Boys in the Valley(77)

“But didn’t you love me?” I ask. “Didn’t you want to stay . . . for me?”

My father doesn’t answer. He seems confused now, looking around the room like a dog catching a scent, as if hearing sounds that I do not, or cannot, hear. When he looks at me again, he seems lost. “At the time,” he says, “I thought, just for a moment, of taking you with me.” His burned hand reaches for my face, and instinctually I pull away. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I saw you there, you know. Saw you watching. If I had taken some time and considered . . . hell, I think so. Yes, I’m sure of it. I should have taken you with me. First you, then me. How’s that sound? But at the time, I couldn’t think . . .”

He slaps his head hard. His voice has turned to gravel, the sound of scraping brick. It makes my skin crawl. When he takes my hand, I want to scream. It’s ice cold. And now his face changes, becomes misshapen. The eyes bulge and leak. The lips flake away and his teeth grimace and shine. His body shivers as the tissue falls away from the bones on his hands. I see pale skull where a patch of skin has rubbed away.

“When you become a priest, Peter,” he says in that horrible voice, “will you visit my grave? Will you bless the ground, and pray for my eternal soul?” His garbled words become phlegmy and guttural as he liquifies; the sound of his voice leaks out, molten and slippery. “Pray for my soul, Peter, because I suffer. I’m in the dark, Son. It’s so dark!”

“Dad,” I say, voice shaking, my skin clammy, my stomach in knots. “I miss you.”

“Pray for me, Peter . . .”

“. . . I miss you and Mom so much . . .”

“Will you bless the ground? Will you pray for my soul? Will you forgive me?”

“Dad, please don’t.”

But he’s looking down at his knees, and he’s crying. Sobbing in great, heaving gulps. His body decomposing, falling apart at my feet. He reaches down and lifts the shotgun from between his legs.

“I’ll see you soon, won’t I, Peter? Yes, I think I’ll see you very soon.”

“Dad!”

He puts the gun between his bared teeth, turns his back to me and pulls the trigger.

“NO!”

The back of his black head explodes. A hot spray of flesh and bone and brain splatters me in a wash of gore.

I wake up to a room filled with light.





47


PETER WAKES UP SCREAMING, AND DAVID GROANS.

They’ve been cooped up for hours, and despite leaving all the lanterns lit, including the two wall sconces, most of the kids are asleep. It’s late, and they haven’t heard a murmur from beyond the doors since Peter and Andrew entered.

A couple of the kids needed to use the privy but going through the lobby and outside seemed like a bad idea. Luckily (or unluckily if your cot is nearby) there are a few bedpans for overnight use if the little ones don’t want to make the walk to the outhouse.

Of course, everyone missed both lunch and dinner. David swears he can hear stomachs growling all around the room. His included. Some complained of hunger pains, but most know the drill by now. Hunger is part of life at St. Vincent’s, and complaining certainly won’t change anything.

To make things worse, the storm is building in strength. The windows rattle incessantly, and the snow blurs past with such density it makes David feel as if they are moving, as if the whole orphanage has lifted from the earth and is now flying through the sky, carried on the shoulders of the storm.

Unable to sleep, or even rest his eyes, David sits cross-legged on his cot. He looks across the room at Peter, who now stares wildly around, as if in fear of fleeing spirits.

“You okay?”

Peter turns to David, wipes his brow, and swivels his feet to the floor. Hands on knees. Breathing heavy. For a moment, David wonders if he’s going to cry, but then the moment passes, and Peter looks like Peter again. Unafraid. In control. Saintly.

“I’m okay,” he says.

Peter stands, stretches. He looks at the clock on his small bedside dresser. David watches him, curious. In the wavering orange light of the lanterns, Peter looks older. His face appears lined, as if he’s aged twenty years in the last twenty hours.

A few cots over, Father Andrew is comforting Timothy, a hand around his shoulder as the red-haired boy whimpers about being afraid, about being hungry. About everything.

David wonders if he should be talking to some of the younger boys. Checking in with them. They must be scared.

But then his heart hardens, and he looks inward. We’re all scared. I’m fucking scared. Who’s comforting me?

Knowing he’s being selfish and hating himself for it, he sighs and swings off his cot. He’ll talk to Peter and Andrew, see what they should do next. Waiting it out until morning seems the best idea. Things will be better in the light of a new day.

Who knows? Maybe they’ll leave this horrid room in the morning and this nightmare will be over. The others will have departed. Run away.

If they haven’t already.

His spirits are buoyed by the idea. Yes, he’s sure they’re gone. They just need to wait until morning, maybe even find some breakfast . . .

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

All eyes turn to the double-doors, still held closed by the metal cross wedged into the handles. David and Peter look at each other, terrified, hoping the other will deal with it. Will take charge.