Saints and Superheroes

I.

Jimmy Healy and I were outliers. We got lumped together, like two broken crayons of the least desirable colors. But that didn’t mean we were friends.

Fifth grade. I was new to Saint Agnes Catholic School. I was skinny and flat-chested; my plaid uniform jumper didn’t quite fit. I wore my blonde hair in perpetual braids—my mother’s idea. I had glasses and braces. I hated speaking in class, even if I knew the answer, which I often did. Most days I faded into the Formica desktop, content to do my work, then slip out after school and dash to the school bus. I sat near the back door, poised for another quick escape.

Jimmy’s crime was being Jimmy. He had short black hair that was unevenly cut and projected at odd angles from his otherwise fine head. His white shirt was an off gray, his plaid tie always askew, and his trousers had permanent stains at the knees. Maybe it was his heretical dress code, but his face held a look of wry amusement, and his eyes were crisp blue.

I’d heard rumors that his dad had died in the war, and his mom and several older brothers were left to take care of their small family. He lived in one of the disheveled two-family homes near Saint Agnes. Jimmy walked home, led by a dark-haired teenager. I’d watch through the window of the bus. Jimmy would engage in animated conversation—with himself or with his silent brother, I never knew.

We were cohorted together in art class. Our desks joined head-on, we shared a sixty-four-color crayon box. The assignment: draw your favorite saint.

Jimmy began by snapping all the crayons in two.

“What are you doing?” I howled.

He smiled. “Making it fair and square. Half for each of us. No waiting.”

He winked. He was one of the only fifth graders who liberally employed the wink.

“Who are you drawing?” he asked.

I stared at the pile of broken crayons on my desk, swallowing down the thick feeling in my throat.

“They’re just crayons, sister,” he said. “Lemme guess.” He sat back. “You look like your favorite saint would be—Holy Mary.”

I froze. “She’s hardly a saint. She’s the Mother of God.”

“M—O—G—” he said. “Then, who?”

“See if you know,” I said.

We both set to work. I was in my lonely artist phase, exploring the many uses of cornflower blue. My saint heroically stood tied to a sepia-shaded stake, eyes cast upward to the cornflower sky as red-orange, goldenrod and violet-blue flames licked ever higher on her delicate peach skin.

Jimmy looked over my arm and whistled, another skill. “The sister can draw!”

I blushed. My one talent revealed, I felt naked.

“Do you know who she is,” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Patron saint of bonfires and barbecues.”

I laughed. “No. It’s Saint Joan of Arc. Patron saint of France. And soldiers.”

“Soldiers?”

“Uh-huh. She heard voices when she was a girl, telling her to drive the English out of France and get the real king on the throne. She said saints and angels told her.”

“Saints and angels, eh?” Jimmy smiled his wry smile. “She wasn’t a little—you know—” He traced a circle next to his head.

I shrugged. “Maybe, but she believed and won a bunch of battles and got the king on the throne.”

“That’s pretty good—for a girl. Why the fire?”

“She got burnt at the stake by a bunch of bishops,” I said.

“Damn bishops,” he said. “They’ll do it every time.”

Damn. Using profanity. Another skill.

“Who did you draw?” I asked.

Jimmy had a hand on his picture, face down on the desk. “I don’t know if I should show you. I’m not great at drawing.”

“Well, suit yourself,” I said. “But if I can guess who it is, you’re likely pretty good.”

He turned his picture over.

His page was blank.

I saw Jimmy’s eyes—they were cornflower blue.

October. Lunchtime. Mother Superior, Sister Karen Ann, patrolled the lunchroom. Sister Karen Ann was six feet tall and resembled a flamingo from Alice in Wonderland, only Sister’s habit was blue.

Cliques of girls, packs of boys. Me alone at a table, face buried in my white bread sandwich, surveilling the room surreptitiously over the crust. Jimmy sat alone too, talking to himself, watching.

