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 clowing 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 Launeghan 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 surfice 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 then 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 classroom games before sending a blessing toward the school.

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

After Mass the congregation lingers on the stone under the bell tower of Saint Bernards, 'not been uplifted, but buried', while Father Launeghan walks alone toward the rectory, thinking of the 'in-between little people' of the school and the 'twisting Latin songs of the red visioned dead' in the lower church. He laughs at 'The phonies' who want the upper church fixed, looks at 'the school of golden stone', and sends 'his blessing out in a deep sigh'.

The page slides from the congregation's view into the priest's own mind, and his monologue mixes contempt, mockery ('Ha ha'), and a real tenderness for the children. Images of depth and fire (the lower church, 'Orange tinted bells', 'the color of fire') make his religion feel like a private underground kingdom rather than a consolation. The Sunday calm is framed as 'meaningless passing days', so his blessing lands with an ambiguous weight.