Rites of Passage

Drinks at The Blue Goose

It was as near to drinking,that adult rite of passage,as we could get as boys, whenour father, Major Kessenich,a stern or playful manby turns, escorted us to theofficers' club at Camp McCoy,showing us off like a proudgander at The Blue Goose.

As we walked, enlisted menpassing in open Jeeps orcrunching along white gravelpaths between barracks saluted.Dad, who took it as his due,saluted them back withoutbreaking stride, while we puffed outour chests, saluting, too, ouregos big as howitzers.

The Blue Goose was dim inside.Our entrance sent a blazeof sunlight across thepolished floor. The handful ofofficers gathered at thatearly hour looked up and smiled.The bartender, a baldingsergeant with a gold tooth, boomed,"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?"

Our pleasure was ginger ale—and being there among the menin uniform as they whackedtheir brown leather dice cup onthe burnished bar, played cribbage,and caught themselves about toswear, unspoken wordshanging in the air like thegirlie calendar on the wall.

The sergeant poured our drinks inhighball glasses just like Dad's,cold golden bubbles risingto the top and clinging tothe ice cubes like diamonds—a drink that looked exactly likechampagne, the drink of thosewho have everything they want.

Blazing Heart

The blazing heart of Jesusin the gaudy printon the dark living room wallfrightened him most of all.He sat pressed against the sofa armclose to the end table withthe painted plaster statue of Maryholding baby Jesus. His ownmother was travelingthe world with his siblings,while he'd been dumpedon the Irish cleaning woman,who lived alone behind closed shades,Florida summer barely sneaking inaround the edges. The only

saving grace was Saturdaynight in the vast tiled spaceof Miami Cathedralwhere he could trade his family'sstark Presbyterianismfor Catholicism'ssensual delights, dip hisfingers into cool holy water,fill his eyes with jeweledstained glass and life-sized statues,breathe in the exotic sweetnessof incense and beeswax candles thatmade the air itself glow.

When the Mass commencedthe choir burst intojoyous song, the priest enteredin colorful robes, precededby his acolytes, mountedthe steps to the altar,chanted Latin incantationslike a magician, eventuallyraised the golden cup, turningthe wine, she whispered to him,into Jesus's blood, andthe bright white hostinto His body, whichthe boy was not privileged to eat.

Face flushed with excitement, hereturned home exhaustedfrom the pageantry. In bed he layon his back in thin pajamas,covers kicked off in the heat,clutching in his sweaty fista plastic figurine of the Motherof God the cleaning womanhad given him, imagininghis own mother as she traveledfurther and further away.

Natural Progression

Blue rain drums the metal roof. Books lieopen on their laps, but neither of them reads.Instead they watch the flames progress(some would say diminish) from wildtarantella to staid minuet. So hastheir love progressed. Once sustained bynaked midnight frolics in the lake, it nowfeeds on the susurration of rainevaporating in flames.

She nods off first. He admires her lips,slightly parted as they were the first timehe kissed them. He remembers the firesthey stoked in him on hot afternoonsin the stifling upstairs bedroom on the Cape,French doors thrown open to catch breezesoff the estuary. Nothing has been lostin the cooling of their ardor. It isas natural as the cooling of embersin the fireplace, which leaves behinda thick soft blanket of gray ashesand the memory of fire.