A CLIFF OF FALL

THE EDGE OF INNOCENCE (Excerpt from “The Partnership”) It was a sudden wedding—no banns, no mass, no music—a mixed marriage hastily arranged for a two o’clock service. Father called and asked me to serve on short notice, but no-one ever turned down a wedding since it was the only time we received a tip for participating. I rode my bicycle to church where I found Bernie Fitzgerald, the other server, already dressed and fidgeting in the sacristy. He was two or three years younger than I. He had never served at a wedding before. Since there was no mass, there was little we had to do to set up the altar. We opened the communion railing gates and put on the church lights. I instructed Bernie in his sole responsibility--to hold a small plate upon which the best man would place the ring for the blessing. My job was to carry the holy water fount. It was a hasty and careless ceremony. The bride and maid of honor wore street dresses and picture hats and were crying. The groom and best man were soldiers. There were ten or fifteen in the congregation, all sitting in the first few pews on the bride's side. Father instructed the wedding party in every step of the ceremony--now kneel, now stand. He read the prayers in great haste and in a monotone. When he blessed the ring, he sprinkled holy water over everyone. In the middle of the blessing, Bernie dropped the plate and ring and scrambled to the floor to pick them up. When he had retrieved them, Father decided to bless everything again. The groom took out his handkerchief to wipe the holy water from his face before placing the ring on the bride's finger and repeating the vows after Father. When it was over, we returned to the sacristy where Father gave me his waist rope and we ran outside around the church into the vestibule where we breathlessly untangled the rope and stretched it across the end of the center aisle. The bride and groom had walked slowly up the aisle. When they came to us blocking their way, the groom turned to the bride and half way around to the best man. "Now, what the hell are we supposed to do? I thought it was all over." "The best man is supposed to pay us for serving," I said. "It's an old custom." "How much are we supposed to pay you?" "Oh, anything you want." The best man dug into his pocket and brought out a coin. "Here, kid, get yourself some crackerjacks." The groom put his hand out to stop his arm. "Christ, don't be such a cheapskate. Let's do something right today." He took out his wallet and withdrew a bill. "Here, kid. Go buy yourself a nice piece of ass." The guests caught up with the wedding party. I ran to the vestibule door and opened it. Everyone stepped into the sun on the church steps. The best man disappeared. In a few minutes he reappeared around the corner, driving a battered old Chevy and parked at the foot of the steps. The bride and groom and the maid of honor got in. There were some unenthusiastic wishes for happiness shouted after them. Someone threw a handful of rice, and then they drove off, with black smoke billowing from the tailpipe. As we walked back around the church to the sacristy, I slowly unrolled the bill and showed it to Bernie. "Ten dollars," he shouted. "My brother said we'd only make a buck or two at the most." After we changed, we walked slowly pushing our bikes to a drug store where we intended to exchange the ten for two fives. Though I suspected what the soldier had meant by "a piece of ass," I decided to avoid mentioning anything about it to Bernie, I suppose, in order to protect my own rather precarious innocence as much as to think the best of anyone who had bestowed upon us the most liberal gratuity in the history of altar service in our parish. About a block later, after I had given him the bill for the second time to scrutinize in wonder and disbelief, he asked me, and so far as I could tell, without a hint of sarcasm or irony. "Will we have to spend it the way he said? Will we have to spend it all on a piece of ass? "Oh, I don't think he meant we have to buy exactly what he said. I think he was just making a suggestion. You know, like when your ma or pa tell you not to take any wooden nickels." I wasn't very convinced by my explanation, but Bernie nodded, apparently satisfied. He unfolded the bill again and stared at it for several moments. Then he stopped on the sidewalk and waited for me to stop and turn back toward him a step or two. He handed the bill back to me and asked, "What's a piece of ass?" How I managed to answer Bernie's question that afternoon is beyond my comprehension but answer him I did. My answer came out instantly, without any premeditation. I knew what I had said only after I had said it. "Well, a piece of ass is a fancy cut of meat. My ma gets one every so often when she saves enough money in her budget .The butcher and my ma call it a rump roast, but most everybody else just call it a plain old piece of ass." "Is that what it is?" Bernie cried in relief and delight, his face brightening. "Yeah. That's why I think he was just suggesting something fancy for us to spend the money on like going to the movies or a ball game." He fell happily silent for the next two blocks.