Sugar House (9780991192519) (4 page)

"No way, Mikołaj" the small man replied.
"Never will happen. Those women have been trying to ban liquor for
twenty years. It's no business of the government's if a man has a
drink or two. A man has to set his own moral compass." Several
other men joined in to voice their own opinions, but they were now
nearing the cathedral and the conversation dimmed into a respectful
murmur and then to silence as the parishioners ascended the stairs
into church.

The smell of incense drifted into their
nostrils as the large wooden doors opened and they entered the
sanctuary. Pulling off his cap, Mikołaj nodded a greeting to the
ushers in the vestibule, and the family entered the nave, bathed in
a soft light from the stained glass windows lining both sides. They
headed to a pew, on the left, near the back, with the number 143
intricately carved in its side of white oak.

Joe's father paid a monthly pew rental to
occupy a designated seat, as did all parishioners. New members to
the parish were typically assigned seating in the rear of the
cathedral. However, people whose weekly tithing was deemed generous
or were important members of the community would quickly find
themselves near the front. Visitors to the parish could occupy
seats in the back of the church if they were available.

Bright golden angels gazed down at Joe from
every nook and arch of the nave ceiling. Murals of saints, Christ
and his apostles decorated the vaults above his seat. Myriad
electric bulbs twinkled on a great chandelier suspended in the
middle of the church. Candles glowing in red and blue glass
flickered on the five altars. A cloud moved in the sky outside, and
a beam of sunshine shone through the stained glass windows.

The warm weather combined with the body heat
of nearly twelve hundred attendees had women fanning themselves
with their prayer books throughout the hundreds of pews. Joe pulled
his handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the perspiration
from under his collar. His gaze drifted from the oval rose window,
with its rose, violet, and blue petals stretching out from the
central picture of Jesus, to the ostrich feathers trimming the
ladies' hats in the pews before him. Looking around the crowd he
spotted Sam and his mother kneeling in prayer a few rows behind his
family. Joe coughed quietly to try to grab Sam's attention, but the
boy and his mother were deep in prayer. Matka looked down sharply
at Joe, and he looked to the front of the church.

Scarlet carpeting down the main aisle ended
at the alabaster altar. This too was illuminated with electric
lights going up the sides and culminating in a vibrantly lit cross
thirty feet above. Two angels blowing trumpets flanked the outer
corners. Images of Our Lady of Częstochowa, Saint Stanislaus and
Saint Aloysius adjoined a painting of the church's patron, Saint
Josaphat.

Above the high altar a mural of the Trinity
was depicted on the domed ceiling, bordered by images of the
Nativity and the Last Supper. Detailed paintings of significant
biblical scenes adorned the ceiling above the four confessionals in
the transept. The décor, murals, lights and vastness of the
sanctuary could easily sway a man back into the arms of God. The
building was intended to elicit humility and worship. To a small
boy, St. Josaphat's cathedral was truly God's house.

Joe stood, as loud chords began to
reverberate throughout the church from the massive organ. Two lines
of nuns in long, black habits started the procession down the
aisle, followed by six altar boys wearing white surplices over
black cassocks and carrying flickering ivory candles. Four priests
conveying tall golden crosses preceded the head priest, Father
Gatowski.

Joe followed along in his missal, singing the
sacred songs with reverence and joy. Though he couldn't understand
the language, he was familiar with the rites and traditions. Not
many in the church could comprehend the old language. Most of the
older parishioners couldn't understand English much less Latin, but
Mass had been conducted in Latin in the old country, so all were
familiar with the liturgy.

Joe had much to be thankful for this week. He
thanked God during the time of prayer for his kind, hardworking
parents, for Frank not bugging him too much last week and
especially for the adventure that awaited him. He finished his
prayer with a request. "Dear God, please help the nuns be nicer
this week, so I don't get a note home that'll mess the plans for
Saturday."

Following the readings, Father Gatowski
climbed the curved steps of the pulpit at the center of the front
pews. He stood fifteen feet above the congregation, his ivory robes
billowing about him. The people near the bottom of the pulpit
craned their necks to see the monsignor.

