Dominus vobiscum.

This bit of Latin David knows, the Lord be with you. Along with Paul, he responds, et cum spiritu tuo, and with your spirit. Although the double tu still puzzles him; he wants to connect them as in tutu. Oh, oh, Father Amato’s head has turned, and Paul, kneeling at David’s left, flicks his eyelashes, time to shag ass. To prevent a stumble, David grasps his cassock at the knees as he stands and pivots. At the altar’s side table, he takes up cruets, one white, one red, water and wine.

David pours half the wine into Father Amato’s gold chalice. Father Amato lifts his chin, and David re-tilts the wine cruet until it empties. Now for the water, but on the first drop Father Amato jerks the chalice upward, rejecting the aqua pura. What, wonders David, does Father Amato smell like? Not incense or candle wax or anything holy, more like perfume. Hairs protrude from Father Amato’s thin nose.

Mass finished, David pulls the white surplice over his head and hangs it in the closet on the altar boys’ side of the sacristy. As he unbuttons the black cassock, he looks for Paul. Must be on the priests’ side. What does he do there anyhow?

David hangs up the cassock and lounges near the door to the rear courtyard. Last time they’d served Mass together, Paul had produced a cigarette on the walk back to their neighborhood. David looks at the clock.

Six minutes later, Paul approaches from the connecting hallway that runs behind the altar, carrying his surplice and cassock. Paul’s half a head taller than David with tossed blond hair. In school, he’s a year ahead, eighth grade.

Hey, he says.

Hey, says David.

Outside, the boys walk on cracked and tilted slabs of sidewalk lined with red maples. From a brown leather wallet Paul extracts a mashed Marlboro and book of matches. A strike, a puff, and the filter-tipped cigarette passes to David. David draws in smoke and coughs. The boys walk, fingers exchanging, lips puffing.

Guess what my dad told us at dinner, says David. He looks sideways at Paul—no reaction. David drops his voice to conspiratorial range. He said Father Amato belongs in AA.

Paul blows a thin flat stream of smoke. David wonders if he’ll ever be that cool. He says, do you know what AA is? Is it bad?

Paul hands the half-smoked cigarette to David, who puffs and hands it back.

Your dad, says Paul, thinks Father Amato drinks too much.

Too much what?

Stopping, Paul flicks ashes and says, David, are you dense?

David lowers his eyes. With his middle finger, Paul snaps the still-glowing stub into the middle of the street. He sighs and says, David, look, sorry, what your dad means, he thinks Father Amato drinks too much wine. Or whiskey.

Like a highball, says David.

Like a highball, says Paul.

David’s happy he knows about highballs. The boys resume their walk.

What do you think? says David.

I don’t, says Paul.