Boys in the Valley(6)
The tall priest stands silently in the open doorway, looking skyward, as if considering a great question. With his thick white hair, long nose and icy eyes, his appearance is that of a regal king in their court (albeit one who wears a beggar’s clothes); a royal personage who does not deign to look down at the peasants beneath their feet. Instead, chin up and jutting, Poole leaves the entry doors and walks crisply across the foyer, boot heels clicking, toward the chapel at the far end.
“Hey,” Ben whispers, and David turns.
Like an idiot.
A cold, soapy splatter hits him in the face, and Ben laughs again. Furious, David dips his brush in the bucket. Enough is enough.
“Mr. Mason.”
David freezes. Ben’s smile vanishes, his face drains of color, and he turns his attention to the floor, increases his scrubbing speed. From nearby, Timothy groans.
Damn it to hell.
With an inward sigh, David sets down the brush and stands, hands at his sides.
He is afraid, and he hates himself for it.
“Yes, Father.”
Poole holds open one of the chapel doors, his back to David and the others, but his head is turned—just enough—so one cool blue eye can target him.
“Everything you do,” Poole says, quietly but evenly, each word soaked in threat, “every breath you take, every thought in your head, exists only to bring glory to the Lord God and his son Jesus Christ. Do you agree?”
David swallows. Beneath the priest’s gaze, he pulls up memories of being called into Poole’s chamber as a child. Poole ordering him to lay his hands flat on the writing table. The leather strap crossing his knuckles again, and again.
The pain. The blood.
“Yes, Father.”
“Remember, children,” Poole says more loudly, his voice a dusty echo in the high-ceilinged foyer, “the Lord’s eyes are always upon you. Always.”
This time all three boys murmur the desired reply: a meek, feeble chorus. “Yes, Father,” they say (except for Timothy, which comes out as Fa-Fa-Father).
Without another word Poole disappears into the chapel, the heavy door closes behind him. David drops to his knees, grabs the brush and scrubs, all thoughts of retribution wiped away.
As he works, tile-to-tile, his mind wanders. A familiar, haunting thought tickles his brain as he leans into the brush, pushes the bristles harder into the stone.
What if?
What if he hadn’t been abandoned? Left in an alley by a mother and father he’d never met. Dumped in the gutter like old meat. Like trash.
What if he hadn’t been brought here?
Raised here?
A servant. A prisoner.
What if he’d been loved? If he’d been cared for? Educated. Given a chance to do something good with his life . . .
David is surprised to see tears spot the stone where he works. He sniffs and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of the same dull shirt he’s worn a hundred times in twice as many days. He glances over at Ben, who works quietly, not meeting David’s eyes. Knowing better.
“You all right?” Timothy asks. “Ca-Ca-Ca . . .”
“Just fuck off,” David grunts, not wanting to hear whatever follow-up question the kid was working at. Scowling, he mechanically moves the brush, thinking only one thing with each rotation of the bristles as they scrape rhythmically over and over atop the hard, cold stone:
What if . . . What if . . . What if . . .
4
ANDREW TAKES IN A DEEP BREATH OF CHILLED, HAY-scented morning air, lets it out. It feels like a good day. A beautiful, God-blessed day.
He watches Peter walking with the rest of the boys. Sees him say a few words to Basil and nudge him good-naturedly. Sees the rare sparkle of a smile on the small, sickly boy’s face. Andrew also notices how old Peter looks compared with the others in the group, how adult. He’s delighted he’s been able to convince the boy to follow him into priesthood, and secretly harbors a wish that Peter remain at the orphanage; not as an orphan, but as a priest. As a father to these poor, beaten-down children who come to them injured, forgotten, abused, disposed.
Andrew knows, however, that there are two roadblocks to Peter’s path as a priest: his stubbornness, which he feels can be curtailed and constructively directed.
And Grace Hill.
A much bigger problem.
But, all things considered, Andrew would be just as pleased to see Peter become a farmer, if that’s what made him truly happy. He would make sure, as well, that the boy got every chance to consider all the possibilities of his future, then make his own decisions. After all, one cannot be forced into sacrifice. One must choose it.
The boys, laughing and jostling, reach the gate. Andrew joins them as they head through, young legs tromping down the narrow dusty path toward the large garden. He falls in beside Peter, lowers his voice.
“That was a nice thing you did, Peter. But I’d be mindful of Brother Johnson. He has a colorful history, you know.”
Peter shrugs in the way of all teenagers, lowers his head in modest rebellion against the modest retribution of his actions. “I guess.”
“Anyway, on to important things. Tell me, do you feel ready for today’s lesson? Have you been studying the Latin I assigned?” Andrew keeps his tone light, not wanting to pressure the boy. It’s a delicate time for Peter, and the next few days will be a struggle, a wrestling match between his human desires and God’s will. Andrew thinks about the trip he has planned for them, but keeps it to himself for the moment. He’s not going to make the boy’s decision easy, and that’s the way it should be. The way it was for him. The harder you fight to join the path of your choosing, the more the decision will resonate within you.