“Good god. Why can’t he let us alone?” the bishop said, shoving the files off to the side. “Protestants. They never know when to quit!”
“Who was Calvin Evans anyway?” she asked curiously. “A priest?”
“No,” the bishop said, envisioning the boy who was the reason he was still in Iowa decades later. “A curse.”
* * *
—
After she left, the bishop shook his head, remembering how often Calvin had stood in his office, guilty of yet another infraction—breaking a window, stealing a book, giving a black eye to a priest who was only trying to make him feel loved. Well-meaning couples occasionally came to the boys home to adopt one of the boys, but no one ever showed interest in Calvin. Could you blame them?
But then one day that man, Wilson, had appeared out of thin air. Said he was from the Parker Foundation, a filthy-rich Catholic fund. When the bishop heard someone from the Parker Foundation was in the building, he was certain his ship had finally come in. His heart beat fast as he imagined the size of the donation this man Wilson might propose. He would listen to the offer, then, in a dignified way, push for more.
* * *
—
“Hello, Bishop,” Mr. Wilson said, as if he had no time to waste. “I’m looking for a young boy, ten years old, probably tall, blondish hair.” He went on to explain that this boy had lost his family via a series of accidents about four years earlier. He had reason to believe the boy was there, at All Saints. The boy had living relatives who’d recently learned of his existence; they wanted him back. “His name is Calvin Evans,” he finished, glancing at his watch as if he had another appointment to make. “If a boy of that description is here, I’d like to meet him. Actually, my plan is to take him back with me.”
The bishop stared at Wilson, his lips parted in disappointment. Between the time he’d heard that the rich man was in the building and their introductory handshake, he’d already crafted an acceptance speech.
“Is everything all right?” Mr. Wilson asked. “I hate to push, but I have a flight in two hours.”
Not a single mention of money. The bishop could feel Chicago slipping away. He took a good long look at Wilson. The man was tall and arrogant. Just like Calvin.
“Perhaps I could go out and walk among the boys. See if I can’t recognize him on my own.”
The bishop turned to the window. Just that morning he’d caught Calvin washing his hands in the baptismal font. “There’s nothing holy about this water,” Calvin informed him. “It’s straight from the tap.”
But as eager as he was to get rid of Calvin, his bigger problem—money—remained. He stared out at the dozen or so wilted gravestones that littered the courtyard. In Memoriam, they claimed.
“Bishop?” Wilson was standing. His briefcase was already dangling from one hand.
The bishop didn’t reply. He didn’t like the man, or his fancy clothes, or the way he’d arrived without an appointment. He was a bishop, for god’s sake—where was the respect? He cleared his throat, stalling for time as he stared at the gravestones of all the bullied bishops who’d come before him. He could not let the Parker Foundation with its promise of untold funds get away.
He turned to Wilson. “I have terrible news,” he said. “Calvin Evans is dead.”
* * *
—
“By the way, if that annoying minister ever calls here again,” the old bishop continued to instruct his secretary as she cleared his coffee cup, “tell him I died. Or wait, no—tell him,” he said, tapping his fingers together, “that you’d learned there was a Calvin Evans in a different home—somewhere like, I don’t know, Poughkeepsie? But the place burned down and all the records were lost.”
“You want me to make something up?” she worried.
“You wouldn’t be making something up,” he said. “Not really. Buildings burn down all the time. Hardly anyone takes building codes seriously.”
“But—”
“Just do it,” the bishop said. “That minister is wasting our time. Our focus is on fundraising, remember? Money for our living, breathing children. You get a money call, I’m in. But this Calvin Evans nonsense—it’s a dead end.”
* * *
—
Wilson looked as if he must have misheard. “What…what did you just say?”
“Calvin recently passed away from pneumonia,” the bishop said simply. “Terrible shock. He was such a favorite here.” As he spun the tale, he mentioned Calvin’s good manners, his Bible class leadership, his love of corn. The more details he gave, the more rigid Wilson became. Fueled by how well the story was going, the bishop went to the filing cabinet to retrieve a photo. “We’re using this one for his memorial fund,” he said, pointing at a black and white of Calvin, his hands perched at his waist, his torso bent forward, his mouth open wide as if telling someone off. “I love that photo. It just says Calvin to me.”