As I looked out the window, Sister Karen Ann appeared with Jimmy.

“You two should get to know each other.” She smiled a thin flamingo smile.

 Jimmy slid into the seat across from me and tossed his dented black metal lunchbox onto the table. He looked up at Sister Karen Ann.

“That’ll be all, General. That’ll be all. Time for chow.”

“General Sister Karen Ann, if you must,” she said, then walked away.

Jimmy opened his bologna sandwich, crushed up his bag of chips, spread them over the mayonnaise, added a layer of M&Ms, and covered all with the top slice of bread.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Saves time,” he said. “Lunch, snack, and dessert. All together.”

“But how does it taste?”

He held his sandwich out to me, offering a bite.

“Food allergies,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks anyway.”

“That why you bring cheese and jam on white bread, and an apple every day?”

“How do you know what I bring for lunch?”

“I see everything,” he said, and winked.

I didn’t want to get personal. Even if his eyes were cornflower blue.

“Eastertime I use jelly beans instead of M&Ms,” he said. “That’s a real treat.” He chewed noisily. “Are you going as Saint Joan for the All-Saints Halloween Dress Up day?”

I nodded. “I wonder if I’ll be the only Saint Joan.”

“I’ll keep my ears open and my eyes peeled,” he said, finishing the last of his conglomerated sandwich.

“Who are you going as?” I asked.

“Secret,” he said.

Halloween in Catholic school was All Hallows’ Eve. This was a day of costumes, parties, candy, and a school parade around the parking lot. There wasn’t a single witch, princess, or monster. That day we were required (by General Sister Karen Ann) to dress up as our favorite saint, as our “real” holiday was November 1, All Saints Day, and a day off from school.

A litany of saints would show—each carrying a symbol of their life or, for many saints, their grisly death. Holy Mary Mother of God carrying a Baby Jesus; Saint Agnes, the patron of young girls and chastity, with the tongs that plucked out her eyes; Saint Cecilia, patroness of music, carrying some instrument.

The boys—our class had Saint Sebastian, protector of archers and athletes, complete with bloodied arrows piercing his leotard-covered chest; Saint Joseph carrying a hammer; and Saint Francis of Assisi, patron of animals, who brought his German Shepherd to school, telling everyone it was a wolf.

As we arrived on the bus, I saw that the costumes looked spiffy and professional. I wore my gray leotard under a long white pillowcase fashioned into a tunic and cinched with a gold mesh belt, and my black winter boots. It seemed amateurish. Even my sword, which the very night before looked bold, had lost its luster. My father had forged my sword in our garage, cutting a wood frame that I covered with silver duct tape and tinfoil. I felt like Joan, though—a tomboyish young girl who marched to divine orders. I pulled my hooded cloak around me, a vestige of last year’s Red Riding Hood. I wanted to stay on the bus.

I looked for Jimmy but didn’t see him. The girls ignored me, but for another Saint Joan—Donna Boccatucci—sizing me up from across the playground. Her costume was better than mine, and she had a real, old sword.

Jimmy arrived, riding next to a brother who drove an ailing red Sunbeam Alpine convertible. As the car stuttered to a stop, Jimmy jumped out over the door. The car jerked noisily out of the lot, and a hush descended. Sister Karen Ann walked slowly over to where Jimmy stood adjusting his outfit.

“Well, Mr. Healy,” she said. “And what saint are you?”

“Hello, General,” he said amicably. “I thought for sure you’d recognize me. My brother helped with the shield.”

His held the top to a metal trash can. Red and white circles were painted around a blue center with a white star. Jimmy wore a blue leotard with a white star on the front and red and white stripes around his torso.

“I think I look pretty nifty, begging the general’s pardon,” he said.

“You’re not a saint,” she said.

“Now, General, I know, but you can’t argue with Captain America’s values. Saintlike, you know what I mean? General?”

Sister Karen Ann penciled a frown, possibly a smile—and walked away. She clapped her hands. “All right, boys and girls, time for the parade!”

