My Mother, “You’re taking the kids to Mass with you… they’re too much to handle.”
My Father, “Fine.”
He thinks to himself, ‘She’s overreacting… Likely’
My father drives the 90s black mercury sable sedan. I sat in the back seat behind the passenger my sister in the front. The mercury sable had a moonroof through which I could see… The Moon. It was winter and we were on our way to the Sunday night mass on the campus of Villanova University. The Moon was full and bright, the sun had been set for hours now. There were small scattered clouds that were made bright white by the reflecting moon.
I went into on one of my stupid characters. I would describe this one as a naive child with over pronounced vowels and a touch of a lisp. Raised eyebrows with good intentioned eagerness and a desire to connect and be friends. As long as you imagine ‘Annoying’ you’ve achieved the voice. Annoying. Really annoying. Annoying through repetition. Annoying through persistence. Death by a thousand cuts annoying. Taken in one minute the character is not annoying. But one minute is not the showtime. Running time is eternity. Perpetual character. Always annoying. Never breaking character. Statements in the characters’ voice. Questions in the voice. Running commentary in the voice. The dumb childlike character isn’t saying anything offensive, inappropriate, or rude. He’s rambling. Annoying because, what are you going to get mad at? The character isn’t yelling or screaming he’s chatting on and on. Annoying because it’s so clear that the will of the performer is stronger than any energy you could object with. Annoying because if you scream “shut up” you’ve fused conflict into the play and we all know that any good character and story is made richer with conflict. The child would get a little wounded, sad, and try to amend the relationship. That’s annoying because it’s disarming. Annoying because the path of least resistance is to talk to the character as it is. Annoying because you have to live in the character’s world. Annoying because you can’t win. It’s will is too strong. Annoying the way I could extend this paragraph to ten pages single spaced describing how annoying it is.
The following is a small excerpt from the car ride. It is part of a conversation that relentlessly ran the entire ride.
“Look Hopi it’s Mr. Moon, it’s Mr. Moon Hopi”
Hope knows, don’t fight the play, go along with the character. In a maternal voice she replies “Yes, it’s Mr. Moon that’s very good”
“Mr Moon is so bright tonight, it’s great we have this roof window in the car roof to view him. View Mr Moon. We could get our necks hurt if we had to constantly look out the side windows don’t you think Hopi?”
“Yes that’s right”
“About our necks and side windows and the moon window in the roof”
“Yes all that”
“I think Mr Moon is bright tonight because of how bright the light is that’s coming from him. I think anyone can see that tonight”
“Yes that’s a good observation”
“Tonight is a special night with Mr Moon”
The moon goes behind clouds…
“Hopi where did Mr Moon go!?! I can’t see him I can’t see him”
The clouds pass and the moon is visible again…
“Oh there he is, I thought I lost Mr Moon and that would be terrible, not just for me but anyone watching the moon.”
The moon disappears, this time behind thicker clouds. The child can barely breath.
“Hopi, Mr. Moon he’s gone. He’s gone Hopi”
“That’s right” she replied, “Mr. Moon is dead, Johnny. He died”
The children and father must arrive to the Mass early. My father coordinates the mass he makes sure the lectures, eucharistic ministers, singers, and logistics are in place. The children meander around the church. This is before internet and smart phones.
A large beautiful book and pen lay open on a wood stand in the back of the church.
The mass begins. We are sitting in the front row my sister is in the middle of my father and I. I would pray a little during mass at this stage in my life but most of the time was spent wandering my mind into playful day dreams.
At the 40 minute mark we arrive at the part of the mass where we collectively pray for the sick and dead from the book of intentions.
For the sick we pray,
“Greg Catania”
“Jackie Marrota”
“Joseph Tribble”
“Frank Callahan”
“We pray to the lord”
Amen.
And for the deceased we pray for,
“Elizabeth Downey”
“Melissa Harrel”
“Glenn Jackson”
“And Mister… Moon”
PAUSE
“…We pray to the lord”
A LOUD SNORT PROJECTS FROM MY FACE. A SECOND SNORT EXPELS FROM MY SISTERS NOSE.
My father was in a state of contemplative prayer until this jarring interruption from his chuckling children. His children are LAUGHING AT THE DEAD. He scrunches his face recalling “Mr Moon” and calculates the joke. He drops his face realizing that his son WROTE “MR MOON” IN THE BOOK OF INTENTIONS BEFORE THE MASS BEGAN.
The student Lectern looks up at the laughing kids. Other people turn heads towards us. ‘Why? Why are the kids laughing at dead people?’ Their expressions say.
THE ENTIRE CHURCH IS SILENT BECAUSE WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE PRAYING FOR DEAD SOULS.
The children do their best to swallow the laughter. My sister turns red. She has given in to the play. She knows her part. Johnny may have submitted prayers for Mr Moon, but SHE IS THE ONE WHO KILLED MR MOON.