The second is Brother Johnson walking from the shed, a rectangular pine box hefted upon one shoulder. Recent events aside, it’s obvious to both of us what it is.
A coffin.
He carries it toward the orphanage.
Andrew yells at the horses and cracks the reins. The wagon speeds up, all but charging down a final descent of the narrow, snow-covered road.
Another sick man?
But I know in my heart it’s the wrong answer. It makes no sense.
It can’t be a man, because the coffin is so very small.
It’s the size of a boy.
26
THINGS ARE GETTING STRANGE.
David sits on his bunk, cross-legged, scanning the dormitory from one end to the other. The windows on the opposite wall are dimming into late afternoon, and all the kids have been cooped-up now for hours. Ever since lunch.
Boys who went to the privy were closely watched from the orphanage doors by Father White, told to do their business and return straightaway or there’d be punishment. David makes a lot of fun of old man White, but the way his eyes blazed giving those orders, even he didn’t have the temerity to push him on it.
Everyone else went straight to the dorm. Where they remain.
Everyone but Peter, that is.
And Basil.
“This is horrible,” Finnegan moans, sounding every bit like the child he is. He and Jonathan sit on the next cot over, legs dangling over the edge, staring at David as if he’s got some sort of answer to what this new thing is that’s happening.
“It’ll be dark soon,” adds Jonathan, mimicking his best friend’s whiny tone. “We won’t get recreation time outside at this rate.”
“We want to play in the snow,” Finnegan adds, the two of them running their thoughts so close together David can’t help but feel he’s listening to the whine-and-moan of a single voice. A madly annoying voice, at that.
Flustered, he reaches into the top drawer of his dresser and pulls out his deck of cards. He almost smiles when he sees their eyes widen. He sighs, hands them the deck.
“You know any games?”
They both nod. Finnegan starts: “Sure, I know War.”
Jonathan plucks the deck neatly from David’s fingers, the well-worn cards secured neatly with a thick rubber band.
“You lose even one card . . .”
They nod again. In unison.
David stands and leaves the twins to it, starts pacing the room, studying faces.
Most of the kids are lying down, reading pamphlets the priests give them or studying one of the boring books from the small library. He notices that the cadre of kids around Bartholomew hasn’t grown, but the faces have changed. They whisper in the corner like conniving mice, figuring out how they’re gonna skin the farmer’s cat.
He stops in front of Ben’s cot. So far, everyone who has approached him for information about what made Ben scream like a stuck goat has walked away disappointed. David, however, thinks it’s time to get some answers.
Ben’s been hiding under his blanket since the rest of them arrived, walking like prisoners from the dining hall to the dormitory. At first, kids seemed eager to try and coerce the shrouded form to speak, but after a while they lost interest. Ben isn’t the most popular kid to begin with, and when Peter is absent, he tends to climb into a shell. Now he is doing it literally.
Regardless, David sits down on the next bed, currently empty. For a moment he tries to remember whose cot he’s sitting on, then shoves the question aside, focusing his attention on Ben. Most likely another Bartholomew disciple, he thinks.
“Ben.” He gives Ben’s cot a soft kick.
To his surprise, the blanket covering the small head slides downward, revealing dark eyes, red with tears and strain.
“Hey there,” he says.
Ben looks at David a moment, then the eyes duck beneath the blanket once more, like scared rabbits. “Go away,” he moans.
David looks around to see if anyone is listening in or even paying attention. But Ben is near the end of the line, closest to the doors, and David sees no other kids trying to eavesdrop.
“I want to know why you were screaming your lungs out earlier,” David starts. At first he thought it was Basil who’d been screaming, but now the math is easy. Only three boys were missing at lunch: Ben, Peter, and Basil, and only one has returned. David has the bad feeling that something has happened to Basil, and can only hope he’s found safely, wherever he is. But that leaves only Ben for interrogation. “I’m sorry you missed a meal. Listen, at dinner? I’ll give you half my portion, okay? You sit with me and I’ll take care of you.”
Ben sniffs and the blanket slides down to his nose. The dead eyes come alive a bit, focus a bit more assuredly on David.
Nothing like offering food to a starving child to get what you want, he thinks sadly, but smiles at Ben in a way he hopes projects kindness. Sincerity. He leans in close, drops his voice to a whisper. “But you got to tell me what you saw.”
Ben’s eyes sink into his head again, his brow furrows. “Can’t . . .” he says. “Won’t.”
David puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. His body feels hot under the blanket. “Okay, okay. Don’t tell me. How about I tell you, and you just say where I got it wrong.”
David gives it a moment, but Ben doesn’t reply. Reading his silence as acquiescence, he continues. “I know you saw what happened to Basil.”
Ben’s face goes soft, as if remembering something terrible. Haunted, David thinks. He looks like a boy who has seen something unbelievable. Shocking. Something that might stay with him the rest of his life.
It’s that bad?
“He was hurt, I guess?” David says, trying to sound light. Casual. Even though inside his stomach is churning. He watches Ben’s eyes for clues, for confirmation. “Someone did something awful to him? Beat him up?”
Ben stares at David with those haunted eyes and, despite himself, David’s heart breaks for the kid. Ben gives his head a little shake. Fresh tears slip down his cheeks to wet his thin pillow. “Worse,” he whispers, like a curse.
David sits up straight, mind racing, nerves strained.
Worse?
He leans in again, his voice still low, but now more urgent. “What do you mean? Ben? What do you mean . . . worse?”
Ben is weeping. His stifled sobs beneath the blanket are filled with despair and horror. Finally, he lets go of what he knows. “He was hanged.”
David’s skin tingles from head-to-toe. The nape of his neck flowers with icy tendrils that ride up behind his ears, down his arms. He’s stopped breathing.
“I don’t understand,” he says, dreamlike. Then refocuses, knowing it’s impossible. “What are you saying, Ben? What? That he killed himself? Hanged himself?”
Ben shakes his head again, and those icy tendrils grow faster, wrap around David’s body more tightly. They grip his legs, his stomach, his chest, his heart. He’s numb. He’s frozen.
“He was up real high,” Ben says through choked sobs, the words barely audible. “On the cross, in the chapel. He had no clothes on, David, and . . . he’d been cut up.”
David is leaning so close to Ben he can smell his sour breath, the sharp tang of his terror stinging his nostrils. He stays close, not believing what he’s being told but, at the same time, believing every word.