And then, after it was over, I was taken away. More strange faces. Hard voices.
I distinctly remember the sensation of being unwanted.
Two days later I was at St. Vincent’s, being shown to my cot by Andrew, who seemed so old at the time, a proper adult, but I realize now how young he must have been. As the years went on, he seemed to grow younger as I grew older. A strange bending of perspective that eventually led to us becoming friends. The idea that we might be true friends—a priest and an orphan—strikes me as strange. I don’t know if it makes him seem young, or me feel old.
Poole grips my shoulder, too tight, and I nod, focusing on Basil, on what I should say.
My mind races to find words.
But then I do.
“I knew Basil for about three years,” I start, skimming over the faces of my brothers. “Since the day he first arrived here at St. Vincent’s.”
I glance around the room, trying to avoid eye contact. It’s unnerving to have them all watching me. A few are smiling, a few look sad. Some are sneering, as if angry with me, or disgusted. I take a breath and stare at a point along the back wall, avoiding all expressions, pleasant or otherwise.
“He was so skinny when he first came here, all skin and bones.” I give a little laugh, even though there is nothing humorous about it. “He’d been . . . well, when they found him, as you all know, he’d been nearly starved to death. Just a scared little kid, abandoned, like many of us.” Someone coughs and I notice some of the boys shifting around. I must be boring them. I make a mental note to hurry through the rest. “Anyway, I remember him once telling me about some of the awful things he had to eat while living on the street. The things he needed to do to survive . . .”
Poole’s throat clears to my left, and I turn to see him with raised eyebrows. “Sorry,” I whisper, and turn back to focus on that spot in the back of the room.
“The point I’m making, I guess, is that he was tough. A survivor. But he was also kind. He wasn’t the healthiest kid in the world. Always seemed to have a cough, or a snotty nose . . .”
A few kids laugh at this, and I’m careful to not look at Poole.
“Anyway, he was my friend. He was our friend, and our brother.”
I’m not sure what else to say. I sense the weight of his body behind me, lying in his coffin, waiting for the earth. I scan the faces once again, and notice, distractedly, a few heads put together in the back of the room. I assume that whatever they’re discussing has nothing to do with Basil, and feel a rush of anger.
Then there’s a knocking on the chapel doors. I become flustered. Do the others hear it, as well? Is it my imagination? I wait, listen . . .
I look down at the worn lectern, annoyed and depressed. I finish my thoughts in a flurry. “He always prayed to the saints at mealtimes,” I say, my eyes still cast down. “I know they are waiting to greet his arrival in heaven.”
I nod at Poole that I’m finished and leave the podium, rush back to my seat. I avoid looking at anyone, anything. When I sit, I catch Andrew’s eye. He smiles at me, and I feel a little better. Still, I keep my head down. I want this to be over.
Poole steps back into his place. He does not bother asking if anyone else wants to speak. He knows there’s no point. “God is always here to watch over us, children. To protect us.” His eyes roam the room and I keep my head lowered to avoid his gaze. Finally, he closes his eyes. I follow suit, eager for the darkness, for the completion of this horrid ceremony.
“Let us pray.”
Within my own inner darkness, I imagine Basil’s face. I focus on the sound of his laughter. I meditate on the gift of his existence and pray for his eternal soul.
A heavy knocking on the chapel doors disrupts my thoughts.
It sounds like a hundred angry fists, lost souls pounding for entry.
I open my eyes to chaos, and don’t see my attacker until it’s too late.
34
ANDREW JUMPS TO HIS FEET WHEN HE HEARS THE banging on the doors.
Johnson, always eager to confront mischief, is already striding down the aisle toward the disrupting sound.
Despite the noise, Poole continues to pray, the raising of his voice the only indication he’s even heard the pounding. Boys are shifting in their seats, all eyes open now, watching Johnson as he huffs toward the rear of the chapel.
He reaches the doors and pushes against them.
“。 . . and so Holy Father, bless us all . . .”
“It’s locked!” Johnson yells, cutting off Poole’s blessing as if it were the mumblings of a beggar during a building fire.
Andrew watches, a slow panic rising inside him, as Johnson pushes against the doors again and again.
They don’t budge.
Johnson hammers against them, howling in a rage. “Open these doors you bastards!”
Andrew recoils at the language, and instinctively looks to Poole, who seems to have finally abandoned his prayer.
Laughter comes from the foyer. Laughter that stands just on the other side of the double doors. In that moment Andrew realizes—despite never having finished an official count—that his instincts about the number of boys seated for the service were correct.
Some are definitely missing.
Half the boys are now standing, watching Johnson in a sort of glee as he bludgeons the heavy doors with his fists.
Simon, however, has his back to the doors, as if they hold no interest for him. He stands stoic, in the middle of the aisle, facing Poole. He has one arm extended, as if reaching.
The flesh on his forearm is cut badly. Crimson stripes from wrist to elbow.
In the other hand he holds a large knife.
“Father, come see what I’ve done,” he says. “Will you help me?”
Astonishingly, it’s Father White who reaches the boy first. He kneels down before him, clutching the wounded arm, inspecting the damage.
Too late, Andrew sees the look in Simon’s eyes change. He no longer looks afraid, or worried.
He looks angry.
Before Andrew can call out a warning, Johnson’s bashing and cursing rises to a fever pitch. Andrew, his focus darting between Simon with his bloody arm and Johnson’s attack on the chapel doors, hardly notices as two boys run up the aisle and past Father Poole, laughing.
He turns just in time to see them push over one of the large candelabras.
“Boys!” he says, but now there is movement all around him. “Boys,” he repeats, no longer sure who he’s addressing.
A guttural, wet scream splits the air, and Andrew’s attention is drawn quickly back to Simon and Father White. Simon has thrust his knife into White’s throat. The old man’s eyes are wide as boiled eggs. Blood sprays in an arc as he twists away from Simon’s grasp and falls backward to the floor.
“No,” Andrew says. “No . . .” He’s speaking so quietly that it’s impossible for anyone to hear him. He knows he needs to speak louder, to yell, to shout orders. And yet finds himself numb, choking on his words. As he takes a step forward, knowing that he must help Father White—must get the knife out of the priest’s throat—he stops in his tracks, mouth agape.
“Oh God.” What he sees is not possible. A nightmare.
Many of the boys are up and moving now. They move with purpose, and each of them brandishes a weapon, objects they had somehow—until now—kept hidden. Andrew’s eyes dart around the chapel, spotting flashes of metal held tight in small fists. Samuel grips a mason’s chisel. Jonah holds a knife, similar to Simon’s, and is stabbing another boy in the back as he crawls away, shrieking in terror and agony. Terrence has hold of one of the younger children, five-year-old Marcus, and is beating his head with an iron candlestick. Andrew, in a shocked daze of connection between the impossible and the real world—now forever shattered—recognizes it as having come from the library.