[This is a story, somewhat enhanced, based on my own experience in the church of St. Anthony in Lake Lenore when I was around 13 years old.]

THE VIGIL

Freddie worried. He worried a lot. Especially about things over which he had no control. All during the war he had nightmares of German soldiers jumping off the railway’s grain cars with bayonets drawn, and enemy airplanes dropping bombs on the village.

Most of all, he worried about God. God was everywhere, saw everything, knew everything. The major preoccupation in his life was worrying whether God would notice what he did, or didn’t do. The stained glass window at the back of church said it all — an enormous open eye. No moral crevice was tiny enough in which to hide. God kept a perfect record. The only way to have the stains of sin removed from his soul was to confess his sins fully to Father Martin. Freddie thought of the priest as the great eraser. He imagined his record smudged with many erasures. He worried about whether he had perhaps carelessly left out anything, and always included “for these sins and any others I may have forgotten I am truly sorry” at the end of each confession. He was not completely convinced that this really worked.

It was almost a year ago that Father Martin had finally pronounced Freddie’s mastery of the Latin prayers and the rituals of the acolyte as adequate for him to become an altar boy. Even the holy nuns were not permitted beyond the communion railings except to clean the floors, dust the furnishings, and arrange the flowers. Now he would be one of those nearest when the holy mysteries happened. He could not understand why some of the other altar boys played around or made rude jokes about holy things

In spite of the pride Freddie felt at being an altar boy, Father Martin often scolded him for daydreaming while at the altar. He would forget to ring the bell or change the book or bring up the water and wine at the right time. Often he dreamed of being a hero in some holy cause like Saint Stephen who was stoned to death for being a follower of Jesus, or like the crusaders who fought to restore the Holy Land to the church. Perhaps some day he would suffer or even die for the faith and he would be a hero, a saint. He hoped it would not be like St. Lawrence who was grilled to death over a slow fire, or St. Sebastian who was shot to death with a hundred arrows.

Not long after Germany surrendered to end the war in Europe, Father Martin announced a thanksgiving service of “Forty Hours.” Forty Hours was one of the most important devotional exercises in St. Gertrude’s parish. The Sanctuary Society women fussed all week preparing their most colourful bouquets, dusting every inch of the white shelves of the side altar, polishing the brass candle holders till they shone, all under Sister Agnes’s critical stare. She would move a candle an inch this way, then back again, lift a wayward flower from one vase to another where the colours matched better.

After High Mass, accompanied by clouds of incense and ringing of bells, Father Martin, dressed in special vestments, carried the Blessed Sacrament in procession up and down the centre aisle until he arrived at the side altar where he enthroned the Host high up in a special niche designed for that purpose. There it gleamed pure white amid the golden rays of the dazzling monstrance. For forty continuous hours members of the parish would take turns in adoration, never leaving the church unattended.

The altar boys had places of honor on kneelers right in front of the altar. Even though other people would come and spend time in the church, the altar boys assumed responsibility for making sure the church was never empty. They would dress in their long black cassocks and lace-trimmed white surplices, hair combed, hands and faces washed, so that the Lord would be pleased. Father Martin was always around to check. The younger servers took the day shifts and the older boys took the nights. Freddie looked forward to the time when he would be old enough to take a night watch. He dreamed of how brave he would be to rise past midnight and make his way to the church through unlit streets. He would have to walk over the wooden trestle bridge and past the cemetery. The church would be dark except for the banks of candles on the altar casting quivering shadows on the walls.

Freddie and his friend Donald drew the first watch after the late morning Mass. It was just past eleven o’clock. They knew this could be a long hour. They were hungry from their previous night’s fasting.

They soon tired of praying Hail Mary’s on their rosary beads and paging through devotional books. Their knees, though toughened by being altar boys, were not up to the demands now made on them. Father Martin had told them they could sit for short periods, but that it was better to kneel. Suffering would join them to the suffering of Jesus on the cross. They would be part of the mystery of salvation.

When the clock in the sacristy struck eleven-thirty, Donald had enough. He left without a word. It took Freddie a while to realize that he wasn’t coming back. How could he just walk out? Didn’t he care? Freddie was now alone, the sole protector of the Blessed Sacrament. He knelt a little straighter.

