A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“If we wait, we can slide in behind Mr. Perfection.”

“Why?”

“You want to be sure those boots are yours.”

We sat for a little bit and then as we saw Peter moving up the aisle, we followed.

“Hey, Peter, what’s happenin’” asks Mick.

Peter and I exchange glances but nothing more.

“Hey, Mick, nothing much.”

“Nice boots. Where’d you get them?”

“I didn’t get them anywhere. They were a gift.”

“Man, whoever gave you those must really like you.”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly looking at me then back to Mick.

We walked out of the room and followed the same path as I did coming in. Peter was way ahead of us.

“Did you see it?” asks Mick once we were outside.

“No, it’s too dark in here.”

“Okay, let’s go talk to Mr. P. outside.”

We walk up the sidewalk to the front of the church. There is a small crowd there. We look through the crowd. No Peter. But once we are in the crowd, Mick sees him. He’s down the street a little bit past the parsonage. However, he’s not alone.

“Aw, cripes, Mick, he’s with Joe and Mitch,” I say, dismayed.

“Yeah, so I see. C’mon.”

We walk in Peter’s direction. My palms are damp and my mouth is going dry. My symptoms get worse the closer we get.

“Hey, it’s Flower Boy.” says Joe. “Where’s your girlie tie, pansy?”

Peter looks at us. “What do you want?” His look wasn’t hard and cold inside the church.

“I didn’t have a good chance to admire your boots inside. You know, the light isn’t so good in there. I wanted a better look-see out here.”

“Why, you got a thing for boots, Mick?” says Mitch. “You want to lick mine?”

The three of them laugh.

“No, I have Beatle boots on, too, but they’re pretty beat up. I noticed Peter’s were shiny so I was going to ask him what he does to dress them up. And how did he fix that piece that was taken off of the back of the left boot?”

Peter looks down at the left boot. There it is in broad daylight.

“I didn’t. I just covered it with polish. You can’t see it easily from a distance. Besides, it’s in the back.”

“Ah, so just polish, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter says and then turns to Joe and Mitch. They start walking away.

To me, Mick says. “Let’s go.”1

As we leave, I say,” Now that we know those boots are mine, how are we going to get him to give them back?”

“Jeez, I dunno. We couldn’t insist back there. We’re outnumbered.”

We walk back to the front of the church. Dad, Kathleen, and Harry are standing just outside the crowd. Dad is smoking, Kathleen is with her friends, Joan and Melissa the Fashion Queens, and Harry is watching a plane creating a contrail across the cloudless sky. I can hear them talking as we approach.

“Oh, how can she wear those shoes with that dress?” Joan says.

“It’s not bad,” Kathleen says, “I just think she wants to be daring.”

“Yeah, she’s daring to be seen in that awful outfit,” says Melissa. She grabs Kathleen by the arm and whispers, “And look, she has on fishnet stockings. She just doesn’t want to be daring. She‘s just easy!”

Harry says, “Hey, Dad, did you know that the the X-15 rocket plane can go 4,534 miles per hour?”

Dad, about to put his cigarette to his lips, stops, “Excuse me….”

“The X-15 can go 4,534 miles an hour. Is that plane up there going that fast?”

“ I…I don’t…How do you know that?” Dad looks at Harry with astonishment.

“I read it somewheres. I’d sure like to be up there where that plane is.”

Dad shakes his head and smiles.

“Francis,” says Dad. “I’ve been looking for you. Do me a favor. I forgot my other pack of Luckies. I’m down to my last cigarette. Run home and get them.”

“Oh, sure, Dad,” I say. Anything not to be attending the church service early. There is never anything to do but watch the people fill up the pews. “Can Mick come?”

“Sorry,” Mick says, “I can’t. I’m rehearsing with Roy and the…ah… new bass player.” His cheeks are flush for a moment .

“Oh,” I say. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow, then.” My cheeks are warm.

“Okay, great,” he says as he walks away. “See ya, Mr. J., everybody.”

Dad waves to Mick and then turns to me. “You better get going.”

