Boys in the Valley(26)
David knows that Peter also noticed. And looked, if not worried, at least confused.
Once they’d finally doused the lights and gone to bed, David made a point to keep an eye and an ear open well into the night, making sure no one was doing anything untoward. Unable to explain his own trepidation, his own fear, he nonetheless wanted to make sure no boys were moving about, sneaking between cots. The last thing he wanted was to wake up and have someone’s wide-eyed face inches from his own. Even worse, waking up to a group of smiling faces, surrounding his bed, hands ready to clamp down . . .
No, he doesn’t trust this new normal, and he likes the timing even less. As he lay in bed, the same recurring question popped into his brain for the hundredth time. Unbidden, nonsensical. Burrowing into his thoughts like a rat, gnawing at his brain like cheese.
What had been wrong with that man?
Now, however, between the late night, the lack of sleep and Poole’s droning sermon, he isn’t able to properly focus on his nagging concerns. Besides, the old bastard is finally at the wine-and-crackers part of the program.
David spruces up. Food is food, after all. Even if the “wine” is just grape juice and the piece of cracker isn’t enough to satisfy a baby bird’s hungry guts, he’ll take it gladly.
They all will.
As they stand for communion, David keeps his eyes moving to catch anything that seems out of place. He’s morbidly curious to see if the kids’ strange behavior will permeate the service.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
In the front row, two boys sit side-by-side at the end of a long bench. They are, at this point, the only ones still sitting. The rest are lined up like sheep waiting to be clubbed on the brain and sold for wool. All but the two.
Bartholomew and Simon.
David huffs a breath and looks around for Peter, wondering if he also noticed the odd stragglers. Before he can locate him amongst the others, however, he notices rickety old Father White shuffle over to the two seated boys, the ancient priest apparently winding himself up for a rare reprimand. As David steps closer to the front, he tries his best to listen to their conversation, difficult as it might be to hear anything clearly over Poole’s mumbling prayers as he thumbs stale wafers onto sprung, eager tongues.
“But I can’t, Father,” Bartholomew says, face earnest. “I haven’t confessed.”
“Neither have I, Father,” Simon repeats, looking decidedly less innocent. David thinks his expression is more amused than anything. “I missed confession yesterday, so I can’t possibly take communion. There’s mortal sin in me, Father White. Mortal sin.”
Bartholomew nods along, and Father White alternates between looking apoplectic and totally befuddled.
“You saw it yourself, Father White,” Bartholomew adds. “In the dining hall on Friday. The sin of pride.”
“And my sin was sloth, Father,” Simon says merrily. “Oh, and envy.”
“But, but . . . boys,” Father White stammers, “those aren’t mortal sins.”
Both boys sit up straight at this, their eyes widening as they fervently shake their heads in disagreement. David can’t help but smile at the temerity of their off-stage play, even though he knows it will be called out soon enough, that they’ll pay dearly for it.
“Well, we will certainly discuss this with Father Poole after the service,” White says finally, shaking his head in annoyance as he waddles his bag of bones back to his chair.
For a moment, David stands even with the two boys. Bartholomew—as if sensing his attention—turns his black eyes to focus on him. David gives a light nod, and Bartholomew smiles in return with pale, wormy lips, hiding his teeth.
A wash of queasiness floods his stomach, and David turns quickly away, skin prickling. He swallows a rush of bitter acid rising in his throat, then steps shakily forward and into the extended hand of mumbling Father Poole, whose sticky thumb waits impatiently with the body of Christ.
17
ANDREW IS MORE RESTED FROM A DAY OF RECUPERATION after the incidents of Friday night, but he still feels his eyes grow heavy during Poole’s ponderous sermon. He keeps himself alert by focusing on the children, making sure they aren’t nodding off, or creating mischief, during the service. He knows it’s hard for many of them—especially given how little they generally get to eat and the lack of daily exercise—to stay alert during the long Sunday morning Mass. Still, he will do his part to make sure they remain at least relatively focused.
Once the boys finish taking communion and Poole dismisses them for their hour of reflection, Andrew makes sure to catch Peter before he goes upstairs to the dorm where, like most of the others, he’ll likely take a late morning nap, something Andrew himself would very much like to do.
Alas, that will not happen today.
“Peter!”
A head taller than most of the others, Peter is easy to spot in the crowd of children exiting the chapel. He turns back toward Andrew—who points meaningfully to the foyer—and nods in acknowledgment. Andrew gathers his things and hastens out, meeting up with Peter outside the doors.
“Good morning, Father,” Peter says, suppressing a yawn.
“Good morning. Tired?”
Peter shakes his head, but his heavy eyes counter the lie. “I’m okay. The last couple days have been . . . odd.”