The clock in the sacristy chimed quarter to twelve. Its pleasant melody cheered Freddie. Soon a new shift would arrive. He decided to kneel for the last fifteen minutes. At exactly noon he heard old Mr. Langkammer at the back of the church. He listened to him climb the stairs leading to the tower beside the choir loft and ring out the Angelus. The old man left as suddenly as he had come, without so much as looking into the church.

Freddie hummed a hymn of thanksgiving and praise, believing that his time of waiting would soon be over. He could see himself coming home to his very own piece of chicken, for today, being special. Mamma would roast a whole chicken for her fatherless brood, and Freddie’s piece was a drumstick. Not a wing this time. Oh no, he would have a drumstick. It was his turn.

Quarter past rang out, and still no one came. He was not really surprised when his stomach began to ache, just a little at first, then working its way from discomfort to misery.   Half past twelve came and quarter to one. There was no sign of any movement anywhere around the church, as if the whole world had come to a dead stop. Freddie looked up at the statue of St. Therese of the Child Jesus high up on a pillar to the left of the altar. He recited an Our Father for each of the roses in her arms, then a Hail Mary and even a Glory Be.

Before he realized what was happening, Freddie began to fantasize. She was so lovely, with that enticing pink mouth, the unblemished skin, the immaculate little hands absentmindedly holding a great bundle of roses. Her eyes fixed on heaven, she was so much prettier than the village girls. What would it be like to be near one so perfect in every way? Would he talk with her, maybe even hold her hand? For the moment, he forgot his hunger and dreamed of meeting her. Was he falling in love? Now he could smell her sweetness, hear her beautiful voice. Before he could stop himself, he fancied himself kissing that perfect little mouth.

He burst into tears. What a horrible sin it was. How could he ever put this into words of confession? Surely it would be judged a sacrilege. A double sacrilege even to have such desires right in church. Maybe Father Martin would say it was too big a sin to forgive. Freddie would roast in hell for sure.

Freddie battled his conscience to convince himself that he had not really harbored any bad thoughts, that they had come unbidden, and were therefore unwelcome. He forced his mind to concentrate on his guardianship.

At one o’clock Freddie closed his eyes and saw himself lying in front of the Blessed Sacrament, dead of sheer exhaustion. People were gathering around his emaciated body.

“Couldn’t someone have come to help this poor young man?”

“What a hero.   He is now in heaven. A saint.”

They picked up his shrunken body and carried it away in triumph. Even Mamma didn’t cry. She was so proud to have a son who gave his life to protect Jesus in the Sacrament.

A seraphic smile glowed on his face for all eternity. Boys of every age flocked to become altar boys and emulate his heroic example. A shrine was erected in the village and became a place of pilgrimage for all of Canada. His statue would be placed in St. Gertrude’s Church, and when people prayed to him miracles would happen.

Then he saw himself leaving the church, going across the road to the parish house and telling Father Martin that he really needed to have something to eat, or at least a drink of water.

“And who is in church to protect the Blessed Sacrament?”

“Nobody.”

“You have left the church with no one to watch with the Lord?”

“Yes, but…”

“There can be no ‘buts’ with the Lord. You will no longer serve at the altar. You cannot be trusted with the Blessed Sacrament under your care. And if you ever thought of being a priest, you can forget that dream right now. You are not worthy. God would never call you, since you could not watch a little while longer at the tabernacle. Go home. Your mother will be very sad when she hears what you have to tell her. You have broken her heart. And mine. Now get out.”

Freddie dared not risk that. He thought of throwing himself down and lying there until the next shift arrived. Then they would feel sorry for him. But God would see the pretence and write still another black mark behind his name. In the final judgment the whole world would be told of his deceit right in front of the exposed Blessed Sacrament.

It was almost two o’clock when a new pair of altar boys breezed in, warm and sweaty from a ball game. With indifferent genuflections at the high altar, they took their places in front of the altar of adoration.