Father Gatowski was a kind man, and the
children of St. Josaphat's often brought him treats from home,
which only helped to enhance his round girth. Frequently, he could
be seen behind the school throwing a football with the boys or
pushing a couple girls on the swings. He was average in stature
though a little generous in the belly and had a shock of thick
white hair that stood straight up when he was running on the small
playground.

Switching from Latin to Polish, Father
Gatowski began, "Dzień dobry, St. Josaphat's! Today I have great
news to share with you. Just as Jesus walked through Jerusalem
pronouncing the good news of his Father's love, I want to follow in
his footsteps and walk through our streets shouting our good news.
All thanks to the donations of money and time from you, our friends
and neighbors, St. Josaphat's new school will be finished in less
than a month's time. All the sacrifices given by you to build a
place where our young can learn and be educated in the ways of the
Catholic Church are coming to fruition. The school building will be
officially dedicated on Friday, November 12, the feast day of our
patron saint. There will be no school for the children that day.
The sisters and the children will march in procession from the
corner of Beaubien and St. Antoine Streets, turning onto Canfield
and ending here at the church. They will begin the procession at
nine o'clock in the morning. For those that can attend; there will
be a ceremony and benediction given by Bishop Foley. Following Mass
there will be a dinner held at Polonia Hall. Ladies, please plan to
donate a dish to pass, and at that I only request one thing… that
no meat will be served or eaten on this day in honor of St.
Josaphat, who abstained from meat throughout his life out of
devotion to our Lord. The weekend will include many celebratory
events that the parish social committees are planning. Please stop
in the vestibule after Mass to look over the scheduled events and
sign up to work at one or two functions. With God's blessing it
will be a wonderful occasion. So, as I again thank all of you, let
us ask the blessing of St. Josaphat and our Lord Jesus Christ and
we pray… ."

After the blessing of the gifts, Joe followed
his parents out of the pew for Communion. He crossed his arms over
his chest as he knelt next to Matka at the altar. This signified to
the priest that he had not received the First Holy Communion
sacrament, so Father Gatowski instead, lay his hand on Joe's head,
giving him a small blessing for the week, and moved down to
distribute a holy wafer on the tongue of Ojciec and the others
kneeling at the altar.

After Mass, Joe walked as quickly as he could
to the back of the church but not so fast he'd be noticed by one of
the nuns who were always watching. Reaching the vestibule, he saw
the plans for the big festival posted on a large easel. A polka
band would play for a dance on that Friday evening. Joe had never
been to a dance before, and he wondered if he'd be allowed to
attend. On Saturday morning a baseball game for the boys from the
school would be held at a small park near the church. After a
picnic lunch, the men of the parish could join a team that would
play in the afternoon. Later, the parishioners would reconvene at
the church for an evening of song. Tunes from the old county were
to be sung followed by dessert and coffee in the basement. The
festivities would end with a special Mass on Sunday. Proceeds from
a weekend long bake sale would go to buy supplies for the new
school.

Joe swiftly wrote his name on the signup
sheet for the boys' baseball game. He wanted to make sure he
secured a spot on one of the teams. As he turned to walk away, he
was surprised to see his father signing up for the baseball game on
Saturday afternoon. "Ojciec, have you played baseball before?"
asked Joe.

"No, Joe but I've wanted to since I first
heard about it when I came to this country. I see you and the
neighborhood boys playing in the street, and I think I could learn
to play. I am not too old, you know. Twenty-eight is not too old of
a man yet, my son. Perhaps you can teach me a couple of the rules
in the backyard this afternoon?"

"Yes, Ojciec. Sure! That will be fun!" Joe
could hardly believe it. Ojciec had never played a game with him
before. When they'd lived in the Upper Peninsula his father had
always been too tired from working in the mine, and seven months of
snow prohibited much outdoor playing time. Walking home from
church, Joe felt that his family was truly on their way to living
the American dream.

