The Archbishop of Chicago is dead, and my mother watches the funeral live on Channel 7. I’m also in the living room, eating a sandwich. I’m ten years old and not Catholic. I’m not sure what I am. My father is Jewish. I do like dinosaurs a lot.
Soon, my mother has to drive me somewhere. Maybe it’s a school day, and I’m home for lunch. Coming home for lunch is my greatest joy in life—a blanket of comfort, a cleansing breath—yet it always ends in angst. I feel the clock’s stare. Usually by this time my mother would have her purse and keys, but she’s still absorbed in the service. The picture is dim, the sound muffled, and the man it revolves around seems as distant as another country. I bring my plate to the kitchen and put on my shoes.
My peace I give you, says the priest on TV. He enunciates round letters. The ceremony makes me uncomfortable. Every intonation, every organ note, every fold in the priest’s robe feels intensely serious. On instinct, I react against it. I like to make jokes. To me, at this age, nothing is sacred. Or rather, the more sacred something is, the more I need to joke about it. Am I honing an innate sense of satire, or just immature? My peace I give you, says the priest, and I make a pun about puzzle pieces. I’m ten. Even my transgressive humor is pretty tame. But my mother snaps. That’s not funny! She’s red-faced, welling tears, and I cower in reproach. I like to joke, but I can’t stomach misbehaving. Heavy silence follows. The TV stays on as we leave.
In the car, my mother apologizes for yelling but tells me I need to respect certain things. She’s still shaking as she says this. The ride to school is short. Soon I’m standing at the double-doors and she’s driving away. We never speak of this again.