“Okay, bye.”

I dash off across the street. I want to avoid walking by Joe, Mitch, and Peter. No sense inviting trouble over. I walk down the street and try to come up with a scheme to get those boots back. I think of a ridiculous fantasy where I’m a cowboy with a white hat riding a white horse and Peter is this Black Bart guy. He’s on a black horse and I’m chasing him across the desert. Our horses are running flat out but I’m not gaining on him. So, I get my lariat out and I rope him in mid gallop and pull him off his horse. Then I stop my horse, jump off, and tie Peter up like a steer with legs and hands all bound together. Then I pull the Beatle boots off his feet, jump back onto my horse and ride off into the sunset. This fantasy gets me almost all the way home. I cross Jasper St. and go up to the door. It’s then I smell something. At first, I think I smell someone’s cooking but it’s too cold to have any windows open. I put the key in the lock and turn it and door knob at the same time. In an instant, the smell is very strong. It smells of wood burning. And something else. Something ugly. I look up and there’s smoke up near the hall ceiling.

“Mom?”

I walk into the living room. The smoke is much thicker here and I start to cough. I drop to the floor. I cough again. The room is dim what with all the smoke. I crawl over toward the den. There’s smoke pouring out of the den closet.

“Mom?”

I’m frozen to the spot.

I look up again. The smoke is filling the ceiling and is quickly headed toward me. It’s getting hot in here. I’m coughing more and my eyes are beginning to tear up. I turn away from the den and crawl the length of the living room. I crawl through the little hall that connects the living room with the dining room.

“Mom!”

Once I’m in the dining room, I see her. She’s on the floor face down. She’s not moving. I crawl over. I shake her shoulder nearest me.

“Mom. Are you okay? Mom?”

She doesn’t move. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not.

I feel the panic rising from my belly.

What am I going to do?

I cough some more. I look up to the ceiling and the smoke is thicker and still headed downwards. My eyes are beginning to burn. It’s getting harder to breathe.

I have to get out and get someone to help me get her out.

I look at the door just outside the dining room. It leads outside. I peer up at the ceiling again and the smoke is still marching down on top of us. Then I see something bright in the den. Its a flame. The panic then surrounds me. I feel paralyzed.

“Mom!”

I shake her.

“Get up ! We have to leave! Mom, I’m scared! We have to go!”

She lies there.

I’m crying now and it’s not just the smoke. My throat is torn by the acrid smoke. I cough and mucus drains out of my nose onto the floor. The place is hotter, too.

“Pick her up. If you can’t pick her up, then drag her out. But do it now!”

The smoke has dropped enough to start to obscure the outside door. I look at her and then the door trying to gauge the distance. I place my face right near the floor and draw in a breath and hold it. I stand part way up. I turn Mom on her back. I prop her up in a semi-sitting position, and thrust my hands under her armpits. As I drag her across the dining room rug, she loses her slippers. I think for an instant I should get them. They are her favorites after all, but no. I’m working to get her across to the outside door. I can’t hold my breath any longer. I let it out and breathe in and have a giant coughing fit. It’s so bad that I drop her. I’m having more and more trouble breathing. I manage to slow the coughing and pick her up again. It’s not far to the door. I place her gently on the hall rug. I reach up and turn the knob. As I swing the door open, I’m careful not to hit Mom on the head. The cold air rushes over us.

Oh, the damn storm door, too?

I pick her up again and drag her to the door, I put her into a full sitting position just long enough for me to hit the storm door knob with my hand. I push it open but it comes back and latches.

“This stupid….”

Mom is still sitting up but she’s beginning to sag. I pull her closer to the storm door, whack the knob again, and grab Mom. The door comes back again. I catch it when it smacks me on the shoulder. The cold air feels good on my neck and face. I pull Mom some more, trying at the same time to hold the door open. I’m holding the door with my leg now and pulling her onto the porch floor. I almost have her out. I kick the door as best as I can. I try to pull her the rest of the way out but the door slams on her ankles.

“C’mon, you stupid door….”

“Son, I’ve got the door.”