Joe's parents stopped to talk to their friends Mr.
and Mrs. Stanislewski, who were sitting on their front porch. The
Stanislewski's had lived in a village near where Mikołaj and Blanca
had come from in Poland. The couples liked to compare stories and
war reports they heard throughout the week from newspapers and from
new immigrants arriving in Detroit. The Prussian army was heavily
entrenched in the region where they'd lived, and accurate reporting
on the state of their villages was difficult to ascertain. Joe sat
on the porch step for a few minutes until there was a small break
in the conversation.

"Would you like a sugar cookie, Mrs.
Stanislewski?" Blanca ventured, pulling the sweet smelling treat
from the basket she had taken to church.

"I'd love one, Mrs. Jopolowski! You do make
the finest sweets on this side of Detroit, Blanca."

"Oh, I don't know about that…"

"Blanca, please don't be so humble! Mikołaj!
Aren't Blanca's pastries the best in the city?" Mrs. Stanislewski
asked.

"Absolutely! And they should be, for as much
sugar she goes through in a week." He smiled. "Pretty soon I'll
have to buy a car so I can carry it back from the market."

"If she sold them you probably could buy a
car, Mikołaj," Mr. Stanislewski interjected.

"Now stop, all of you," Blanca said. "I could
never charge for my baking. I just enjoy it, and I enjoy sharing it
with others. Here, Joe, why don't you take two cookies and give one
to Walt," she said.

"Is Walt home?" he asked Mrs. Stanislewski
hopefully, as she fanned herself on a chair in the shade.

"Go on upstairs," Mrs. Stanislewski replied,
smiling. "He's in his room." Joe ran up the narrow staircase to
Walt's room. Walt was three years older than Joe and a friendly kid
who didn't mind hanging out with Joe while their parents visited.
Joe found Walt sitting on his bed, glasses lying crooked on his
nose, looking at postcards of the Gold Cup boat races in Manhasset
Bay, New York.

"Hiya Joe! Hey, look at this. These are from
August fourteenth of this year." Walt pointed at a black and white
picture of a hydroplane boat named the Miss Detroit. "This girl has
a two hundred fifty horsepower Sterling engine!"

"Wow! Two hundred fifty horses! How fast can
she go?" asked Joe.

"Almost fifty miles per hour, but she
averages around forty-two in a circular course. The Miss Detroit
won the Gold Cup this year. First time a boat from Detroit has won
since they started racing eleven years ago. Look, see this other
postcard? That's a picture of Jack Beebe standing on her bow. Last
year he was the riding mechanic on the Baby Speed Demon II, but
that boat wasn't from Michigan. He's a master mechanic. He rebuilds
all his engines to make them faster and lighter for racing."

Walt walked over to a small desk and picked
up several books that were piled high on the corner. Papers fell to
the ground, and Joe saw several drawings of engines and boats as he
lent a hand picking up the sheets. Joe knew better than to ask his
friend if he was going to play in the St. Josaphat baseball game.
Walt always refused to play games or baseball with the other boys.
He spent half his time tinkering with small machines and kitchen
tools and the other half down at the river watching boats and
ships.

"What's a riding mechanic?" Joe asked.

"That's the guy that sits in the boat with
the driver. He operates the engine and fixes what breaks while
they're' racing. Last year Jack Beebe whittled a washer for the air
pump of the Speed Demon while they were racing!"

"Boy, how long is a race?"

"Depends on the race," Walt said. "This year
the Gold Cup was five miles."

"Does Jack Beebe ever drive the boat or does
he always just work on the engine?" Joe was very interested; he
hadn't known a boat could go so fast.

"Well, actually this year, when he won again,
he was driving. See, Miss Detroit's driver didn't show up for the
race and five minutes before the starting gun they still had no one
to drive. So the owners of the boat say 'Hey! Can anybody here
drive a boat?' and this guy Johnny Milot says he can. Johnny'd come
to the race to be a mechanic's assistant and had driven the boat a
couple times to test it out but he'd never driven in a race and
didn't know the course."

Joe stared hard at the facial features of the
mechanic on the postcard as Walt continued. The man's face was
wrinkled, and his cap was tilted up above his forehead.