“I dunno,” he says with a sigh. “No one’s asked me.”
“Asked you what?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m included.”
I remove my hand from his shoulder, try to keep the hurry out of my voice. “Basil, I’m sure . . . whatever you think is happening, it’s nothing to worry about, okay? You’re just upsetting yourself. We’ve had a rough couple days, and you should probably lie down, get some rest. Whatever you’re thinking, or whatever you think is going on . . . it’s all in your head.”
Basil nods, but still doesn’t make to move. He sniffles, then runs a finger absently along the steel bar at the foot of my bedframe. “A lot of them are waiting, I think.”
I stand, knowing my time is up. I know I shouldn’t be impatient, but I am, and I can’t help myself. My words to him are curt, almost cruel. “Waiting for what? Enough mystery. Just tell me so I can be off.”
Basil looks up, his large brown eyes still locked on mine. He has a rare look of annoyance on his face, as if I’m too thickheaded to understand what he’s saying.
“To see which side you take, of course.”
I hold Basil’s eyes another moment, not knowing how to respond. He’s shaken me, and part of me is angry at him for it. Finally, I simply shake my head and ruffle his hair. “Get some sleep, Basil.”
I blow by him, all of my focus now on getting outside to meet up with Andrew.
I hardly hear Basil’s quiet reply as I pass.
“Sure, Peter,” he says to my back. “I’ll see ya.”
19
BY THE TIME I ARRIVE OUTSIDE THE WAGON IS FULLY loaded, wall-to-wall with empty crates, barrels and heavy sacks that will soon be filled with food and stores for the priests, the children, and even the animals. Everything our own meager crops don’t provide or, at least, provide in abundance.
Andrew notes my lack of hat and jacket, raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. At the sight of the book bag slung over my shoulder, he sighs dramatically but, thankfully, does not lecture. I climb up onto the front and sit next to him as he plucks up the reins. The horses stamp impatiently. Snow floats on the air all around us—fat, lazy flakes that foretell a heavy fall.
We must hurry.
“You all right?” Andrew asks.
I glance at him, confused.
“You look worried.”
I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Okay, then.”
He flicks the reins. As we jolt forward, I unconsciously lick my fingers and press my hair down across my scalp, hoping the wind doesn’t make a complete mess of it. I curse myself for being too cowardly to grab a hat and, as the wind picks up, a jacket.
Andrew is smiling.
“What?”
“Don’t worry, Peter. You look fine. I’m sure Grace will think so, as well.”
I shrug, frowning. “I’m only as God made me, Father.”
To my surprise, Andrew bursts out laughing. “That he did,” he says, challenging the frigid wind with the warmth of his amusement. After we make the bend—despite being uncertain that it’s not at my own expense—I can no longer help myself.
I begin laughing as well.
*
David watches from the dormitory window as the wagon pulls out of sight. He doesn’t begrudge Peter his friendship with Father Andrew, and the last thing he’d want is to spend any of his free time hanging around a priest, even someone as kind as Andrew.
Still, he’d have liked a trip to the farm. Maybe he’d mention it to Peter, see if he could go with them next time. Just once. Anything to break up the monotony of his pathetic, entrapped life.
David knows about Grace, of course. They all know. Even though Peter thinks he’s been clever about hiding the books, the letters. Hell, he and half the boys have read the things when Peter wasn’t around to catch them. They were boring as sin.
He’s about to leave the window, find someone to play cards with, when his eye catches movement from directly below. He leans in for a clearer view and sees Basil walking toward the privy. He looks tiny and thin from this high angle, a small figurine surrounded by open land: the vast, pewter sky hanging above like a weight about to drop, the air around his shadowed form alive with whirling snowfall. David watches as, for only a moment, Basil stops. He looks left and right, then turns his face to the sky. He holds out a pale hand, as if to catch a snowflake. David feels a sudden, powerful wave of protectiveness for the boy, and glances around the rest of the yard to make sure no other kids are outside who might make trouble. When he first arrived, Basil was a magnet for bullies, but it has gotten better since David befriended him. The others now aware that if they mess with Basil, he’ll set them straight right quick.
But the yard is empty, and after another dozen paces, Basil disappears into the outhouse.
For a few moments, perhaps inspired by seeing that small hand catching snowflakes, David watches the snow drift past the window, lets himself daydream; he stares blankly at the hazy, gray ridge of the horizon. He imagines a life beyond that coarsely drawn line separating brown earth and bone-white sky. Imagines a future. He tries to picture himself as an adult—married, perhaps, with kids of his own. A real family. He’d be working on a farm somewhere, or in a factory, or at a market. Content. Maybe even happy.
Stricken by a sudden melancholy, David leaves the window, shoves away the whispering thoughts of an illusory, uncertain future. He finds his cot, lays on his back, and studies the blank ceiling, lets emptiness fill his mind.
Eventually, he closes his eyes.
Outside the thin window, the wind whistles carelessly as two shadows cross the open land, their minds filled with death.
20
BASIL HATES THE PRIVY. HE HATES IT IN SUMMER, WHEN it’s hot and the air is thick and foul and filled with flies. He hates it in winter—like now—when it’s bitter cold on his legs and bottom, the weak walls buffeted by cold winds startling him at the most inconvenient of moments. Slick icy fingers slip through the cracks, climb up from the ditch dug beneath, and it’s all he can do to hurry as best he’s able to get it over with. One time he got so scared （it was dark, the wind was howling something awful, causing the boards of the structure to shake and rattle as if being rammed by wild beasts） that he pulled up too fast and shat into his pants. He’d stunk so bad Peter had made him take a bath while he scrubbed the stained trousers with soap and water. He’s never lived that one down, even though it was almost two whole years ago.
All the boys tease him anyway, so what did it matter.
Lately, though, it hasn’t been too bad. He’s made a few friends this past year. It helps not being the newest arrival anymore, and he is a bit older. Plus, the oldest boys stand by him, keep things from getting out-of-hand from some of the others. Because of that, he loves Peter and David like big brothers. Peter is almost like a father. It feels strange to think that, but it’s true. Besides, Peter would be a priest one day, and then he would be a Father.
Basil giggles at his own internal play on words, finishes his business and rises off the wooden plank and its smooth, shit-stained opening, a dark portal to the trench below. Humming a tuneless song, he grabs a fresh cob from the bucket, wipes, and tosses it through the plank hole. He ties his trousers and stamps his feet—one, two—to get the blood going. He’s glad to be done with the chore, feels lucky to have been left alone this time. There are two other seats on the bench, but he hates to share. Plus, it’s disgusting, especially if he happens to get caught going the same time as Finnegan, who farts a lot, or Jonah, who likes to make fun of him while he tries to do his business. He makes vulgar jokes and laughs about his size.