job prospects, given how poorly he had already fared despite his stellar grades. There were instead scores of general interest courses available that he found much more appealing. He could learn to do computer graphics, speak another language, study automotive repair, or take introductory offerings in one of the Humanities.
A course in Comparative Religion kept leaping off the page at Flam each time he passed it in the college calendar, and this was the one he finally opted to take. He rationalized it to Turner as a vocational choice, saying that if he ever managed to land a job in his field, the course would be helpful in understanding the different belief systems of the bereaved clients he might be called upon to minister to in a future role.
In fact, the truth lay much deeper. He had never been satisfied with his own Catholic experience, which his mother had practically force-fed him from an early age. Only once, as a boy, had he briefly tasted religious rapture, and that had been on the day of his First Communion.
He vividly remembered standing there in a brand new suit, bought specially for the occasion, and sporting a glossy white silk bow, so exquisitely smooth to the touch, wrapped around his sleeve. His hands had been sheathed in spotless white gloves, and in them, he’d held his very own Bible and rosary. On either side of him had stood a beautiful young girl, angelic in her immaculate white dress of satin and lace.
As Flam had tilted back his head to receive the communion wafer, he had been enveloped by the sun pouring in through the multicoloured mantles of the stained-glass saints, and had felt himself truly filled with the spirit of the Holy Ghost. For a rare moment, he had believed that, to God, Flam’s soul was indeed special—something pure and unique to be prized.
But Flam’s new suit, the last he would own until he acquired the black uniforms of his funerary profession, had for months been the catalyst for some especially vicious sparring at home. Mary had wrung the extra dollars for its purchase from the beer budget of a reluctant Steve. So, not surprisingly, it caused an uproar when Flam appeared a few short hours after the communion service, bleeding, dishevelled, and with his new suit hopelessly torn and soiled after an attack by two of the other boys receiving the sacrament. Flam had been vehemently reprimanded and severely spanked by both his mother and his father in a rare display of parental solidarity.
Amidst the tears, Flam had tried desperately to explain to his parents that he was guiltless, that he had been clinging to the ecstasy of a spotless soul and had tried to avoid the confrontation—had literally turned the other cheek when smote—but this had only served to provoke the other boys further. They had fallen upon him shouting, “God don’t allow grubs into Heaven,” and had taken it upon themselves—dutiful, newly anointed junior lieutenants of Jesus that they were—to enforce His will with their fists.
Later, during his voracious readings, Flam had grown even more disillusioned with Catholicism. He had read, with disgust, albeit also with rapt fascination, about the schisms and wars and hypocrisy and political infighting that had dogged Christian dogma since its inception. He’d also learned with horror of the violence and cruelty that had been his religion’s trademark—the massacres of the Crusades, the brutal torture technology of the Inquisition, the roasting alive on spits of Jews during Church-led medieval pogroms—all in the name of Christ.
And once books had also explained the birds and the bees to Flam (for neither parent had troubled to do so), and then further catalogued all of sexuality’s perversions and diversions, Flam had come to view with quite a different perspective those times in Sunday school when Father Dickinson had so lovingly anointed with salve the bare boy bottoms he had enthusiastically caned only minutes earlier.
Yet, despite the disillusionment and cynicism Flam had come to feel over his own particular brand of religion, he still clung to enough fundamental faith not to throw the baby out with the baptismal bathwater. That moment of divine ecstasy he’d encountered on his Confirmation Sunday, even if it had been the precursor to a particularly painful episode of abuse and humiliation, was not something to be denied. God was lurking out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered, of that Flam was convinced. Perhaps the course in Comparative Religion might help to find Him.
Chapter 10
Working behind the counter of the bookstore made it easier for Flam to see his mother on a regular basis. Now, instead of trying to find a mutually convenient time when she wasn’t at a service, or a church function, or performing one of the myriad duties for which she indefatigably volunteered, Flam had only to sit quietly on his stool, reading a book, and wait for Mary to appear to him.
Typically, she would go upstairs and make a pot of tea, and bring it down for them to share, along with some pastry left over from one church function or another. Mother and son would sit together and make small talk, mostly low-key gossip about the goings on in the neighbourhood, or the latest happenings at the church.
Increasingly, Gerald Strait’s name would surface, always in some incidental, oh-by-the-way role in Mary’s rambling chatter. Flam began to suspect his mother, having been through her prerequisite period of mourning, was pursuing a relationship with the good pharmacist.
The suspicion bore fruit when Gerald himself turned up escorting Mary on one of her visits to the bookstore. As he shook hands with Flam, the pharmacist appeared as ill at ease as a teenager meeting his date’s parents for the first time. Later, as Mary launched into a prolific and detailed testimonial of Gerald’s assets and accomplishments, he stood shifting his weight nervously from leg to leg, then, bored with that, he leaned on the glass display case and scrutinized the books there with fierce concentration.
He was a tall, unhappy-looking man, a head higher and several years older than Mary, with grey thinning hair that had been shepherded carefully towards the baldest patches, and sagging jowls that jiggled when he talked. One ear seemed to be lower than the other, and the round, gold-rimmed glasses he wore tilted as a consequence, requiring him to constantly push them back into proper position with his index finger.
One thing was patently clear, however. Gerald was totally enamoured of Mary, who, even though she was now in her forties, was still quite an attractive woman. She had maintained her slim figure through constant worry, and her red hair through the help of Miss Clairol’s Autumn Auburn (bought discreetly at a drugstore other than Gerald’s). On several occasions, Flam caught Gerald staring at Mary with a look of utter delight, his eyes flitting over the features of her face with unabashed adoration.
It was a busy afternoon in the bookstore, and Flam was alone minding the shop, so he had to regularly excuse himself from entertaining his guests in order to ring up a sale or show a customer where a particular section was located. For some reason, this seemed to visibly annoy Gerald. Flam found that surprising, given that the pharmacist, of all people, should be empathetic to the demands of customer service.
Flam began to get the feeling there was something else in the air, that Mary and Gerald wanted to broach a subject with him. Finally, when a lull overtook the shop, the pharmacist cleared his throat and attempted to get to the crux of the matter.
“Even though I was married for twelve years before my dear wife, God bless her soul, passed on, the good Lord never saw fit to bless us with children of our own.” Gerald paused briefly at this point, as if wrestling with some great inner pain, and Mary touched his arm in encouragement. Flam just stared blankly, wondering where this was going.
Gerald continued, “You’re not a child anymore, you’re an adult now . . . why you even have your own apartment, and very soon I imagine, a bright future in a solid, respectable profession. But I want you to know I’ll think of you as if you’re my own flesh and blood . . ..”
Mary interjected, clearly exasperated by Gerald’s rambling tack. “Oh, Gerald, you’re putting the cart before the horse.” She turned to her son and explained, “Mr. Strait has asked me to marry him, Flam. We thought perhaps next spring.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to call me Dad . . . well, that is, not unless you want to,” Gerald resumed, “and of course the name change would be entirely up to you.”
“Name change!” Flam exclaimed, blinking hard, trying to process all the information inundating him.
Mary