Read Objects of Worship for Free Online Page A

war, and he’s old. Real
old. Like, he’s retiring next year. You don’t look anywhere
near that old. Our Math teacher, Monsieur Savoie, he told
us once that he was thirty-five, and you look younger than
him.”
    Mom’s face darkened. “You know about your father. And
you know you can’t ever even hint at it to anyone outside the
four of us.”
    Dad said, “Honey, they know. Lay — ”
    “Let me handle this,” she told him. Turning back toward
Bernard, she said, “Well?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    She looked both of us in the eye. “You know you have to
keep it a secret. You know that.”
    “Yes,” we said in unison, doing our best to match Mom’s
seriousness.
    There’s dust in my nose, my mouth, my throat, my lungs. I
should have worn one of those filter masks or something.
But it’s done, now; I’ve broken through to the concealed
room behind the closet. The room where Dad kept his
secret hidden from the world. The room with no doors and
no windows that Dad included when he built this house
after coming home from the war.
    That’s around the time the newspaper articles about
Hochelaga started appearing.
    I step inside the tiny room. There are three spare
uniforms, all identical.
    I undress, choking back tears.
    I slip into the green jumpsuit. I put on the orange rubber
boots. I pull the skin-tight orange hood over my head, lining
up the holes with my eyes and mouth. I fasten the green
helmet, making sure the chin-guard strap is tight enough,
but not too tight. Finally, I pull on the thin white gloves.
    I walk out of the closet wearing Dad’s uniform. For six
decades, Dad was Hochelaga, Montreal’s own costumed
superhero.
    When Jacques Cartier arrived in 1535, Hochelaga was
the name of the Iroquois village that stood on what was
to be later named the Island of Montreal. “Arrived” being
the polite term for “invaded,” Dad had always reminded us
sardonically.
    Dad chose the name because it honoured the First
People who lived here before the European invaders, and
because it was neither a French nor an English name. It was
important for him that his superhero name favour neither
of Montreal’s major languages. Dad, like most Montrealers,
just
wanted
the
Francophone
and
the
Anglophone
communities to get along. He spoke both languages fluently.
In fact, courtesy of his multipurpose energy, he was fluent
in every language spoken in the world today. Hochelaga
was a hero for everybody.
    And now, because of my selfish, useless brother, it’s up
to me to become the new Hochelaga.
    Because somebody has to.
    Summer 1992 in Montreal. The city’s 350 th anniversary.
The year The Mighty came to town to see my father.
    The Mighty. An elite group of international superheroes. The elite group of international super-heroes.
They’ve been around since 1961, protecting the world
from
alien
invasions,
interdimensional
demons,
mad
scientists, and other world-threatening dangers.
    The day before The Mighty’s visit, having no clue of
what was to come, Bernard and I had had a rare quarrel.
And, coincidentally, it had started with a discussion about
The Mighty themselves.
    “I think the Lion King’s the coolest member; he’s the
most radical. And the most mysterious. Nobody knows if
he’s even really human,” I said.
    “Whatever. My favourite’s Samson. Because he’s Jewish,
like us.” This wasn’t the first time Bernard had brought this
up.
    “You know we’re not Jewish. Not really.”
    Dad was a secular Jew — and an atheist. He didn’t
do anything Jewish; no Yom Kippur, no Hanukkah, no
religious or traditional stuff at all. No circumcisions for us.
No Bar Mitzvahs. No Sabbath. No worrying about kosher.
Either he didn’t have any family left or he didn’t speak to
them. He was close-mouthed about that. And Mom wasn’t
Jewish at all; according to Jewish law that means we’re not
either.
    Mom, as she liked to say, was half Louisiana Negro, half
Canadian Cree, and all Montreal atheist. Bernard and I
didn’t