The Risk Pool

tolerated by the Monsignor.
    But no one dared protest, and when we lined up Father Michaels put me before him and rested his slender hand on my shoulder. Then, solemnly, we approached the altar of God, the Holy Tabernacle, to celebrate the great mystery of faith.
    The first hint that something was wrong came after the gospel, when Father Michaels closed the book, retreated from the pulpit to the altar and began the offertory. I could not remember anotherinstance of a Sunday mass without a sermon, and I could tell that the other boys were equally astonished and grateful. I tried to think what the reason might be, but there just wasn’t any. Father Michaels usually did not talk as long as the Monsignor, and his sermons were generally less interesting than his casual conversation, but he always said
something
. Now, as he read from the ordinary of the mass, it seemed to me that his voice had become terribly thin.
    When I took him the cruets, he was pale and perspiring, and it occurred to me he had not been sweating so profusely of late, which was odd, since the early August heat was the worst of the summer. I wanted to ask if he was all right, but as he poured the wine into the chalice, his Latin, though halting, was unbroken. And besides, during this portion of the proceedings all conversation was, by convention, taboo. When he placed the cruets back on the tray, there was nothing to do but return to my station at the foot of the altar. On my way, I glanced out into the congregation where my mother’s bright dress stood out, and she smiled at me, apparently aware that my serving a Sunday mass was an honor. On my padded kneeler, I touched the cool handle of the gold-plated bell, though it wasn’t yet time.
    I removed the gold communion paten from its cloth sheath when the four long lines of communicants approached the railing. We began as always on St. Joseph’s side and inched our way toward the statue of the Virgin, which presided over the other side altar. Those kneeling waited a few moments after receiving the host, then made the sign of the cross and stood, their places immediately filled by other communicants. I was proud of the job I was doing, smoothly inserting the communion plate beneath each expectant chin without chopping any throats. There was a rhythm that took over after a while, and it became easier to follow my friend’s hand from chalice to tongue.
    I was so intent on my job that I almost did not notice when one of the vacated places along the rail was taken by my mother. Seeing her kneeling there made me wonder if all the strange things in the world were going to happen in this one mass. During the years that we had been attending mass, she had never received Communion, and when I asked her why, all she had said was that she would when she felt like she was in the state of grace.Catechism class had taught me the answer to that one, but when I suggested she just go to Confession and wipe the slate clean, she only smiled. But now there she was, and if ever a woman
looked
like she was in the state of grace, my mother did then. She looked as radiant as the virgin who stood above her, as different as could be from the woman who had shot out the windshield and front tire of my father’s convertible and then eaten Librium for two months to calm down. She had become softer, lovelier, almost younger, in her bright, sleeveless summer dress. Everyone in the church seemed to be looking at her.
    As we receded from her along the Communion rail, her eyes followed us, and Father Michaels stumbled, then righted himself. His eyes no longer appeared focused and he began to have difficulty locating the tongues of the faithful. He looked like a blind man going on sound and touch, though I think I was the only one who suspected he was in serious trouble.
    When we reached the far end of the communion rail, we started working our way back, Father Michaels doing the backing now, I following, toward where my mother knelt. The communion plate was spattered with his perspiration, and when he missed the tongue of an elderly woman I was ready and caught the sacred host. The old woman looked surprised, for I had brushed her chin. Then she saw the host, her host, soaking up perspiration like a sponge in the middle of the communion plate.
    “
Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi
,” I heard Father Michaels murmur, as if the host were still between his thumb and forefinger. But the look on his face was terrible. The old woman