twenty minutes before noon mass
St. Casimir Church was already
beginning to fill; to my left
the Polish Gramma Brigade
babushkas in thirty five
shades of green
prayed the rosary.
I sat near the front just off
the aisle, the church bulletin
clenched in a sweaty fist
awaiting Syzmanski's return.
he arrived, out of breath,
genuflecting before the cross,
ruddy features redder than usual.
I didn't ask if he'd gone
through with the plan.
I knew he did.
we waited.
soon Sister Helena fired up
the organ, launching into
a fervent rendition of Ave Maria.
Mathurin Susorini, garbed
in the simple black cassock
and white surplice of an altar
boy, emerged from the vestibule.
his face bore the pious
expression of a saint as
he genuflected near the altar and
turned to light the first candle.
my stomach went flash frozen
and dropped to my testicles.
gasps and screams erupted
from the devout.
writ large in red marker across
the back of his surplice,
the word FUCK.
unaware, Mathurin turned toward
the congregation
before Father John tackled him
and tore the surplice
from his back.
goddammit, you were supposed
to write HELLO, I muttered.