It was Friday and we ran to attend the ritual of the Stations of the Cross. The weather was beginning to warm up but the winds still blew, and the whistling of the wind and the mournful coo-rooing of the pigeons and the burning incense made the agony of Christ’s journey very sad. Father Byrnes stood at the first station and prayed to the bulto on the wall that showed Christ being sentenced by Pilate. Two highschool altar boys accompanied the priest, one to hold the lighted candle and the other to hold the incense burner. The hushed journeyers with Christ answered the priest’s prayer. Then there was an interlude of silence while the priest and his attendants moved to the second station, Christ receiving the cross.
Horse sat by me. He was carving his initials into the back of the seat in front of us. Horse never prayed all of the stations, he waited until the priest came near, then he prayed the one he happened to be sitting by. I looked at the wall and saw that today he had picked to sit by the third fall of Christ.
The priest genuflected and prayed at the first fall of Christ. The incense was thick and sweet. Sometimes it made me sick inside and I felt faint. Next Friday would be Good Friday. Lent had gone by fast. There would be no stations on Good Friday, and maybe no catechism. By then we would be ready for confession Saturday and then the receiving of the sacrament on the most holy of days, Easter Sunday.
“What’s Immmm-ack-que-let Con-sep-shion?” Abel asked. And Father Byrnes moved to the station where Christ meets his mother. I tried to concentrate. I felt sympathy for the Virgin.
“Immaculate Conception,” Lloyd whispered.
“Yeah?”
“The Virgin Mary—”
“But what does it mean?”
“Having babies without—”
“What?”
I tried to shut my ears, I tried to hear the priest, but he was moving away, moving to where Simon helped Christ carry the cross. Dear Lord, I will help.
“I don’t know—” Everybody giggled.
“Shhh!” Agnes scowled at us. The girls always prayed with bowed heads throughout the stations.
“A man and a woman, it takes a man and a woman,” Florence nodded.
But the Virgin! I panicked. The Virgin Mary was the mother of God! The priest had said she was a mother through a miracle.
The priest finished the station where Veronica wiped the bloodied face of Christ, and he moved to Christ’s second fall. The face of Christ was imprinted on the cloth. Besides the Virgin’s blue robe, it was the holiest cloth on earth. The cross was heavy, and when He fell the soldiers whipped Him and struck Him with clubs. The people laughed. His agony began to fill the church and the women moaned their prayers, but the kids would not listen.
“The test is Saturday morning—”
Horse left his carving and looked up. The word “test” made him nervous.
“I, I, I’ll pass,” he nodded. Bones growled.
“Everybody will pass,” I said, trying to be reassuring.
“Florence doesn’t believe!” Rita hissed behind us.
“Shhhh! The priest is turning.” Father Byrnes was at the back of the church, the seventh station. Now he would come down this side of the aisle for the remaining seven. Christ was speaking to the women.
Maybe that’s why they prayed so hard, Christ spoke to them.
In the bell tower the pigeons coo-rooing made a mournful sound.
The priest was by us now. I could smell the incense trapped in his frock, like the fragrance of Ultima’s herbs was part of her clothes. I bowed my head. The burning incense was sweet and suffocating; the glowing candle was hypnotizing. Horse had looked at it too long. When the priest moved on Horse leaned on me. His face was white.
“A la chingada,” he whispered, “voy a tirar tripas—”
The priest was at the station of the Crucifixion. The hammer blows were falling on the nails that ripped through the flesh. I could almost hear the murmuring of the crowd as they craned their necks to see. But today I could not feel the agony.
“Tony—” Horse was leaning on me and gagging.
I struggled under his weight. People turned to watch me carrying the limp Horse up the aisle. Florence left his seat to help me and together we dragged Horse outside. He threw up on the steps of the church.
“He watched the candle too long,” Florence said.
“Yes,” I answered.
Horse smiled weakly. He wiped the hot puke from his lips and said, “Ah la veca, I’m going to try that again next Friday—”
We managed to get through the final week of catechism lessons. The depression that comes with fasting and strict penance deepened as Lent drew to its completion. On Good Friday there was no school. I went to church with my mother and Ultima. All of the saints’ statues in the church were covered with purple sheaths. The church was packed with women in black, each one stoically suffering the three hours of the Crucifixion with the tortured Christ. Outside the wind blew and cut off the light of the sun with its dust, and the pigeons cried mournfully in the tower. Inside the prayers were like muffled cries against a storm which seemed to engulf the world. There seemed to be no one to turn to for solace. And when the dying Christ cried, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” the piercing words seemed to drive through to my heart and make me feel alone and lost in a dying universe.