. That…
I had to leave. This place. For good. Never come back. Never look back…
Grumble.
My stomach protested. The food. Maybe I could stop by the gym. Just grab one piece of cake. Surely no one would notice.
I toddled to the gymnasium, which was still being redone – large construction towers stood outside. I flung open the door and almost sprinted through the hall. They had yet to install heat in this section of the building. God, I hope they’d have some in the main gym.
I neared the main door as a man with a thick mustache and moppy hair exited.
I looked through the doorway and could see the many delights. Cakes, buns, muffins. Pies. I loved pies. I salivated like a hound at a bone.
The man stopped and grabbed the door frame. As if his arm were an iron bar guarding a vault’s treasure on the other side.
I put on my best smile, although I bet my teeth were yellow. “Hi there,” I said nervously. “Just coming in since Mass finished early.” I fumbled. To be fair, Mass did end early for me.
“Excuse me,” said the man, still preventing me from entering despite my maneuvers. He looked me up and down. Sniffed, wincing at my scent. “Where’d you come from?”
“Ah, you know, just going to grab a bit of food and run back to my – my – you know,” I said quickly, a bead of sweat assaulting my neck. I let out a terrible smile.
“You can’t come in here,” said the man.
“I’ll only be a second,” my voice pleaded.
The old man glared at me. “This food is for the parishioners.”
I bit my knuckle. My fists trembled. I turned. My eyes drooped. Guess I wasn’t eating tonight.
“Wait a second,” said the man. “I recognize you.”
I looked back at him, and my memory flared.
I backed away. Slowly at first. And then with a sharp turn.
“You stole my watch at the station!” yelled the man. He started a fast march after me.
I bolted.
His pace multiplied. A full sprint. Right behind me.
I dashed through the hall. Up the parking lot. He was fast behind me. His red face steaming the icy wind. And the dark followed me, too.
My heart pounded. My tired breath shouted exhales. God, let me die! The thought was brief. But not one I let sit.
I ran for the church. Tall white lamps lighting my way.
Through the door. Fulunk. Up the steps. Down the aisle.
The priest was giving Communion to the last person. I slid down in front of him before the altar rail. Breathing like a bull out of breath. I stared up. And the priest froze. Eucharist still in hand. Shock marked his expression. And the man barged through the door. Fulunk. “Get that kid!” he yelled.
The priest beamed at the man as he charged from behind. Then he stopped, realizing where he was.
I sighed in terror. Shaking with every muscle. Looking trepidatiously at the priest, teeth clattering. He gleamed at me with a recognizing gaze.
And the priest lifted the Eucharist before me. I remembered what to do. I opened my mouth as he placed it on my tongue.
“Fabio, He welcomes you,” said the priest after I received. “To our feast.”
My heart burst with warmth. Warmer than the heat of the vents of the subways. I stopped shaking. Stopped trembling. Tears fell.
For two years, I had run. From cops. From angry men. From the past. But now, I felt peace like never before. I could rest. Finally. I didn’t have to run anymore.