On the way home Freddie had to run the gauntlet of a swarm of cousins playing ball along the grassy roadway. He walked directly through the infield. He could feel the holiness encasing him like the aura around the pictures of saints. They would surely stop the ball game to stand in reverence as he passed, shading their eyes from the glory surrounding him. The older ones would cross themselves. With hands still folded in prayer from the long vigil, he would glide along, scarcely touching the ground. One of the girls would reach out to touch him, then pull her hand back in awe.

In reality, they did notice Freddie’s passage. “Get off the diamond, you stupid little bugger!”

But at home he surely would be greeted by a solicitous Mamma. She was sitting on the chesterfield in the corner, paging through the Spring and Summer Eaton’s catalog. She didn’t take her eyes off the page. The table was empty. Freddie looked for his piece of chicken. The kitchen was all cleaned up, the dishes put away, no sign of any chicken.

“I thought maybe you had something with Father Martin, or the Sisters.”

“No, Mamma.”

“There’s bread and butter in the pantry. You can put a little jam on it too.”

This story won First Runner Up in a Grain competition and was published in the February, 2011, issue of that magazine.

THE STOOKER

“Hey, Buddy, what d’you think you’re doing?”

The crisp voice startled him out of delicious sleep. Ben was on his way home. Because he was in no particular hurry, he had cut across country roads rather than stay on the busier, dustier gravel highway.

It had been one of those stiflingly hot days in late August. A typical Saskatchewan day when the prairie air refused to move. All day long the dry, gray powder between the rows of stubble had baked into Ben’s well-worn boots, crept up the inside of his overall pantlegs, gritted in his teeth, mingled with the salty sweat of his forehead to sting his eyes into a permanent squint.

Nothing in the day warned him that this day would end in any other way than such days usually did. The work was done, and you simply went home and got to bed.

The sun had just slipped below the horizon, leaving long, lingering fingers of delicate pinks and yellows and soft greens all the way around to the eastern sky. With the sun gone, the hot earth seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Birds busily harvested the rich array of insects that always greeted the end of day.

But Ben was still hot, hot from the memory of the scorching day of stooking. He had had hardly more than two good swigs from the water jug all day. It seemed that every time the binder came around with it, he was far down a windrow, and he didn’t like to lose the rhythm of his stooking.

Ben was a good stooker. He even thought of himself as a great stooker. And he loved work. Even when the prairie air practically choked him, he loved work.

Ben gave the appearance of being a big man. Not really tall at 5-foot-10, he seemed taller with his massive round shoulders, and his big chunky chest, and his big belly.

Ben was one of those stookers who grabbed a bunch of straw just below the twine, picking up one bundle in each hand. With almost effortless grace he swung the bundles together and stood them up leaning against each other. Eight bundles made a single stook. He looked with pride at his sturdy stooks. No wind would knock them over. No fall rain would hurt them. And if they stayed out all winter, they would be ready for the thresh-machine in the spring.

And he saw to it that his stooks were well-rowed. Given good weather, the threshing crew would be around in a few weeks with the bundle teams and hay racks, and Ben did not want them to have to traipse all over the field for scattered stooks.

Yes, Ben could look back at his work with satisfaction, not because he had made a few bucks — that was nice — but because it felt so good to work, to work in a field that was going to make a farmer glad he had planted wheat in the spring.

And because it happened to be Saturday.

He had pulled his rusting half-ton a few feet off the narrow road onto a rutted and almost hidden driveway, where grass and weeds had grown unchecked. He licked his unwashed, stubbled mouth in eager anticipation as he cracked open a Black Label.

He pushed back comfortably in his seat, then decided to open both doors to let the evening air blow through. He took a long, long pull at the bottle and settled back again. He closed his eyes. Row on row of beautifully capped wheat stooks climbed over gently rolling fields.

A tractor roared a long way away. He could hear the busy clacking of the binder as it formed the bundles, tied them, and kicked them out onto the carrier. Someone was working late.

A bird fluttered uncertainly over the hood of the truck and then went on. A kingbird, Ben decided, without checking. Then again, it could have been a red-winged blackbird.

Ah, it was a soul-happy time, harvest time. He wrapped his horny knuckles securely around his bottle, propped it up on his overall bib, and slid down lower in his seat.

He was only dimly aware of the car passing slowly and stopping. He jerked awake at the voice.