We attempted to form a line, but instead formed a circular striation around Sister Karen Ann, the other nuns, priests, and teachers. The Other Joan had managed to position herself behind me with her cronies, Saint Agnes and The Holy Virgin M.O.G.

As we paraded around the schoolyard, I felt—smack—on the back of my legs.

I turned, and Other Joan said, politely, “Is something wrong?”

“Your sword—”

“It’s real, you know.”

I nodded. We walked. Smack. Double smack.

I turned around. “Will you please stop?”

“Sor-ry,” she said.

We walked on and she caught her real sword between my ankles. I fell forward, steadying myself on Saint Sebastian. I apologized, handed back his arrow, and turned to Other Joan.

“Keep your sword away from my legs!”

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s long. Maybe you should walk somewhere else.”

“Why don’t you?” I said.

Other Joan stepped closer. “Why don’t you make me—with your fake sword.”

“Why are you so mean?” I said.

“Why are you such a loser?” she said.

I didn’t want to back down, so I stood there. The line halted. Sister Karen Ann clapped her hands.

“Got a problem, sister?”

Captain America was standing next to me.

“You don’t mind if I join you two Joans,” he said, moving behind me.

Other Joan glowered as Mary M.O.G. snorted, “How dumb. Saint Captain America.”

In my ear I heard Jimmy say, “Just keep walking, sister. I got your back.”

As we walked, he held his shield so that Other Joan’s sword struck it with a clang, clang, clang.

“You there! With the sword!” said Sister Karen Ann, clapping her hands and moving in. “Donna Boccatucci! That’s enough!” She grabbed Other Joan by the shoulder and moved her several places back.

After the parade we headed to our classrooms, played games, and ate orange and black cupcakes.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I said.

“I’m fighting for you, sister.” He winked.

“But Captain America?” I said, giggling.

“He’s a saint to me. Just like Saint Joan is to you. Maybe more,” he said. “Why do you like her so much anyway?”

I shrugged. “I guess because she didn’t care what people thought.”

We were almost friends after that, though it wasn’t clear if Jimmy wanted friends. At recess he’d roam around the playground, occasionally sitting to talk with me, but often just walking.

I had to avoid Donna Boccatucci, though Sister Karen Ann and Jimmy ran interference.

Jimmy and I sat together at recess on the last day of school.

“Sorry I broke all the crayons on the first day of art,” he said. “You should’ve told me you’re an artist.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve gotten used to them. I broke mine at home too.”

He nodded.

“I heard about your dad, Jimmy.”

He shrugged. “We have his uniform and a couple of medals.”

“Is that why you like Captain America so much?”

“Maybe he could’ve saved him or something. Praying to all those angels and saints didn’t do much good.” He got up and walked away.

I followed him. “Jimmy, thanks for eating lunch with me and all.”

He nodded.

“I’ll see you next year?” I said.

“Negative, sister,” he said.

“Negative?”

“My mom’s sending me to the public school down the street.”

“But what about lunchtime? And art?”

“You’ll be on your own, sister. Just remember to keep your head down and—”

“And what?” I wanted to cry.

He winked. “Keep drawing, sister. And stay away from bishops.”

That last afternoon I watched from the bus as Jimmy walked next to his brother to their home, someplace down the street.

II.

Twenty-two years later. I returned to that town for my fifteen-year high school reunion. Homecoming weekend was the last in October, precariously close to All Hallows’ Eve and All Saints Day. There were picnics, a football game, and the Saturday Night Costume Party held on the high school playing field. Downtown businesses sold costumes. The bakery sold orange and black cupcakes.

I arrived late on Friday, missing out on the grander outfits. Foraging in my parents’ attic, I pieced together Joan of Arc but with a “real” plastic sword, black leather boots, and a patterned leotard that resembled chain mail. I spent Saturday going through the yearbook with a couple of friends. Most people wrote teary notes next to their pictures. Donna Boccatucci had written, “So long, Loser.”

