Spider Preacher Man

CHAPTER 4 POISON LIKE A RATTLESNAKE’S Moments later Billy’s father deposited Spider at his grandparents’ doorstep and barked, “You keep out of my yard, and don’t come back for any reason!” The boy’s face burned with embarrassment. To worsen matters, Grandfather Joe stood in the doorway, shaking his head slowly. “I think moving from reservation would give you better life. But now I think maybe we leave better life at reservation.” Saying nothing, Spider slunk across the yard to his home and bed. The next morning he awoke with a painful, swollen head. Still, his mother insisted he dress for church. By then she—and probably the entire neighborhood—had heard about the boys’ deviltry the night before. “Ha!” she scoffed. “An altar boy with a hangover!” Shame again warmed Spider’s face, but he bore it in silence. And later he managed to stumble through Mass without further embarrassment. Afterward, while the priest talked with parishioners, Spider and the other altar boy retreated to the sacristy, a room where vestments were kept. Removing their special garments, the boys hung them in a closet. There on a shelf sat the extra stock of communion wine in pretty glass decanters. Spider felt his mouth begin to water, and a strange sensation seemed to drive his eyes toward the bottles. “I wonder if communion wine tastes better than homemade beer,” he mused. When the other boy left, Spider quickly reached for a bottle, removed the stopper, then took a sip. Yes, it tasted better, but still stung his throat and nose. Hastily, he replaced the bottle on the shelf. As he turned to leave, however, something seemed to pull him back to the closet. Confused, Spider looked numbly at the decanters. He didn’t really like the wine’s taste, but he felt drawn to it. Something deep inside him craved more, an empty place he had never known was there. Hurriedly unstopping the bottle, he took another swig, then raced from the room as if some invisible monster were chasing him. Later, while kicking a can along the sidewalk home, Spider remembered what his grandfather had said once about Henry Montero’s drinking habit: There’s something inside him that wants to drink. “Is that something now inside me too?” the boy asked himself. He wasn’t quite ten years old yet. Nine-year-olds didn’t become alcoholics—or did they? “Nah!” he exclaimed and drove the can farther with a swift kick. At school Monday, when Spider met Billy, the neighbor blurted, “I showed my dad, all right! Wait till you see what’s in my lunch pail.” Later the boy shared the contents of his thermos—more of the homemade brew—with Spider and Joey. From then on, several times a week Billy smuggled the forbidden concoction to school. But Billy’s offering wasn’t enough for Spider. He began sipping from any leftover whiskey or beer bottles he could find at home. Also, Joey’s older brother would supply the boys occasionally. In fact, one day Joey had managed to hide some full bottles of wine near the schoolyard. And as soon as classes ended, the three youths hid behind some boxes in an alley and drank the wine to the last drop. When Spider suddenly noticed the daylight fading, he tried to stand up. But a dizzying wave of nausea sent him reeling. “We’d better get home, or our Moms’ll de— Moms’ll—” His tongue refused to follow his thoughts. And again he noticed the darkness. It was descending faster than usual. His legs felt heavy. In fact, he couldn’t make them move. Then, without warning, everything turned black, and his mind swirled with worried voices. Then nothing. The next day Spider awoke bleary-eyed on his grandparents’ couch. Grandfather Joe was holding a cup of steaming herbs under the boy’s nose. “Hmmm! Good! You wake,” the old man said in his soft, quiet voice. “I think maybe you dead. Some boys die, you know. Alcohol is poison, like the rattlesnake’s. It can eat up your insides and kill you.” Spider’s tongue felt too swollen to answer, and his head was pounding again. After a few sips of his grandfather’s medicine, the boy fell into another deep sleep. The next time he awoke, the house was quiet. Few street noises filtered through the open windows, and darkness hovered outside. Spider turned his face toward the figure which dozed in a nearby chair. Grandfather Joe seemed shrunken in size, perhaps weighted down by worry over his wayward grandson. As if sensing the boy’s thoughts, the old eyes flicked open. Then their sad expression bore into Spider until he squirmed uncomfortably. Grandfather Joe leaned close, his voice trembling with unaccustomed emotion, “Yes, I think having water piped into house and lights turned on at walls be good for you. I think school here and people here be good for you. Your father makes money that buys you good food and good clothes. But everything has turned bad . . . bad!” The second “bad” was pronounced with a profound weariness. Then leaning back, he seemed to gather enough strength to finish, “I afraid someday you become like your father. You go off, months maybe, away from family, leaving them feeling sad. Your children, they grow like you, with no father most of time.” The somber words hung in the air like some foreboding prophecy, stirring the boy’s conscience. “I’ll try, Grandfather,” he promised. “I’ll try not to drink anymore.” In that moment the boy meant the words. But days later, as soon as Joey or Billy offered him a drink, Spider eagerly gulped it down and started the cycle all over again until he drank so much another blackout followed. Again, Grandfather Joe nursed him back to health, and again, Spider would vow not to drink. But his friends would goad him into “just one sip,” and the cycle would begin anew. Spider kept his alcohol cravings in line during the week with what his neighbors could smuggle to school or by finding something leftover in one of his father’s discarded bottles. Then on Sundays he would sneak gulps from the church’s stock of communion wine. One morning after Mass, however, the priest returned to the sacristy earlier than usual, catching Spider with a decanter fully tipped at his mouth. “What do you think you’re doing?” the priest exclaimed, visibly shocked. Any childish innocence had long since faded from the boy’s face, and he felt no remorse, no respect for the man of God standing there. Calmly, Spider replaced the stopper, then drew his brows into a defiant frown. “I’m surviving, Father. I’m surviving.” Brushing past the priest, Spider Montero thus brought his career as an altar boy to an abrupt end.