This time all three boys murmur the desired reply: a meek, feeble chorus. “Yes, Father,” they say （except for Timothy, which comes out as Fa-Fa-Father）。
Without another word Poole disappears into the chapel, the heavy door closes behind him. David drops to his knees, grabs the brush and scrubs, all thoughts of retribution wiped away.
As he works, tile-to-tile, his mind wanders. A familiar, haunting thought tickles his brain as he leans into the brush, pushes the bristles harder into the stone.
What if?
What if he hadn’t been abandoned? Left in an alley by a mother and father he’d never met. Dumped in the gutter like old meat. Like trash.
What if he hadn’t been brought here?
Raised here?
A servant. A prisoner.
What if he’d been loved? If he’d been cared for? Educated. Given a chance to do something good with his life . . .
David is surprised to see tears spot the stone where he works. He sniffs and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of the same dull shirt he’s worn a hundred times in twice as many days. He glances over at Ben, who works quietly, not meeting David’s eyes. Knowing better.
“You all right?” Timothy asks. “Ca-Ca-Ca . . .”
“Just fuck off,” David grunts, not wanting to hear whatever follow-up question the kid was working at. Scowling, he mechanically moves the brush, thinking only one thing with each rotation of the bristles as they scrape rhythmically over and over atop the hard, cold stone:
What if . . . What if . . . What if . . .
4
ANDREW TAKES IN A DEEP BREATH OF CHILLED, HAY-scented morning air, lets it out. It feels like a good day. A beautiful, God-blessed day.
He watches Peter walking with the rest of the boys. Sees him say a few words to Basil and nudge him good-naturedly. Sees the rare sparkle of a smile on the small, sickly boy’s face. Andrew also notices how old Peter looks compared with the others in the group, how adult. He’s delighted he’s been able to convince the boy to follow him into priesthood, and secretly harbors a wish that Peter remain at the orphanage; not as an orphan, but as a priest. As a father to these poor, beaten-down children who come to them injured, forgotten, abused, disposed.
Andrew knows, however, that there are two roadblocks to Peter’s path as a priest: his stubbornness, which he feels can be curtailed and constructively directed.
And Grace Hill.
A much bigger problem.
But, all things considered, Andrew would be just as pleased to see Peter become a farmer, if that’s what made him truly happy. He would make sure, as well, that the boy got every chance to consider all the possibilities of his future, then make his own decisions. After all, one cannot be forced into sacrifice. One must choose it.
The boys, laughing and jostling, reach the gate. Andrew joins them as they head through, young legs tromping down the narrow dusty path toward the large garden. He falls in beside Peter, lowers his voice.
“That was a nice thing you did, Peter. But I’d be mindful of Brother Johnson. He has a colorful history, you know.”
Peter shrugs in the way of all teenagers, lowers his head in modest rebellion against the modest retribution of his actions. “I guess.”
“Anyway, on to important things. Tell me, do you feel ready for today’s lesson? Have you been studying the Latin I assigned?” Andrew keeps his tone light, not wanting to pressure the boy. It’s a delicate time for Peter, and the next few days will be a struggle, a wrestling match between his human desires and God’s will. Andrew thinks about the trip he has planned for them, but keeps it to himself for the moment. He’s not going to make the boy’s decision easy, and that’s the way it should be. The way it was for him. The harder you fight to join the path of your choosing, the more the decision will resonate within you.
“You’re going to make a fine priest, Peter. You don’t need to worry.”
For a few shuffling steps, Peter doesn’t reply. Then, “I don’t know, Father.”
Andrew frowns. “What is it? Tell me what bothers you.”
Peter’s face reddens, and he looks left, right, everywhere but at Andrew. As if trapped and seeking escape. “To be honest? I worry about the strength of my faith.”
Andrew lets this sink in, knowing exactly what the boy struggles with, but wanting to choose his words carefully. “You have doubts.”
Peter nods, eyeing the dirt path.
“Would these doubts have something to do with a certain young woman?” He doesn’t wait for Peter’s reply, or denial, but pushes onward. “Of course, you cannot be a priest and be intimate with a woman. And, as you know, you can never be married. Further, you cannot be with a woman prior to marriage. It’s a sin.”
Peter kicks at a stone, looks over the field toward the rising sun. “I suppose God’s covered all the angles, hasn’t he?”
Andrew laughs, unable to contain himself. “Yes, I suppose He has. Sometimes, my boy, you make me think that the first step to saintliness must truly be scorn.” Andrew grabs his arm lightly, stops them, looks to make sure the other boys are out of hearing. “The priesthood is not for everyone, Peter. The choice must be yours. However, I’d ask you to consider who you are, what kind of man you want to be in this world.”
For the first time, Peter meets his eyes. “I want to be like you. You’re . . .” He looks skyward, then back to Andrew. “You’re the only good man I’ve ever known. But when I see Grace . . .”
“It’s okay. Be honest.”
“When I see her . . . my thoughts are not always pure.”
Now it’s Andrew who looks away. Playing the role of spiritual Father and paternal father to Peter these last five years hasn’t always been easy. He has no experience guiding a boy to adulthood in the way a parent could, and discussing sexuality is certainly not in his purview. Still, God gives everyone their burdens to bear, and he will not turn his back on the young man. Honesty, he knows, is the easiest and most correct course.
“You’re sixteen years old, Peter. Thinking otherwise would be . . . unnatural. We’re all human. Yes, even priests. Look, you must decide which life is more important to you. This life, of the flesh, which is over in the blink of an eye, or your eternal life with God.”
Peter nods, seemingly unmoved. Andrew grips him lightly by the shoulders. “Peter, there is one truth you must know. Please, look at me.”
Peter does, his young face contorted with indecision. Around them, the warming sun ignites the tips of the tall grass, waving in the chill breeze. The gray sky has turned a bluish hue.
“If you can sacrifice this life for the other, you will know more joy than you can possibly imagine. A joy that will last for eternity.”
Peter kicks his shoe into the dirt, eyes cast downward. “This life would not be much of a sacrifice.”
Andrew turns the boy and they continue walking. “All of life is a great gift,” he says. “Not because of what it gives us, but because of what it allows us to give others.”
They walk in silence until they reach the crops. The other boys are already dividing up, well-versed in their jobs. The ground is brittle with cold.
Peter sticks the heavy shovel into the dirt, studies the other kids, watches their work. “Father,” he says, his tone simultaneously whimsical and urgent. “Will Grace be in heaven? I mean, could we be together in eternity? You know, if not on earth?”