We went to the game. Many classmates were lost or missing. The costume party drew a crowd of graduates and tagalongs of various ages. The growing carousal spilled out to the street and onto the town green. The DJ set up speakers and played music from the gazebo, and another keg was tapped.

About thirty of us played flag football by the streetlights. We couldn’t tell who was on what team, and the game degenerated into something like rugby. At half-time I stood drinking beer with my friends.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Saint Joan,” said a voice. The Other Joan, Donna Boccatucci. She was dressed in a mature variant of her fifth-grade costume, complete with her real sword, and accompanied by a grown-up M.O.G. and Saint Agnes, now dressed as Care Bears.

“Hello, Donna,” I said. My plastic sword hung limply from my belt.

“Care for a rematch?” Donna asked. “Joan v. Joan?” Her sword whistled as she cut it through the air. “I was on the fencing team in college. You did go to college, didn’t you?”

“Sure,” I said.

My friend tugged my arm. “Game’s starting,” she said.

“Great seeing you, Donna,” I said, and began walking away.

“Not so fast—Joan,” she said, blocking my way with her sword. “You know, after Sister Karen Ann fingered me during the fifth-grade parade, I was on her shit list.”

“I didn’t think nuns had shit lists,” I said. “See you on the playing field.”

I walked around her sword and her curses.

Back on the green, flag football-rugby resumed. Amid the confused and drunken tactical plays, I caught the ball and ran toward the end zone. I had about a dozen people chasing me and an equal number defending me, when—smack. Donna tripped me with her sword. I didn’t let go of the ball. I was compressed under several bodies. I screamed into the grass and kicked and pushed until the top bodies realized I couldn’t breathe. Climbing out, I got elbowed in the eye. I was dazed. Someone handed me a water and ice for my eye.

Donna had taken the ball.

“Serves you right,” she said, and waved her sword in front of my face. “You’ll have a nice black eye tomorrow.” She smiled and flicked her sword again.

It made contact with the Scary Clown standing behind her.

“Hey, watch it,” he said. “You ripped my costume! You’re gonna hurt someone with that.” He looked down on Donna from far above six feet.

“You could’ve moved,” Donna said.

“You could apologize,” said the clown.

“It’s your own fault,” said Donna.

“You hit me!” said the clown.

“Careful,” I warned. “I hear she’s on the fencing team.”

“I hate the fencing team,” Scary Clown said. He grabbed Donna’s sword, broke it neatly in two over his knee, and threw the pieces on the ground.

“What are you doing? That’s a real sword!” she howled.

“Now it’s real junk,” I said.

Donna looked up at the Scary Clown, then down at me, lying on the grass, and threw herself on me. She straddled me and slapped my face. The clown pulled her off but was attacked by the Care Bears. Donna still had the ball, so, thinking it was a play, five others joined in the brawl. I managed to crawl out and sit against the gazebo as the clock on the town hall struck midnight. The DJ played “Street Fighting Man,” and the brawl grew like a giant amoeba, engulfing revelers and passersby. This lasted about as long as the song played before it was replaced by sirens and a couple of squad cars. Most of the crowd scattered except for Donna and her Care Bears, Scary Clown, my two friends, and me. We were dirty, sweaty, bloody.

“All right, all right,” said a burly guy in police uniform. “I want everybody sitting in a row in front of me.”

He looked at me, propped against the gazebo.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Can I just stay here,” I said. “I’ve got a nasty black eye and wasn’t part of the fight.”

“Then how’d you get the black eye?”

I pointed to Donna. “She did it.”

“Liar,” she hissed.

“She did it,” said the clown.

“Do you want to press charges?” asked The Cop.

“I want to think about it,” I said.

“You can’t do that,” Donna said.

“Yes, she can,” said The Cop. “Why are you two dressed alike?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “So now what?”

