By Art, Faith, or Cunning

4 April 2010, Boise

Easter Sunday. A cold bright morning, glinting with raw winds out of the north swooping down over the snowy front. Being Easter, the Italian in me wanted to go to church, if for only the ceremony of the day. There is a beautiful towering sandstone cathedral in the neighborhood where, when I was a boy, my mom would take us for the occasional church outing and always for Christmas Eve and Easter masses. The cathedral dates from the turn of the century and I always loved looking up at it’s stained glass windows and painted vaulted ceilings and the echoing voices of the ceremony combined with the incense and the grand feeling of the place to make me feel I was in Italy again. My mom experienced the same affect, and going to St. John’s was always a small nostalgic trip home for her.

This Easter, no different from others, the cathedral was gloriously crowded. We had to stand in the foyer to take in the mass, which turned out all right as other parents were doing the same, keeping back of the pews with their fidgeting kids and straining babies. Ada squirmed in my arms to be let down, relenting only when she had another little girl or boy to exchange gazes and squawks with. I was watching down the center isle at the priest swinging a chalice of incense over goblets of wine when I noticed a man waggling his finger playfully in Ada’s face. He had unkempt hair and a wild, wry look about him that belied his respectable Sunday duds of sport coat and slacks. For a moment I wondered who the hell the crazy cad was messing with my kid, and then I recognized him. I almost swore in church: it was B.N., old friend and Boise artist from way back.

“You’re back in town,” he said as we shook each other by the shoulders, trying to muffle our enthusiasm. He wiggled his fingers at Ada, “And you brought this cutie with you.”

I quietly introduced him to Anna and Ada, who kept her eyes on him, captivated by the man, sensing his enigmatic charm. “I was in the front pew,” B. whispered to me as we returned to watching mass, “but I couldn’t take it. It’s too close for someone like me.”

“The slightly unfaithful.”

“That’s it. Finally I had to find an old lady to give my seat to.”

A hymn was being sung as the priest and alter boys were arranging for communion.

“You going up?” I whispered.

“Don’t know. You?”

I shrugged. “There’s always that moment of doubt before communion.”

“About yourself or the whole show?”

“Both.”

“No,” said Bob, “I’m not going. They won’t let me. The last time I did I said to the priest, “thanks.” Guess that pissed him off.”

Just then Ada started to bawl. My dilemma was solved for me. I conferred with Anna and it was decided I’d walk around outside with Ada until she fell asleep. I carried the girl out the tall wooden doors and stood atop the steps a minute letting my eyes adjust to the brightness. Ada went quiet feeling a gust of cold sharp air. From the top of the steps I could see the mountains above town, white with snow and blue forested along their ridges; the snow level, after days of storm, coming right down over the foothills to the tan edges of the plain. I walked down the steps and turned onto the next street and walked a few blocks under the leafless maples and elms. Forsythia and daffodils were in bloom, lacing the yards and the front porches of the houses. When I arrived back at the cathedral, people were pouring down the long steps and gathering on the street. I waved at Anna and B. and they joined me on the sidewalk.

“Did you go to communion?” I asked Anna.

“Communion is for sinners,” she said.

“Don’t believe in all that, do you?” said B.

“No. It’s all too heavy for spring. David wanted us to go for the ceremony of it.”

“That’s why I go. Once or twice a year, just to hedge my bets.”

“Pascal’s wager,” I said.

“You should try a different church,” said B. Which was weird, as I never imagined B. as the church-going type, let alone the church-going-encouraging type. But then I saw the bullshitter's gleam in his eyes.

Anna must've seen it too. “How about the church of go-for-a-hike-in-the-hills instead?” she quipped.

“How’s the painting coming?” I asked B.

“It’s okay. I was looking at that painting of Maria de Guadalupe, thinking how I don’t know how to paint anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see, I never really knew how to paint. I knew tricks and ways of faking it. But since the m.s., my hand shakes and I can’t pull off those one-stroke slight-of-hands anymore.”

“Learn new ones.”

“It’s not so easy.”

“How are your eyes?”

“The left is okay. The right is good for seeing ghosts.”

“You can’t see out of it at all?”

“Just a blur of light.”

Then his eyes widened, and narrowed shrewdly as something occurred to him. “Hey, that’s going to be my next series. You saved my career. Half-finished paintings. That’s my new trick, that keeps anybody from seeing I can’t really paint.”

The steps and sidewalk were crowded with churchgoers now. We recognized some other friends and they came over to say hello. There was an element of surprise at seeing each other here. Here with kids and family on an Easter morning at church. I could sense us asking each other in our minds if any of us actually believed in this stuff. But it didn’t matter. Each of us was there for our different reasons, which most likely had less to do with the teachings of Christ than the sentiment and ritual of the day. If nothing else, we were there for each other, for the steely sunlight and chill air tossing the clouds and the reminder that all of us have to learn a few new tricks, of faith or art or cunning, now that life was catching up to us.

Ada began to cry from sleepiness and the cold.

“So you’re here now,” said B. as we made hurried goodbyes. “I’ll see you around?”

“Of course. Great to see you, B.”

He stopped me and waggled his fingers before Ada’s eyes. She quit her crying and for a moment, as though a spell had been cast on her, smiled at him.