“The line gets longer every year,” Frank whispers gloomily to Carol. They stand, a mittened child in each hand, towards the rear of a thick column of people stretching out from the mall.
“The kids like to see him, you know that. Besides, it’s a holiday tradition.”
“It wasn’t in my family,” he mutters under his breath. He should be back home, possibly in bed; someplace warm at the least. He could only imagine what his old man’d say if he saw this. “Besides, isn’t it,” and remembering the kids within earshot, brings himself to a whisper, “isn’t it all a bit sacrilegious?”
“Nonsense!” Carol says with a dismissive gesture. Playfully, she nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. “It’s all part of the fun. Didn’t you have fun as a kid, dear?”
“I was raised catholic,” he says with feigned reserve, to her amusement. Actually, church had been a bit of a reprieve from home for little Francis, his father often under the overbearing power of the Spirit. His mother had envied him, saying simply she would’ve become a nun if God gave mulligans.
“Well, I’m going to head inside,” Carol tells him insinuatingly. She instructs her two oldest to stay with daddy, then slips away towards the Target entrance. After what seems like tedious hours, they reach the door. They cross the threshold, the probably expensive stale mall heat wafting out at them along with the obscenely light hymnal tunes. A putridly del-tonic rendition of ‘On Eagles Wings’ is playing, to Frank’s marked distaste. The children become animated with excitement; they can see the gaudy holiday display far ahead. “Dad, Dad! It’s him! It’s HIM!” could well sum up their enthusiasm. With some difficulty Frank manages to restrain the four writhing, jiggling, yelling kids, and still maintain a supportive smile.
“We’ll be there soon,” he tells them, knowing it’ll be yet another half hour or so. The mall is festooned with gay apparel, with pink and yellow bunting and pastel paper eggs hanging from the raised ceiling. One step at a time, the line crawls forward to the upbeat sounds of ‘Christ is Risen’ and ‘the Exultet.’ At long last, they approach the velveteen stanchions. A cardinal in rented red vestments with a terribly affected Italian accent takes Frank’s admittance fee at a mockup pulpit. The kids are at bursting point, and with a surge of relief Frank lets them loose. “It’s the POPE! It’s the POPE!”
The kindly old man on the gold-painted throne plays a believable pope, though to Frank’s eye the styrofoam mitre is asking a bit much. One by one, the unruly mass of assembled children are led up by the papal legates and placed on Il Papa’s lap. “And what would you like in your basket, little boy/girl?” he asks each awestruck enfant, with a “Go in peace” or “Bless you, child” afterwards. For an additional four dollars a picture can be taken, though admittedly few opt for this.
One by one, Frank collects his children, still bubbling with excitement. Only his eldest, Jeremy, seems less-than-enthused. As they walk back to find Carol at the food court, he asks his father if that was, in fact, the pope himself.
“Sure, he is,” Frank tells him. The boy’s only six, he reasons to himself. The time would soon enough be right to tell him the truth. But for the now, it’s part of the holiday fun.
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