“I gotta take you all to the station,” he said. “I gotta call for backup.”

“We could walk,” I said. “The station’s still one block away, right?”

“Well, it’s a little unusual,” The Cop said. “Besides, your guilty friend will try to bolt.”

“I will not,” said Donna.

“I know the look,” The Cop said.

In the end, the seven of us crammed into the two police cruisers and drove to the station.

We waited on orange plastic chairs in the fluorescent-lit waiting area. We were called one by one, to present our IDs and give our version of events. This took a while and then The Cop went into an office marked “Chief” in big letters with smaller type beneath that I couldn’t read. My eye was pretty swollen.

About half an hour later, The Cop came out of the chief’s office and stood in front of our row of orange chairs.

“Chief says that you two, and you, you, and you can go.” He pointed to my friends, the Care Bears, and the clown. “But you and you—” he pointed to me and Donna, “—are under arrest for inciting a riot—”

“You can’t hold me! I didn’t do anything,” screamed Donna.

“—and drunk and disorderly conduct,” he said.

“I wanna talk to this chief!” she yelled. “I want my phone call!”

“Yelling doesn’t help,” he said.

He read us our rights. Donna cried, loudly.

“Crying doesn’t help either,” he said, then to the others, “We’ll get you out of here in a few.”

I watched as my two friends, the clown, and the Care Bears were escorted to another desk for release. My friends looked back. I waved, sadly.

“I’ll have to confiscate your sword,” The Cop said to me.

He escorted us down the hallway to the holding cell.

“So, you’re both Joan of Arc? Patron saint of soldiers or something, right?”

“I’m Saint Joan,” I said. “She’s Other Joan, aka Donna. How do you know about the patron saint business?”

“Chief told me,” he said.

“Can I get some ice? For my eye—”

“Sure,” he said, and locked us in the holding cell, a ten-by-twelve room with a glass-fronted door reinforced with wire mesh. Donna sat on one end of the metal bench, and I sat on the other. She was crying, which turned the dirt on her face muddy brown.

“Hey, Other Joan,” I said. “You attacked me because you’re pissed off about fifth grade?”

She stopped crying and looked at me with what was meant to be a menacing expression.

I laughed. “You look ridiculous.”

She growled.

The Cop came and told us we could take turns using the phone to make one call to whomever we chose. Donna bolted to the door. They returned several minutes later.

I called my home, but my parents didn’t pick up.

“Can I try someone else? Please?” I said. “My parents are old.”

“I’m sorry, Saint Joan. But we got rules, you know?”

“This is hardly a high crime,” I said.

He shrugged.

“What about my ice?”

“Ice machine’s broken. We’re working on it,” he said.

The Cop showed up half an hour later, motioned to Donna, and walked her out.

She smirked. “Have fun pressing charges.”

“Ice!” I called after them.

I sat back down on the bench and curled my head into my bent knees. I started laughing, then wound up crying, a sorry little lament. I heard a key in the door and didn’t look up. Someone came in and sat down at the other end of the bench.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.

A guy in a policeman’s uniform was holding his hat by the brim and tapping it against his leg.

“Well?” he said.

“Well, what?” I said.

“Why’re you here?”

“Drunk and disorderly and inciting a riot,” I said. “You?”

He exhaled. “Impersonating an officer.”

“Nice costume.” I nodded. “Were you at the reunion party, on the green?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I tried to blend in with the cops.”

“What gave you away?” I said.

“I arrested someone,” he said.

I laughed.

The door opened and The Cop came in with a Ziploc bag of ice.

“Here’s your ice,” he said and tossed me the bag. “Hey, Chief.” He nodded at the guy sitting next to me.

“Chief?” I said.

“Yeah,” said The Cop. “Chief Healy.”

I looked with one eye at the guy sitting next to me. He smiled and his cornflower-blue eyes regarded me with some amusement.

“Hey, sister,” he said. He winked.

