Johnson stands up straight, looming over us. He looks back at the hoe, grips it, and tosses it at me. I catch it reflexively.
“You take the hoe. Basil has his tool.”
Without thought, without hesitation, I take the shovel from Basil’s hands and thrust the hoe into them. I push him away roughly, wanting him out of it. He stumbles in the direction of Father Andrew, who I notice is watching. I turn back to Johnson.
“Thank you, Brother Johnson, for your charity.”
I turn to walk away, heart racing, when a bear-sized palm clamps painfully onto my shoulder and spins me around. Johnson’s face inches from my own. I can see the light scar running the breadth of one brow, the coarse hairs of his chin, cheeks and nostrils. The maniacal fire in his depthless eyes.
“Fuck your charity,” he hisses into my face, his breath hot and sour. “We all work for what we reap here, boy. I’ll be damned if . . .”
“Brother Johnson, if you’re done with the boys, we need to get a move on!”
Both Johnson and I turn to see Father Andrew, closer now, eyes fixed on us. He’s smiling, and his tone is light, but there is a hardness there. I feel it, and I know Johnson does, as well.
Johnson breathes out heavily, squeezing my shoulder so tightly I’ll see bruises there in the afternoon. He talks into my ear. “Watch your step, Peter. I ain’t no priest, remember that. Hell, I ain’t even been baptized.”
“Maybe that’s why you have devils inside you,” I snap, surprised by my insolence.
Johnson stares hard at me, his mouth working. But his eyes lose their fire, shift away. He shoves me hard, but I don’t fall.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles, and turns to fetch tools for the remaining boys, who stare at me wide-eyed.
I turn on my heel and walk steadily toward the waiting group of boys and Father Andrew, whose eyes remain fixed over my shoulder on Johnson. There’s a warning in his glare, and I’m thankful not to be on the receiving end of it.
*
Johnson watches the last of the boys run off toward the field along with that dandy of a priest, Andrew Francis. What Poole sees in the man is beyond him. He’s too tolerant of the boys. Lacks discipline.
Still, Johnson has no interest in crossing him. The young priest could make things unpleasant if he chose to, so for now Johnson keeps his head down and mouth shut when it comes to Father Andrew, as the boys call him. Shameful letting them use his Christian name. Poole’s too easy on the newest addition to the clergy staff. Too easy by far. Andrew spoils the boys. Gives them rebellious thoughts. More and more they talk back. Disobey. Give him shit.
Ah! If only these little men knew the things I’ve done, he thinks, watching Peter fall into step with Andrew as they all march through the gate and into the field to pull peppers, corn, cabbage, tomatoes, spuds, and whatever else is harvestable before the frost kills it all. The things I’ve done to men, women . . . to children younger than the youngest of them . . . they’d shit their little britches.
Johnson huffs a misty breath and closes the shed door. A rush of shame heats his face at the thought of his violent past and he mumbles a half-hearted prayer of contrition. Besides, he has his own chores to do before the snow comes. There’s wood to cut, enough to feed the furnace for a long winter, and he can’t dawdle worrying about a couple smart-mouth brats.
But if Peter thinks being a priest-in-waiting will save him from retribution, he couldn’t be more wrong.
“I’ll see you soon, boy, yes I will,” he grumbles, stomping through the wild, dewy grass toward the barn.
Someone needs to make sure the little bastards aren’t making a mess of the place.
3
FROM HIS HANDS AND KNEES ON THE ROUGH STONE floor, wet scrub brush in hand, David keeps one eye on Poole and the other on Ben.
Ben had gotten him a good one, and David is eager to repay it. While Poole had been ogling the expanse of his domain, Ben had doused his brush in soapy water and flicked it at David’s face, catching him perfectly—mouth and eyes wide. He’s almost proud of the little shit. But he’ll be getting him back, all right. If not now, then later. They have all day, after all—he, Ben, and poor Timothy, who had nearly shat himself when Poole handed out the punishment for not learning the stupid Bible verses. Ben couldn’t remember the day of the week, but Timothy was smart, and David knew the kid could memorize the entire Bible if it was asked of him.
But Timothy also stuttered, and Father White was feeble-minded as a wingless bird who’d fallen on its head too many times trying to fly. It had been painful to watch the pale-faced ginger try to stammer his way through the words of John the Baptist. Old man White assumed it was because Timothy didn’t know the words, not that he couldn’t say the words. Timothy was in tears when dismissed, and despite Peter sticking up for him—because that’s what Saint Peter does—he’d caught the same punishment as the others. A morning of scrubbing floors.
Checking to make sure Poole’s back is still turned, David flips Ben a middle finger and mouths words of revenge. Ben laughs carelessly and continues slopping water over the floor.
Without warning, Poole glances back toward the foyer, and David quickly goes back to scrubbing, eyes down. He hears Timothy’s ragged breathing and figures the poor kid is really putting some muscle into it.
After a few moments, badly wanting to get revenge on Ben, David risks another glance in Poole’s direction.
The tall priest stands silently in the open doorway, looking skyward, as if considering a great question. With his thick white hair, long nose and icy eyes, his appearance is that of a regal king in their court （albeit one who wears a beggar’s clothes）; a royal personage who does not deign to look down at the peasants beneath their feet. Instead, chin up and jutting, Poole leaves the entry doors and walks crisply across the foyer, boot heels clicking, toward the chapel at the far end.
“Hey,” Ben whispers, and David turns.
Like an idiot.
A cold, soapy splatter hits him in the face, and Ben laughs again. Furious, David dips his brush in the bucket. Enough is enough.
“Mr. Mason.”
David freezes. Ben’s smile vanishes, his face drains of color, and he turns his attention to the floor, increases his scrubbing speed. From nearby, Timothy groans.
Damn it to hell.
With an inward sigh, David sets down the brush and stands, hands at his sides.
He is afraid, and he hates himself for it.
“Yes, Father.”
Poole holds open one of the chapel doors, his back to David and the others, but his head is turned—just enough—so one cool blue eye can target him.
“Everything you do,” Poole says, quietly but evenly, each word soaked in threat, “every breath you take, every thought in your head, exists only to bring glory to the Lord God and his son Jesus Christ. Do you agree?”
David swallows. Beneath the priest’s gaze, he pulls up memories of being called into Poole’s chamber as a child. Poole ordering him to lay his hands flat on the writing table. The leather strap crossing his knuckles again, and again.
The pain. The blood.
“Yes, Father.”
“Remember, children,” Poole says more loudly, his voice a dusty echo in the high-ceilinged foyer, “the Lord’s eyes are always upon you. Always.”