It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 23: Chapter VII

Some Coarse Language. Descriptions of Domestic Abuse. Reader Discretion advised.

St. Gregory's families were all alike; each had the parish stained on their soul. Divergent in looks and ages, shapes and sizes, but nonetheless identical. They did not lack the basic functions that are required of human beings. They ate well enough, though 'well enough' usually consisted of bologna and thick chunks of government cheese slapped between halves of staling Wonder Bread.

And TaB! Can't forget the TaB. They loved their TaB!

Their clothes, generally faded and mismatched, came from Goodwill, or in Bud's case, hand-me-downs from Alanna that were so big that the legs of the pants had to be rolled up a good six times just to find his feet. If the clothes were of good quality, that usually meant someone either hit it big at the Keno—unlikely—or a box of two 'accidentally' fell off the back of a truck—common place.

Each child had a mother, and some of those were loving. Some of those did attempt to instill in their offspring a sense of right and wrong. More were present than loving, their days spent, not in direct care of their offspring, but splayed out on their couches, stupefied by their favorite soap operas, strung out to the point of perpetual inertia, never to recover. But even they were mothers, and they were, physically, visible.

In the case of Niamh Malone-Carr, it shouldn't come as a surprise that she took on the role of mother, father, and field general, worn down to the bone, but determined to carry on, if not out of duty, then a prevailing sense of bitter stubbornness. She worked four, official jobs. She cleaned bedpans at the hospital Monday through Friday during the day, while those nights were spent with a mop and broom in hand, scrubbing every inch of the school across from Curly's. The days of her weekend drifted past in a haze behind Spiros' diner counter, while her nights, when the rest of her neighbors and family made merriment in the rancid air of O'Toole's, were exhausted by hours in callcenters. 

Niamh, an unenthusiastic saleswoman, (she was reprimanded on many occasions for cursing out potential customers—'I don't care if they're eatin' dinner. They don't have to be rude!'), devoted herself to selling vacuums and appliances, and other kitschy things that people like to waste their money on. The most lucrative item, the lava-lamp, was also the bane of her existence.

'Ma,' said Bud, 'you know it's not like actual lava, right?' He'd tried to explain this concept to his mother many times over.

'I know that.'

'So, can we get one?'

'Absolutely not!'

'Why?! You get a discount!'

'It's not about the discount. I'm not riskin' ya burnin' down the apartment with a fuckin' death lamp!'

Niamh was very grateful for the day the lava-lamp was replaced in her catalogue by Pet Rocks. So grateful that she bought one and gave it to her son for his birthday. Bud was not so thrilled. Most children beg their parents a dog, or cat. All Alfonso Ignatius (the Second) ever wanted was a lamp.

But no matter the job, no matter the exhausting hours and resulting migraines that cleaved Niamh from head to toe, there was never enough. Never enough food, never enough time with her children, never enough money. What she did make, that money that didn't need to be immediately spent on the ungrateful progeny, was reserved for collection agencies and medical bills. It is rather amazing how many credit cards and bank accounts can be taken out in someone else's name before questions are asked. According to several insistent agencies, the Carr family, courtesy of the Specter, though his name was never present on any form, had a fleet of sports cars and a mountain of unpaid taxes. It is equally amazing at just how many flights of stairs a woman, who recently took the opportunity to question said husband on his penchant for filling out forms in his children's names, can fall down before her doctor becomes suspicious.

'Back again, Mrs. Carr?'

'Yup.'

'Stairs?'

'I'm clumsy.'

'Mrs. Carr, if it's stairs, why do you have an iron burn on your stomach?'

'Didn't I say I was clumsy?'

And the doctors, filled to the brim with knowledgeable edification, would shake their heads, casting an eye over the children, all of whom had been forcefully cajoled to keep their mouths shut. 'Well, Mrs. Carr...' would sigh the learned men, 'if you say.'

And do you know how much money a hospital charges for that level of care? God help you if there is something really wrong.

God help you if your husband didn't lose interest.

Then again, if you had a husband, you were already a lost cause. If you were relegated to the category of parent or caregiver, your story was already written. So! Let us turn our attention to what gives humanity hope. Let us meet, in full, the future, for there is nothing in this world more important than a child. Children are both our future, and our last connection to a world beyond. From birth until their Awakening, there remains in a child an untainted mark of Heaven. It comes in their questions, and in their wide, searching eyes. It comes without filter or care. Some call it innocence, while others purity, but it is neither. Simply put, it is nature. Elders look upon this world and hope to reclaim that lost joy of youth, to find again that mark of Grace. True, it always remains, but the mature folk tend to bog it down with debate and doubt. They rationalize every action. They know, but do not see. A child sees, and does not care. A child is instinct without a shred of logic. A child is soulful, all heart and aspiration. They do not dwell in reality, nor should they! A child must not be prepared too soon for what awaits them in this world. It's not love and wealth and opportunity that they need, but a chance to dream and be.

Despite your preconceived notions, squalor and lives of paucity do not indicate a poor upbringing, nor an inherently damaged child. What you, dear reader, might see as lacking—stability, role models, fathers, love and care in the classical sense—was taken as sign of freedom by the little louts of St. Gregory's. They were free and adventurous. More so than any in suburban paradises. Groups of boys and girls, yet to be segregated by lust, roamed the parish like rabid, excitable packs of wild dogs. Lost Boys and Girls, never to grow up!

Every afternoon, come rain, shine, sleet, and snow, you could find one of the numerous troupes of youth gathered together in profane communion. (Usually between buildings No. 8 and No. 10 of Curly's.) So it was in the time of Bud Carr, and to his thought, so it had always been, and so it would always be!