Wilkinson Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-7759-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 338 Seiten

Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free is a Coming of Age story as well as a Romance. The central figure, Matt Turner, uncertain of himself, seeks standing and success by pursuing ordination to the Catholic priesthood, only to discover that he is in error and that no role assures one of self fulfillment unless we are where we should be. Matt encounters Carol, a young woman on her own search. Carol, while having much to face on her own journey, becomes Matt's guide and loving companion while they face numerous challenges including danger from a former partner. The story in its largest frame, also considers the elements and themes of Homer's The Odyssey: the struggle to get home or to the place one is truly meant to be.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Wilkinson, Michael

Leseproben

May 1, 1956.
(The Prelude) The school was on one corner. The old parish church was at the other, behind the school. The children had to play alongside the old collapsed church. The parish had opted to skip painting it for the last few years since it was obvious that the derelict building could not be saved. So, when the crews came in and took out all the glass and all the doors and whatever might have been still inside, all they really needed to do was give it a metaphorical shove, and the old grey wooden wall nearest the playground crumbled as a final piece in the passing of the ancient sacred structure. Like a blinded beast, the carcass lay collapsed on the asphalt, its sharply broken wooden claws threatening what should have been the playground for the kids in recess. Not too long after, as children will, they fearlessly found their way behind the temporary cyclone fencing and rescued balls of all kinds that let them play at their games. Holding this or that ball aloft, they would run from behind the fencing. Once they grew accustomed to the fence and the places to enter, some even played hide and seek among the wreckage, and with uncanny accuracy, called “Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free”, pulling hiders from their niches and notches mere seconds before the school bell ended all games entirely. Although they had played with muted intensity, they had been discovered and taken to the school principal. They were made examples. There was no reverence for the old building. It lay there until one Monday when it was gone. Only the foundation and a few waist high, raggedly stacked piles of weathered lumber remained. The fencing had been moved closer to the fractured cement walls, and the games resumed in their proper allotment of space. The children had reclaimed the playground. Across the street, the new church was already begun but not finished. Until it was completed, the parish would continue to use the school auditorium filled by special metal chairs with kneelers on the back. Catholics needed kneelers. Whatever the broad parish plans might be, the children would surge, twice a day, for a break from studies. They were rowdy at morning recess. A meager 15 minute break after the endless drone of Social Studies and Math and Religion classes. Recess was the exercise in socialization that school provided. One could make the case that these kid games foretold futures. Tag suited those who might become business people. Red Rover attracted those who might aspire to be athletes in contact sports. Kick the Can polished the swift, the coordinated, the would-be politicians, unafraid to elbow others out of the way. Hide and Seek was perfect for every individual ever. In fifteen minutes of Hide and Seek, one could learn to blend into the surroundings just before the seeker opened his eyes, and narrowing beyond belief, all but disappear. One learned to race once flushed out into the open, to duck, even to touch base in unorthodox ways. Safe! Screaming worked as a measure of excitement in every single one of the games. It did make you wonder about the boys who sat on one or other of the benches near the brick walls. They sat, nearly always alone. And mum. Perhaps working their mouths, cracking open elusive sunflower seeds. Perhaps watching the other children, but with an odd, distant interest. The scattering of shells the only clue as to how they spent their time. Recess was a time to run and yell if you were a boy. If you were a girl, a time to stand with your friends, long school sweaters pulled tight against the Seattle breeze, arms folded, glances bouncing in and out of conversation. Matt was always in trouble. With nuns in the classroom, with the parent monitors on the playground, with Father McMilton even, whenever he wandered across from the rectory upon hearing the screams of recess beginning. Matt was one singled out. Fr. M was always curling his finger at him, making him come over. “Matthew Thomas.” Then he would muss up Matt’s hair and grab the back of his neck and ask him questions with the other boys watching askance. “Have you been good this week, Matthew?” “Yes, Father.” “No