DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

                                         short short story by

                                           Patrick Breheny

     Back then Bronx Community College was using the old Hunter College’s campus, a few Jerome Avenue el stops north of 183rd street. Cornelius rode the IRT el in the early evening darkness, with a mix of students and end of rush hour commuters, the wheels clattering beneath the carriage, curving tracks causing the coach to pitch and lurch, and through the streaked train windows he saw the northwest Bronx’s lit tenement apartments wherein behind shades and drapes and Venetian blinds he imagined the ordinary people living their quiet lives of desperation.

     Bronx Community student body even in 1961 was a compilation of Bronx ethnicity---Black, Puerto Rican, Irish, Italian, Jews---who, it may surprise some today, were not uncomfortable together, interacted respectfully, though did tend toward their own group and culture.

     His class that night was Western Civilization. The instructor was Jewish, and had strange ideas that might make him suspect of being a communist, except on analysis he only espoused democratic ideals. It was the sometimes critical WAY he did that that was jarring, and that Con had never before had a teacher who wasn’t Catholic clergy.  His name was Professor Leonard, and that seemed appropriate---in manner, dress and spirit, he resembled Leonard Bernstein.

     In what context the issue arose he couldn’t recall even immediately after the class. In his class was an older student about 40, Owen Curtin, that he didn’t know well, even though he sometimes rode back as far as Fordham Road with Owen, where he got off. Owen was the cousin of a good friend of Con’s, and the brother of a priest who had taught Con high school English. What happened in class was a guy who looked like he could be Italian but answered to a French sounding name so might be Canadian, or dark haired Irish for that matter, or a fair Puerto Rican--- even Jewish , though that would be ruled out by what he said---said, not in a manner of confronting Professor Leonard but as an intimation, “In my religion they teach that anybody who doesn’t accept it goes to hell.”

     Con knew most of the black students in the room would be of evangelical faiths that did say such a thing, and the Jewish students might believe that was religious dogma for the rest of the class who, by New York demographics, would almost all be Catholics. Con thought, whatever the guy’s nationality, he was a ROMAN Catholic and should know better.

     He interrupted. He said, “I think your religion is the same as mine”, and then explained that true believers of any faith who live righteous lives can be saved, and cited Baptism of Desire. The schismatic said, “I don’t know Baptism of Desire, Baptism of Blood…”  (He’d just left out ‘water”, he said ‘blood” so he must know something) “…only what I’ve heard.” Con knew than he had been a public school Catholic, a kid who went an hour a week, if he felt like doing that instead of taking a break, to study Religion at the nearest Catholic school.

     Con said, “If you don’t know you shouldn’t be speaking for it. Inaccurately.”

     Professor Leonard, to whose lecture this was a complete non-sequeter, and who couldn’t consider theological quibbling of any consequence to his material, pleaded “Don’t start shouting at each other.” Was Con shouting? Maybe a little. Yes, embarrassing, but he had made his point, and the guy desisted.

     On the train, he sat with Owen Curtin. Owen looked weary, was aging fast for forty, a tired dock worker who got up at 5:00 AM and should probably be asleep already at 10:00, but Con thought, his brother a priest, Owen should have something supportive to say about his defense of doctrine.

     Owen said almost nothing, as usual, in fact sometimes closed his eyes. South of the Kingsbridge Road station, Fordham just one stop ahead, he woke up, and Con thought to approach the topic indirectly. “I didn’t mean to get so vocal in that exchange in class.” This was an invitation for Owen to deflect his apology, say something like his clarification was completely understandable and justifiable.

     But Owen looked even wearier at the reminder. As the train lunged into the Fordham station, he braced himself and stood up, looked back only once at Con as he moved toward the doors, and said, “Get an education, kid, or you’ll always be working hard for somebody else.”

     Then he was gone.

"Copr", Patrick Breheny