wizard-of-the-pigeons

become a citizen in 1909, and worshiped in this very place. Canonized in 1949,
she was the first United States citizen to be so honored. From his pocket he drew
coins and pushed them into the donation slot. The book of paper matches was
tucked behind one of the candle holders. He lit a candle in a blue glass and knelt
to watch it burn before the image of the homely woman in simple garb. He felt
consoled by its light and let himself sink into a dream.
First Communion Day. His stiff collar chafed the back of his neck raw. He
approached the altar beside a little girl in a white dress with crackling petticoats.
She wore a veil over her shining hair and her eyes glowed as she turned them up
to the crucifix. He had knelt beside her at the altar railing, the gold and white
fence that separated the priest and the holy place from the commoners. He had
put out his tongue and received on it the round Host. It was white and stiff and
dry, tasting of sanctity. It stuck to the roof of his mouth as he rose and carefully
walked back to his pew with the other First Communicants.
He knew it was unseemly to chew it, so he waited patiently until it dissolved
into a soggy mass he could swallow whole.
And as it went down, an interior Goodness so real that it warmed him flooded
his whole body, making a shiver up his back and tears in his eyes. Never had he
felt so Chosen. Jesus Christ was in him and his soul burned with a white flame
of purity.
He had tried to play it at home, to recapture that elusive feeling for himself.
In the game he was the priest, with a roll of Necco Wafers, and two small sisters
who would do anything to get them They knelt before him, wildflower crowned,
and responded “amen” as be set the candy on their pink outstretched tongues. It
was good, but it was not the same. Only in the church did that feeling touch him,
and he longed for a white surplice and vestments of green and gold and purple,
and people kneeling before him to be nurtured. The mystical chanting of the
choir, the high Sanctus, Sanctus. Sanctus, like a joyous bird rising to heaven. He
knew that someday he would stand before that altar, elevating the Host high, his
sleeves falling back to bare his arms as the masses behind him bowed their beads
and murmured, “my Lord and my God.”
He had become an altar boy, memorizing the mystical Latin responses with
ease. He could still remember the tingle on his skin the first time he slipped the
black and white robes of his office over his head. He had poured the water over
the priest’s fingers from the tiny glass carafe trimmed in gold, had seen him
shake the shining drops from his fingertips as he mimicked Pilate’s denial. The