more taking lunches or saying things you shouldn’t, eh?” “No, Father.” “Have you done something good for anybody this week, Matthew?” “Yes, Father.” He had to think fast now. “And what was that, Matthew?” “I tried to do a nice deed to Weiner.” Weiner. Joey Weiner. The smallest kid in their class. He had just been called “weiner” forever. “What did you do?” “I passed by him and didn’t pants him even though I thought about it.” Joey Weiner wasn’t fun to pants anyway. His belt was so tight over his hips and around his skinny white belly that it left a big red scuff mark on his stomach that didn’t even go away when he put on his swimming suit in the summer. “You’re starting to grow up, Matthew. That’s good. Especially since you’ll be off to high school at the last of next year. We don’t want you going with the bad marks on you.” “Yes, Father.” ‘Bad marks?’ Whatthe . . . Matt lowered his head. They better not send word home again. His backside remembered the last time . . . Bad marks! The priest was silent. Matt looked up and saw him watching some of the children sneak from their hiding places behind the fence and race to the safety of home base. “Who’s the best at Hide and Seek?” Matt, unsure of why the priest asked the question and not wanting to betray any of his classmates, watched alongside the priest. “Well?” The priest was going to demand an answer it seemed. But priests were always tricky. What they seemed to be saying often turned out to be something else. “God.” Matt blurted the answer as it came to him. Father McMilton looked. And then he laughed. And then he scrubbed at the top of Matt’s head as he repeated Matt’s answer, “God!” And Fr. M was off. Without even saying anything else. Just walked off like he owned the place and grabbed another kid to talk to. Matt had to stand there and try to fix his hair and shift his sweater around. He curled his lip and made an ugly face as the priest walked away. The other boys laughed. He had what he needed. Matt turned and finished straightening his sweater. He hated being grabbed by the priest. What the hell? What was the deal with priests anyway? When they got close you could smell them. Not like his dad smelled after work. It was a used smell worse than socks; you didn’t want to have it on you. And Fr. Richards had had a red face a lot of the time. When he talked you could see the wet at the corner of his mouth. And they stayed in the house. He had never seen one at the beach or at the store when he was sweeping up. And he never had seen one walking the neighborhood. But then something happened. That evening, Matt had served at the novena and was the last server to leave. He was doing up his jacket while he cut through the buffed hallway outside the auditorium church. A youngster, maybe third grade or fourth, was looking through pamphlets on the table while his aunt was talking with the new young priest assigned to the parish. Matt was taken by what he saw. The boy was all blotchy. Blush red, like meat for a barbeque. The raw scars ran down the side of his face and onto his neck. As Matt fiddled with his coat, he could see the youngster’s hands were also blemished. The boy picked up a pamphlet and, waiting, turned to see if the adults were about done. Matt saw then that the raw stuff was not just on his cheek but had patched one eye to be almost shut and heavy looking. He tried not to see the monstrosity of it all. A rough red mache-like mask of hesitance and fear applied over the nearly hidden smooth skin of innocence. The near blinding of one eye. Matt stood still as he watched the youngster. Matt was mesmerized. While he had never seen wounds that he could almost feel, and while he didn’t know the boy, there was something oddly familiar. Something Matt seemed to know very well. Matt searched for feelings . . . He knew the image . . . Bright red welts across his white behind. The struggle to walk, to sit. The effort needed to carry on, no matter. The effort to seem intact though every step reminded you that you were broken. To appear. To appear despite . . . He knew that feeling. The boy looked at him. The one eye was hard to read. Matt could not tell whether the boy was alarmed or glad to see him or something in between. The two stood, totally still for a moment, as if each was looking into a mirror. Seeing Matt’s curious stare, the boy blanched and turned away. Matt wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He thought he should go, but he couldn’t. He was caught, immobilized by the youngster’s scars. If he had those marks, those bad marks, he could never be seen in public. He would have stayed home. He would have gone into hiding. “His burns are much better, Father,” said the woman approaching the boy. She finished tying her headscarf and put out her hands to summon the boy. Her eyebrows jumped as she spoke. She was smiling. “My sister is so grateful the church has been praying for Lucas even though her family no longer goes here.” She gathered the boy to her hip like she was going to tuck him under her coat. He looked Matt’s direction, uncertain. “It’s what we do,”...