Boys in the Valley(41)

I’m stunned at this message, feel myself reeling. I clutch the coat in tight fists, as if trying to hold onto an old world that seems to be turning over, twisting, unraveling. It’s both heartbreaking and thrilling.

Before I can think of a response, Andrew continues. “Frederick Douglass once wrote, ‘The soul that is within me no man can degrade.’ Now, I’m shifting the context a bit. He wasn’t referring to a life in Christ, but he was talking about the power of humanity, about rising above the oppression of those who had forced him into slavery. And he was talking, I believe, about being true to himself, to the man he was at his core.” Andrew pauses a moment. When he speaks again, there’s a weary sadness in his tone that hurts my heart. “I’d like to think his statement applies here, as well. What I’m trying to express, Peter, is that whatever you decide to do with your life, you must have faith that your soul will always remain your own. It cannot be degraded, not if you stay true to yourself.”

I think about this for a moment, my mind flooding with ideas, with visions of the future, with strange ideas of my eternal soul. Of what it means to control my own destiny.

“Peter, the . . .”

Abruptly, Andrew stops talking, as if the very words catch in his throat. He turns his head away from me, studies the horizon. I can sense his tension, his inability to continue.

As if what he wants to say is physically impossible.

I almost don’t want to hear it. It’s as if I’ve waited my whole life to be let go of, but then, when the time comes, I’m stood on a ledge, and no one is there holding me back, and the world is calling from far below. All my hopes and dreams lie down there, hidden by a distant mist. But it’s a long fall. A lonely, terrifying drop into the mystery of an unknowable future.

I pretend not to notice when Andrew wipes a tear from his eye. After a moment, he clears his throat and continues, his voice a bit bolder, more confident.

“The discovery of Christ is not found in a darkened room, Peter,” he says solemnly. “It’s found in the light. God is not found through escape from a distant place, but through the arrival of where you already are. Hiding you from Grace, hiding the world from you, will not help you decide your life’s ultimate path. You must be fully aware of all aspects of each decision you make in this world. All sides. Only then can you be certain that the choice you make is the correct one.”

“I understand, Father.”

“Do you?” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. Then he nods to himself, blows out a large breath. “Good.”

“Thank you, Andrew.”

His smile comes back, and he flicks the reins to speed up the horses. “Of course, Peter. Of course.”

Familiar landmarks begin to emerge. I recognize an approaching swell of land that, past its crest, will dip us into the valley. Our valley. We are very close to home.

“Besides,” he says, his tone light once more. “We are friends, correct? And I would not lose your trust over a few novels and a young woman’s letters of . . . well, let’s just call them letters of friendship.”

I laugh at this. I’m oddly elated, embarrassed, and somehow more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

“Just be careful, Peter,” he says. “Guard your feelings like gold coins from those who would steal them, or pick them from your pocket.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Good, good. You know, I remember when I was your age, I . . .” Andrew’s voice trails off, and I follow his eyes to look straight ahead. “Oh no . . .”

Andrew’s eyes are focused on the orphanage, which has now come into full view.

“Oh Jesus, no . . .”

The first thing I see is that the front doors of St. Vincent’s stand wide open.

The second is Brother Johnson walking from the shed, a rectangular pine box hefted upon one shoulder. Recent events aside, it’s obvious to both of us what it is.

A coffin.

He carries it toward the orphanage.

Andrew yells at the horses and cracks the reins. The wagon speeds up, all but charging down a final descent of the narrow, snow-covered road.

Another sick man?

But I know in my heart it’s the wrong answer. It makes no sense.

It can’t be a man, because the coffin is so very small.

It’s the size of a boy.





26


THINGS ARE GETTING STRANGE.

David sits on his bunk, cross-legged, scanning the dormitory from one end to the other. The windows on the opposite wall are dimming into late afternoon, and all the kids have been cooped-up now for hours. Ever since lunch.

Boys who went to the privy were closely watched from the orphanage doors by Father White, told to do their business and return straightaway or there’d be punishment. David makes a lot of fun of old man White, but the way his eyes blazed giving those orders, even he didn’t have the temerity to push him on it.

Everyone else went straight to the dorm. Where they remain.

Everyone but Peter, that is.

And Basil.

“This is horrible,” Finnegan moans, sounding every bit like the child he is. He and Jonathan sit on the next cot over, legs dangling over the edge, staring at David as if he’s got some sort of answer to what this new thing is that’s happening.

“It’ll be dark soon,” adds Jonathan, mimicking his best friend’s whiny tone. “We won’t get recreation time outside at this rate.”