Page 54 of Blame it on the Bet
“Jackson, leave Bryan alone.” Jameson scolds her son softly as he pokes his finger in Bryan’s ear.
“Would you like to switch?” I offer. He smiles and shakes his head.
“I got this,” he whispers and promptly swings his head around, snapping his teeth as if he’s going to chomp on the tiny appendage.
Jackson squeals with delight, causing several people in the pews around us to turn. On any other Sunday, some of them might glare or tsk or shake their heads. But not on Polka Sunday. Everyone’s in a good mood on Polka Sunday, and by the time we stand up to receive communion, we’re all practically dancing down the aisle to “How Great Thou Art” a la “Roll Out the Barrel.”
“Come on,” I say, gesturing for Bryan to follow me.
“I can’t. I’m not Catholic. I don’t think I’m supposed to…”
“What? Do you think you might set off the alarm system if you try to receive communion?” I tease him with an elbow poke to his ribs.
“Oh, jeez… They actually have one of those?” he asks, his face suddenly growing pale.
I throw back my head and laugh, grateful that the polka band is loud.
“No, silly, they do not have one of those. Come on! It’s okay, he’ll just bless you.”
Reluctantly, he follows me out of the pew and down the center aisle of the church where we wait for our turn with Father Romance.
“This is a beautiful church,” he comments softly behind me.
When I turn around, I find him twisting his head in all directions, taking in the stained glass, the crucifix, the cathedral ceiling, and the choir loft.
“I know, right? When I was a little girl, I used to dream about walking down this aisle with my father. I’d go to weddings of people I didn’t even know just to see the look on the groom’s face when they opened the sanctuary doors and the bride stepped out. Oh God, I’m sorry. That’s so… girly. And cheesy…” I mutter, embarrassed at having shared this stupid tidbit with him.
But he doesn’t laugh at me, or mock, or tease, for that matter.
“I’m sure someday that will be you coming down the aisle,” he says with a sweet smile. “I’m sorry your father won’t be there to give you away, though.”
I’m surprised that such a thing would even occur to him—the very thing that’s crossed my mind every time I’ve been in this church since Pops died. In fact, it struck me so hard on the day of his funeral that I could barely walk. The idea that I was accompanying him down the aisle rather than the other way around was just too much for me to bear at that moment. It’s been a little better since then. But not much.
“Hennessy, the body of Christ,” Father Romance says to me as I open my mouth and he places the wafer on my tongue. Then I step to the side so the curate, Father Jerry, can offer me a sip of wine from the chalice.
“Bryan, may the Lord bless you and keep you.” I hear Father Romance murmur from next to me.
“Wow, that was kind of…cool,” Bryan tells me as we make our way back to the pew.
“Are you even Christian?” I ask with a chuckle. “Did my sister rope a Jew or an atheist or a Muslim into coming to the polka mass?”
He grins and shakes his head, explaining when we’re seated again. “I was raised in a household with a devout Lutheran for a mother and a devout heathen for a father.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but I have a feeling this is more of a comment about his entire upbringing rather than just a statement of faith. Something about that makes me feel a little sad for him, and I don’t know quite why. Whatever the reason, there’s no time to speculate, as the last of the parishioners receives the Eucharist and Father Romance returns to the altar. He leads us in the Post Communion Prayer and the Blessing before uttering the words we’re all waiting to hear.
“Let us all now together sing a song of glory,” he commands from the pulpit.
Little Jackson sits bolt upright, snapping out of a sleepy stupor the second he hears the accordion, banjo, and drums start up their rendition of “Amazing Grace.” He chuckles with delight and claps along as the banjo and drums join in. “Polka mass!” I squeal as quietly as I can, poking him
in the belly. Jameson nods and smiles brightly, bouncing her son up and down in time to the music.
When Father Romance instructs us to share peace with one another, I turn to Jameson and give her a squeeze, then I smother Jax’s face until he’s giggling. I’m not even thinking when I swing around to the other side and find Bryan watching me with an eyebrow quirked.
“Peace be with you,” I say, offering my hand for a shake. He takes it and then promptly uses it to pull me closer. Before I can object, he’s placed a very warm, very soft kiss on my cheek. It’s a kiss that’s totally within the boundaries of church decorum, but there’s something about it that brings a furious blush to my face.
“Peace be with you, Hennessy,” he says as he pulls away.
I’m having a hard time meeting his eyes and am relieved when my nephew pipes up from next to me.
