Boys in the Valley(44)

As if murder is the last thing on their minds.

Trembling, David goes back to his own bed.

In the cot next to his, he hears fervent, continuous mumbles of prayer coming from Michael. “Hey Michael,” he says loudly, a ragged attempt to settle his own nerves. “Say one for me, will ya, pal?”

Michael doesn’t reply, and David can’t see his face because the boy’s pulled his bedding up and over his head. Everyone’s hiding, he thinks. Maybe I should hide, too.

“Ah, never mind, I guess.” He lets out an exasperated sigh, tries to get his head around what, exactly, is happening at St. Vincent’s. “Carry on as you were,” he says.

Lost in his own thoughts, David doesn’t notice the growing spots of blood soaking through Michael’s white blanket. He can’t see the younger boy’s strained face, or his wide, crazed eyes, and he’s spared the horror of seeing Michael’s bloodied fingers, the result of him having chewed away the tops, nearly to the bone.





27


THE WAGON COMES TO A HALT IN FRONT OF ST. VINCENT’S.

Andrew and I watch Johnson, who does not turn to watch our approach, disappear inside the building, the coffin cradled in his arms.

“Andrew . . .”

But Andrew sharply raises a hand toward me, halting my thought. His eyes are focused on the area Johnson walked from the shed to the entrance, the large man’s footsteps a blackened path in the new-fallen snow. “Hold on, Peter. I . . . I have to think.”

I sit quiet for a moment, wanting out of the wagon, needing information on what’s happened. But I wait patiently, willing to let Andrew figure out what’s best.

Finally, he turns to me, his face a mask of worry. He speaks in a quiet rush. Something in his demeanor sends a flutter of panic through my gut. “Go find the other boys. See what . . . no, sorry, go see if anyone is missing. I’m going to speak with Brother Johnson.”

“The supplies . . .”

“Don’t worry about the supplies. I’ll handle it. I’ll get Brother Johnson to help, and the kitchen staff. Just . . . it’s better if you go. I’ll find you later, all right? Let me know what you find out.”

I nod and hurry down from the wagon. I know better than Andrew that the answers don’t lie with Johnson, but on the tongues of my brothers. The priests underestimate us orphans, discount our ability to find the truth of things they think hidden.

I step through the open doors of the orphanage, walk quickly through the foyer and up the stairs. I enter the cloakroom only after checking to make sure it’s empty. Annoyed at myself for being fearful, I hang John Hill’s peacoat on a wooden peg, put the wool hat on the shelf with my other one.

When I arrive in the dormitory, I’m taken aback at the demeanor of the others. I expected turmoil, loud voices, gossip, and excitement.

What I find is like the inside of a tomb.

It’s quiet. Much too quiet.

Like the day before, a group of boys are clustered at the far end of the long room. I notice David sitting up on his bunk, watching me. His eyes are both eager and frightened . . . and something else. A warning?

I drop my satchel next to my bed and examine the room. I try to count heads, faces, but the boys are scattered about, not in their usual places. I sit on my bed to remove my boots, eager to put on dry shoes again. David comes over, stands restlessly at the edge of my cot. His hands are clenching and unclenching, his mouth set in a grim line. He’s not himself, and that, almost more than the sight of the coffin, worries me greatly.

David is not easily knocked off his course. He has walls within walls to keep himself insulated from things of the world, from the needs and feelings of those around him. I’ve never thought less of him for it. We all do what we must to get by. But I can’t recall ever seeing him anything other than sardonic. Any emotions he may or may not feel at certain events, or punishments, or curiosities, are buried deep within him, visible only by his inner self. Which, I know, is exactly the way he likes it.

To see him so visibly, dramatically shaken is like seeing an adult cry for the first time. Seeing someone—someone you had thought unbreakable—splinter and crack. I still recall the first time I saw my mother cry. It was the first time in my life I felt truly exposed. Truly at risk. Because if our parents can be hurt, or shaken, or brought down by despair, what hope have we?

I feel a similar way seeing David in his current state. I didn’t realize, until this moment, how much I rely on his solidity, his composure. In a way, it allows me to be more open and vulnerable for the other children. We balance each other that way.

Now it is I who must be strong, and stoic.

I steel myself to be so.

“What is it?” I say, pleased at how level my voice sounds, and pray it has a settling effect on him. “Tell me everything.”

David lets out a deep sigh; his hands unclench, his features soften. He sits on the foot of my bed, eyes darting around the room as if expecting a sudden attack from all quarters. “It’s not good, Peter.”

“Okay,” I say.

He turns and meets my eye, lowers his voice. “It’s Basil,” he says.

I think of that small coffin, and my stomach hollows.

No. Impossible.

“What about him?”

“Peter,” he says, and swallows hard. He looks around once more, nervous and edgy, as if wary of eavesdroppers. He tries to act casually, but I can tell he’s only pretending, as if not wanting to show his fear, his pain. But why? And for whom?