I nod and hurry down from the wagon. I know better than Andrew that the answers don’t lie with Johnson, but on the tongues of my brothers. The priests underestimate us orphans, discount our ability to find the truth of things they think hidden.
I step through the open doors of the orphanage, walk quickly through the foyer and up the stairs. I enter the cloakroom only after checking to make sure it’s empty. Annoyed at myself for being fearful, I hang John Hill’s peacoat on a wooden peg, put the wool hat on the shelf with my other one.
When I arrive in the dormitory, I’m taken aback at the demeanor of the others. I expected turmoil, loud voices, gossip, and excitement.
What I find is like the inside of a tomb.
It’s quiet. Much too quiet.
Like the day before, a group of boys are clustered at the far end of the long room. I notice David sitting up on his bunk, watching me. His eyes are both eager and frightened . . . and something else. A warning?
I drop my satchel next to my bed and examine the room. I try to count heads, faces, but the boys are scattered about, not in their usual places. I sit on my bed to remove my boots, eager to put on dry shoes again. David comes over, stands restlessly at the edge of my cot. His hands are clenching and unclenching, his mouth set in a grim line. He’s not himself, and that, almost more than the sight of the coffin, worries me greatly.
David is not easily knocked off his course. He has walls within walls to keep himself insulated from things of the world, from the needs and feelings of those around him. I’ve never thought less of him for it. We all do what we must to get by. But I can’t recall ever seeing him anything other than sardonic. Any emotions he may or may not feel at certain events, or punishments, or curiosities, are buried deep within him, visible only by his inner self. Which, I know, is exactly the way he likes it.
To see him so visibly, dramatically shaken is like seeing an adult cry for the first time. Seeing someone—someone you had thought unbreakable—splinter and crack. I still recall the first time I saw my mother cry. It was the first time in my life I felt truly exposed. Truly at risk. Because if our parents can be hurt, or shaken, or brought down by despair, what hope have we?
I feel a similar way seeing David in his current state. I didn’t realize, until this moment, how much I rely on his solidity, his composure. In a way, it allows me to be more open and vulnerable for the other children. We balance each other that way.
Now it is I who must be strong, and stoic.
I steel myself to be so.
“What is it?” I say, pleased at how level my voice sounds, and pray it has a settling effect on him. “Tell me everything.”
David lets out a deep sigh; his hands unclench, his features soften. He sits on the foot of my bed, eyes darting around the room as if expecting a sudden attack from all quarters. “It’s not good, Peter.”
“Okay,” I say.
He turns and meets my eye, lowers his voice. “It’s Basil,” he says.
I think of that small coffin, and my stomach hollows.
No. Impossible.
“What about him?”
“Peter,” he says, and swallows hard. He looks around once more, nervous and edgy, as if wary of eavesdroppers. He tries to act casually, but I can tell he’s only pretending, as if not wanting to show his fear, his pain. But why? And for whom?
After a moment of furtive movements, he looks at me squarely, lowers his voice. “They killed him, Peter.”
My mind goes blank at the words. I don’t understand what he’s saying, can’t conceive of a reply. I shake my head, scoffing. “You’re not making sense,” I say.
He nods, as if expecting my response. “I know, it’s crazy. But it’s true. Basil’s dead, Pete. Murdered.”
His words linger in the air between us like butterflies my rational mind tries to catch with slow fingers. He exhales and slumps over, head bowed, hands knotted between his knees. We both sit silent for a moment. Finally, I’m unable to help myself, and I look around the room, searching for Basil’s face.
He must have it wrong. There must be a mistake.
“I’m sorry, I know how much you liked him,” he’s saying. “It was Ben who saw the body. Whoever did it, they hung him with a rope, cut open his arms. Insanity.”
I can only nod, allow myself to take it all in, ignore the growing void in my stomach. When I’ve gathered myself enough to speak, I manage to whisper: “Who?”
But David only shrugs. “The others,” he says.
As if this explains everything.
Or anything at all.
Before I can question him further, the dormitory doors burst open. Most of the boys lying down sit up. Some stand. The boys huddled at the end of the room also stand—albeit casually, carelessly—before facing, as a group, our visitors.
David and I turn our heads toward the doors.
Father Poole, his face ashen and worn, stands at the entrance. Directly behind him are Brother Johnson, Father White, and Andrew.
Poole does not wait for questions.
“Basil is dead,” he says loudly.
A few children start crying, but most stay silent.
The brutality of the words is a shock, but it also erases any doubt. I close my eyes in disbelief, mumble a prayer for his soul.
“There will be a service tomorrow morning,” he continues, his bellowing voice stampeding my sorrow. “Nine A.M. sharp, in the chapel. I will ring the bell ten minutes prior. You will all attend . . .”
Some of the kids begin whispering to each other now, and the dorm takes on the din of unruliness.
“Quiet!”
Poole’s voice is like the crack of a whip, and just like that, the room is his once more. For a moment, he looks almost smug. The thought sickens me.
“I understand many of you have questions. I understand this is a shock to us all. I feel the best thing is to simply be forthright and honest now, right now, and get it all out. I think you boys can handle it, don’t you?”
There’s a general murmuring, a few shaking heads. The whimpers of little ones.
Andrew steps forward, whispers something into Poole’s ear. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s asking Poole to take some of the younger children out of the room. It’s what Andrew would do. What I would do.
Poole shakes his head, irritated, and waves Andrew away. As if swatting a fly.
“So, let’s do this once, and then we don’t need to have a house filled with whispers and gossip and half-truths.” Poole clears his throat. To his credit, he looks somewhat stricken, but quickly buries whatever emotion he may be feeling beneath his well-practiced veneer of impassiveness. “Basil hanged himself in the chapel. He stood on the altar, tied a rope around his neck and looped the other end over our sacred cross. He stepped off the altar and hanged by the neck until he suffocated and died.”
Andrew steps forward, grabs Poole’s sleeve. This time, I hear him clearly. “Father Poole, please.”
More children are crying.
Poole turns and physically shoves Andrew away from him. The scene is surreal.
“Quiet, damn you!” Poole shouts, spinning back toward the children. “Or you will have no dinner tonight!”
Sobs turn to sniffles, then silence. Some boys, I notice, hold their breath.
“Better. Between now and dinner, you will remain confined to the dormitory, where will you spend the next hour in prayer and reflection. That’s all. Are there any questions?”