I didn’t say anything.

“Don’t be mad,” he said.

“Why is it that guys always say, ‘Don’t be mad’?”

He shrugged. “Why is it that you’re still in a Joan War after twenty-two years?”

“I had no idea there was a Joan War. I just came to the party.”

“About that,” he said. “Seems you and Other Joan were at the center of that melee.”

“I was at the bottom of that melee,” I said. “That’s how I got this, if you haven’t noticed.” I showed him my eye.

“That’s bad.” He nodded. “Can you see all right?”

“It’s swollen shut,” I said.

“Let me take a look,” he said. He scooted down the bench toward me. With unexpected gentleness he held my cheek and forehead and opened my eye. He looked at my eyes and made me follow his finger as he moved it in front of me. Then he let my face go.

“You’ve got a lot of bruising and a conjunctival hemorrhage. It’s going to take a few days to heal.”

“Thanks, I guess. So, Chief Healy—how did you end up here?”

“It’s not so much an ‘end up’ as a ‘came back.’ I finished grad school up north and worked for a few years. By then, my mom was old and sick.” He shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do. After she died, I never left.”

“Very Captain America,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Tell me you’re an artist.”

“I’m an artist,” I said. “For real. MFA and all.”

“That’s impressive,” he said.

“My fourth, fifth, and sixth graders don’t think so, but—”

“You teach,” he said.

“First thing I have them do is break their crayons.”

He smiled. “How long are you in town?”

“Leaving tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

“That’s—tomorrow,” he said.

I nodded.

“Do you ever get back here?”

“Thanksgiving,” I said. “I’ll be back for Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll be visiting my brother in Boston,” he said.

“And Christmas. My folks are old. I just noticed.”

The door opened and The Cop came in. “Chief, you got a call. It’s the mayor.”

“Tell him—I’ll be there in a sec,” he said.

The Cop left.

“Come on,” Jimmy said. He escorted me down the hall, one hand firmly gripping my arm. When we got to the front, he said, “I got your back, sister. You’re free to go.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” he said.

His cornflower-blue eyes, his wink, my black eye.

“Can I have my sword?”

He smiled. He still held my arm.

“Can I ask you something,” I said. “Are you married or engaged or—”

“Nope. None of that,” he said. “You?”

I shook my head. “How come?” I said.

“Aren’t a lot of Joans around.” He smiled, amused. “You?”

I shrugged. “I—just never connected.”

“Well,” he began—

“Chief,” The Cop called. “The mayor is waiting on one.”

Jimmy ran his hand down my arm and let go.

“I gotta go,” he said. “It was good seeing you. Maybe—”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

I walked out of the station and down to the corner. The one cab stand in town had a single taxi, its driver asleep, the windows partway open. I knocked on the window.

“Hey, can you drive me home,” I said.

The driver snorted awake, unlocked the doors, and started his engine.

I got in and gave him my parents’ address.

“Do you know the police chief?” I said.

“Healy?” he said, nodding. “You know him?”

“He helped me out tonight.”

“He’s a good guy—been good for this town.” He shrugged. “I never believed the stories.”

“What stories,” I said. I leaned forward.

“Ah, you know how people talk,” he said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

We were stopped at a light.

“He was a good cop—up in Boston—had a future—then, something happened—he was —what’s that called? Exonerated?” He shrugged. “We needed a chief.”

I waited. He drove.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He killed a kid. Fifteen years old,” he said.

“Why?” I inhaled. “Who?”

The driver made the turn onto my street. He pulled over.

“Here you go,” he said. “That’ll be—”

“I’m—broke.”

I shook my head and leaned back on the seat.

“Lady—” he began.

“Why did he kill him?” I asked. My voice was wavering and pencil thin.

The driver regarded me in the rearview mirror. He had gentle eyes. Listening eyes.

“Go home,” he said. “You better ice that eye.”

I nodded and went inside, closing the door behind me.