He was staring up into the cold, efficient eyes of a very young R.C.M.P. constable. Some of his beer, in fact, most of it, had spilled down over his bib and down into his lap.

“My name is Ben, and I’m having a beer.”

“Step out of your vehicle. I want your driver’s license, your registration, and proof of insurance.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Ben dragged himself out of the truck, suddenly bone-weary and desperately angry. Like a bear, he staggered forward when his left leg refused to carry his weight. It had fallen asleep. He fell against the constable and landed on top of him, their faces almost touching.   Revolted by the smell of beer and sweat, afraid that he was under attack, the constable rolled away and reached for his service pistol as he scrambled to his feet.

“Hey! Hold on there. I fell.”

“You know you’re breaking the law, don’t you?”

Having made a quick inspection of the cab, the constable began to copy pertinent information from Ben’s documents. But he kept a wary eye on the big man’s bloodshot eyes just slightly below the level of his own. Even though only one bottle had been opened, he could not be sure just how much this sturdy farmer had consumed. He could not clearly distinguish between the smell of spilled beer and the breath from the mouth twisting in anger and frustration.

“You can get back in.” But Ben didn’t move. He would stand and talk face to face, man to man.

“Sure I know what the law says. But look. I wasn’t hurting anybody. I was minding my own business, and this is my own truck. See, I’ve only had less than half a bottle of beer. Just what’s so dang wrong with having a beer beside the road?”

“Sorry, Buster, but the law says . . .”

“My name is Ben.”

“The law says you can’t drink in a vehicle. And you’re on road allowance. That’s public property. I’ll have to charge you.”

“Why in God’s name do you have to charge me? I’m not drunk. I haven’t bothered anybody. I’m not making any trouble. I have no intention of getting drunk and I’ll not be driving home drunk. You surely don’t have to charge me.”

“Look. You try to be a good farmer, and I try to be a good cop. You’re breaking the law and will receive a summons.”

“Why?”

“The law says . . .”

“Do you mean to tell me I am doing worse than those buggers back there in the beer parlor? Half of those guys are going to drink more than they should, and they’ll be on the road.”

“They’re not breaking the law. You are.”

“Shit on the Goddam law, and little farts like you!”

He pushed his way past the constable, plunked himself squarely into his seat and lurched back onto the road.

At first, much of the joy was gone from the rest of the harvest.   Ben smoldered with deep resentment at the stupidity of a law that couldn’t make allowances for a decent man to have a quiet beer by the side of the road on a hot Saturday evening after a glorious day of stooking in a thirty-bushel-to-the-acre wheat field, at the arrogance of a clean-scrubbed young constable who acted as if this was the first ticket he had ever written, who needed to please his boss, show him what a good little cop he was going to be.

Then cooler emotions began to push the anger aside. Ben made up his mind that he would not pay a fine, not under any circumstances. They could jail him first. Nor would he get a lawyer. No one was going to get one red cent of the money he earned out there stooking.

He knew he would have to plead guilty. That was obvious. But he would simply tell the truth, the unvarnished truth, the whole of it, and rely on the magistrate’s sense of simple justice. Yes, he thought that would be best. In the sweet sweat of physical toil his zest for life returned and stayed with him till the end of harvest.

He rehearsed what he would say in court a million times. Over and over, he saw himself, the simple farm laborer, in the crowded courtroom. With commonplace logic and simple eloquence he would point out the difference between the law and justice. He could see the judge nodding solemnly as he made his points. He heard the gavel. “Case dismissed!”

His trial date came late in November when no more farm jobs needed doing. He felt content and confident.

The courtroom was nothing at all like his imagination had painted it. The language, the efficiency, confused him. He was caught off guard by the reference to offensive behavior to an officer of the crown. They used numbers for sections of the law. The judge offered him no chance to speak in his own defense. At least, he did not hear anything like that. He did hear the judge say he could seek counsel, but Ben only shook his head.

“I then sentence you to two weeks at hard labor in the Prince Albert Penitentiary.”

Ben served his time the same way he stooked. What the heck, he figured, he had worked harder, eaten worse meals, slept in a poorer bed. And in the end it hadn’t cost him a penny.