Tears poured down Bateman’s reddened cheeks. “No,” he cried. “No. Dad. I swear. Don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me. He’s lying. He’s a liar.”
But Mr. Bateman hit David anyway, a slap across the face that sounded like the crack of a whip. “Don’t you lie to me,” he said, shaking David, finger in his face.
Bateman bawled. “You’re hurting me, Dad. You’re hurting me again.”
His father lifted David by the collar so that his toes barely touched the carpet. He looked like a man carrying a wild animal by the scruff of the neck. “You wait till I get you home. You’ll get the belt for this. You’ve embarrassed your mother and me.”
I heard David Bateman’s fearful wails from down the rectory hall and then even after the front door had slammed shut. When I looked back to those seated around the table, my mother had her head down, crying. That’s when it hit me. I would never have to see David Bateman at school again, never have to live in fear that he lurked around every corner, that the next ball to come my way would smack me in the side of the head. I should have been leaping for joy, shouting to the heavens in grateful thanks for my newfound freedom. Instead I felt sad—a little, anyway. David Bateman’s father would give him the whipping of a lifetime, though I had no doubt it would do little to change David’s ways. I’d just watched him sit and lie to a priest’s face not once, but twice. If that hadn’t scared him to tell the truth, a whipping surely wasn’t going to.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hill,” Father Brogan said after the wailing had dissipated. His face remained flushed. “I want to apologize to you, and especially to you, Samuel. We failed you. Mr. O’Reilly and Mr. Leftkowitz advised me not just of the beating but of the bullying you have been forced to endure each and every day. It is an environment no child should have to accept, especially not here at a Catholic school. I can assure you that it will not happen again, not while I’m pastor.” He turned to Sister Beatrice, and I thought for a moment he might actually expel her. She sat mute, looking pale, and I got the impression Father Brogan had already administered a different type of lashing.
When we stood to leave, Father Brogan reached into the pocket of his robe—the kangaroo pouch, we called it. He pulled out a card with a picture of a man dressed in green, wearing a tall white hat. He turned it over and showed me the back. “I’m going to give you this Irish blessing now, Samuel, man-to-man. You keep it with you, and it will bring you strength.” He put the palm of his hand atop my head and said the words written on the back of the card as I read them.
“Dearest father in heaven, bless this child and bless this day of new beginnings. Smile upon this child and surround this child, Lord, with the soft mantle of your love. Teach this child to follow in your footsteps, and to live life in the ways of love, faith, hope, and charity.”
I felt his fingers make the sign of the cross through my hair.
I would slide the card with the Irish blessing into the frame of the mirror above my dresser, and there it would remain until I moved out for good. I took it with me and slid it between the frame and the mirror in the bedroom of my home.
As we departed the room in the rectory that evening, my father draped an arm around my shoulder. I stopped and looked up at my parents. “I have to ask Father Brogan something,” I said.
“What is it?” my mother asked.
“Just something.”
“Okay, let’s go back.”
“No,” I said. “I can do this on my own.”
I needed to find out if my white lie had been okay. I didn’t want to go to hell, especially now that I was certain David Bateman had been damned to eternal torment. I made my way back to the conference room, but Father Brogan had departed. Sister Beatrice stood with her back to the door. I watched as she pulled a small metal flask from the pouch at the front of her habit, twisted off the top, and took a long drink. Then, as if sensing my presence, she turned and looked at me. If she were embarrassed, or even the slightest bit self-conscious about what I had witnessed, she did not show it. She did not flinch in surprise or call out or try to hide the flask and make some excuse like she was drinking water or she had a cold and this was medicine. She raised the flask and took another, almost defiant, sip. When she lowered it, her eyes narrowed, as David Bateman’s eyes had narrowed. It was a warning, and I realized that while David Bateman would no longer haunt my school days, Sister Beatrice very much would.