Page 81

By Jack Joseph Smith

rye. He knew they were afraid of him coming down into the aisles, and they whispered such, now standing on the huge flat stone under the bell tower of Saint Bernards. The childrens eyes roamed around, while they were busy being still while their parents engaged in after-Mass conversation. There is no dragon fire within the Lord now. We have walked and closed the door on the fire, that is him in his final and overpowering madness clawing out the time of meaningless passing days on Sunday, our day of rest. He had breathed rememberance through the smiles they had entered with, and they had not been uplifted, but buried. Father Lawnegan sat alone now. He had walked into the sun leaving the sacristy in a purple blue behind him. The walk was always nice on the little curving way around and through the passages of the school. He touched the iron railing coming down the winding stairs, and thought of the children filling the upper church on Monday. Fourth, fifth and sixth graders. The in-between little people throwing spit balls, eracers, pencils, love notes, dirty jockes inscribed on paper airplanes, rubber bands zooming from well directed fingers, general paraphernalia was the stream of consciousness passing over the partitions of the misbegotton gothic school. The lower church is a fine place, he thought walking. A deep place below the surface to sing the twisting Latin songs of the red visioned dead. They must feel traped there. Those people at six O'clock Mass. Their eyes so barren and I take them even deeper into the white skulled desert. Ha ha, he laughed walking up the dirt hill to the rectory. The phonies want me to fix up the upper church. The ceiling is high. It's a long winding way up to the bells. Orange tinted bells. Ha ha. Sound colored with the color of fire. He turned and looked at the school of golden stone. For the little ones and for those who are getting ready for the world, he thought. Before he went in, he sent his blessing out in a deep sigh. Christ, the wind is getting sharp. Be

Original Scan

Page 81

AI Interpretation

GPT

Leaving the church and climbing back toward the rectory, Papa Joe thinks through the lower church, the gothic school, the upper grades, and the coming week of children and games before deciding to summon Michael Frost.

The sacred and the disciplinary are inseparable, with Mass flowing straight into surveillance of schoolyard life and classroom disorder. His affection for the children is real, but it is the affection of someone who intends to test and shape them.

Claude

The narration enters Papa Joe's own consciousness, the congregation 'not been uplifted, but buried' by a man in 'his final and overpowering madness clawing out the time of meaningless passing days'. His after-Mass walk becomes interior monologue: affection for the 'in-between little people throwing spit balls, eracers ... dirty jockes inscribed on paper airplanes' over the partitions of his 'misbegotton gothic school', contempt for the 'phonies' who 'want me to fix up the upper church'. He prizes the lower church, 'A deep place below the surface to sing the twisting Latin songs of the red visioned dead', and gazes on 'the school of golden stone' as his real work, sending 'his blessing out in a deep sigh' as 'the wind is getting sharp'. The shift to his point of view reframes the boy's awe from inside the legend.