Boys in the Valley(40)

And now a thought hits me.

I look across the rickety bench at him as he guides the horses, and for the first time in my life I realize something so large, so moving, that it swells inside my mind, then bursts into enlightenment. I think—no, acknowledge—a fact I think I’ve always known. A fact that I, perhaps, didn’t want to admit to myself.

Andrew does think of me as a son.

In that light, secrets and loss take on a different hue, a more significant weight.

What will he do when I tell him I’ve decided to abandon the priesthood? What will he do when, one day—one day soon, I hope—I leave the orphanage forever?

These thoughts trouble me, and the letter in my bookbag no longer feels like a thing to be proud of, or thrilled by. It doesn’t seem to me a wholesome thing, tucked away in its shroud of privacy, its secrecy. It feels shameful.

As if sensing my thoughts, Andrew gives me a side-long stare.

“What?”

I shake my head and study the passing landscape, keeping my thoughts to myself for the moment.

We say nothing as the wagon creaks onward beneath the weight of the supplies, now tarped over and tied down for the return trip. The sound of the horses’ footfalls is padded by the cushion of new snow, their breath steaming billows in the frigid air.

I must get tangled in a daydream, because I only hear Andrew’s question when he raises his voice to ask a second time. “The book, Peter?” he says. “Which book did she give you?

I recall the forest green cover, the shimmer of gold accents, Grace telling me that this one was somewhat new to her, having received it only a few years earlier. A birthday gift from her father, purchased for her during a trip to the city.

“Huckleberry Finn,” I say. “By a man named Twain.”

Andrew gives me a wary look. “Oh, that’s wonderful. A book about a rebellious, precocious boy. Just what the doctor ordered.”

He laughs and I chuckle along, the idea of reading about the adventures of a rebellious boy exciting me almost as much as the clandestine contents of Grace’s letter.

Almost.

“To be honest, Peter, I’ve not read it. Only heard the usual condemnations.”

“If you think it’s not appropriate, Andrew, I won’t read it. I swear.” I mean this. I don’t want to upset Andrew, and I don’t wish to go so far against decorum as to seem ungrateful. Or worse, defiant.

But he waves a hand at me. “It’s fine.” He seems to think for a moment, and I wait for what comes next. He looks pained, a sickly smile on his wind-reddened face. “Truth be told, it’s the letter inside the book I worry about.”

I feel myself blush and look away. My cheeks are tingling, whether from the rush of blood to my cold face or the briskness of the icy wind I don’t know. My mind untethers, and there comes a not-wholly unpleasant feeling of floating.

In an effort to focus my thoughts and emotions, I fix my sight on a faraway tree, leafless and black against the pale canvas of snow and sky. At first, I consider ignoring his remark, but something in my heart tells me that now might be the right time to bring it all into the open. To bring Andrew into my secret. We are not far from St. Vincent’s, so I decide to pursue the topic. Or, at least, shed the guilt of keeping my correspondence, and feelings, of Grace from him.

“Are you angry?”

Andrew sighs. “No, of course not. Those are your private affairs and no business of mine.”

I turn to him, surprised. “Really? I think Poole would feel different.”

A small smile—a genuine smile—lifts Andrew’s features. “I am not Father Poole,” he says forcefully, but I can see he immediately regrets making such a bald statement. “For better or worse.”

I don’t respond. Nothing I can say in answer to that will make him feel less guilty. I look for the tree again, but it seems to have disappeared. All I see now is endless sky of unbroken gray, a floor of white.

“Peter, I bring you with me to the farm for your companionship, and so we can discuss, one-on-one, the matters of your training . . .”

I swallow what feels like a stone in my throat at the mention of my training, but stay silent. I’m interested in what he has to say on the matter of my visits to the farm. We’ve never discussed it, and it’s the first time I’ve even wondered at his motivations.

“But I also bring you because of Grace. Don’t misunderstand . . . I’m not pushing you two . . .”

He’s stumbling and I can’t help but smile at him. “Go on,” I say, teasingly.

He looks at me, startled, then laughs. “Okay, thank you. What I’m trying to say is I first brought you because I thought it would be fun for you to see another child, someone outside the orphanage.”

“A girl, you mean.”

His brow furrows at that. “No, not exactly. But yes, after a few years, both John and I could see that you two were growing fond of each other, in a most natural and innocent way. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, honestly. God’s greatest gift to us is our ability to love others, and to see it happening before your eyes . . . it’s like watching a garden grow.”

I’m confused at his tone, his words. “But it’s not allowed.”

“For priests, Peter. But you’re not a priest yet, are you? Besides, we can have friends who are women. It’s not forbidden. But, look son, what I’m saying is . . . or trying to say . . . is that I know about your feelings for Grace, and you should not feel bad, or guilty, or in any way ashamed of those feelings.”