He tries to move aside, but is kicked from behind, throwing him off balance.
I don’t see if David has pulled the others out of the way. There’s no time for me to know for sure. As I leave my feet, I can only hope.
I throw out my arms and lower my shoulder, ramming it square into his stomach. I hear his breath come out of him as I propel us both backward through the smoky air and down, down through the opening of the ceiling. Into the flames.
For a moment, we are falling, and there is no sound, no pain. His arm is wrapped tight around my back, as if holding on for safety.
We land with a massive, bone-crunching impact, his body beneath mine. But we do not hit the floor, landing instead atop the sloping iron at the foot of a metal-framed cot. I hear the snap of Bartholomew’s back as he connects with it, my weight crushing down atop him.
We both collapse off the bed and thump down to the floor. I roll onto my back, panting for breath, staring at a gaping hole in the ceiling high above.
There are flames surrounding me on all sides, and the wound in my gut sends lightning streaks of pain through my body. Yet I am able to turn my head, to see Bartholomew crumpled beside me. His eyes are wide with shock, but I swear they are his own.
Here, then, is nothing but a boy. Broken, dying. His mouth opens and closes, as if gulping desperately for air. He is bent unnaturally, his legs lifeless and limp, twisted at the hip to lie nearly perpendicular to his torso.
I’m surprised he’s still breathing, but he is.
And he’s staring right at me.
When he speaks, there’s no menace in his voice. No mockery. No command. Only the voice of a frightened child. A little boy, terrified of death, like all of us.
“I think . . .” he says, having gained some control of his breathing, “I think my back is broken.”
I press a hand to my bleeding stomach, but I keep my eyes on his. I’ll stay with him now, in his final moments, if that’s what he needs. There’s little else I can do.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I’m sorry for everything, for all the horror and death that has taken place. I’m sorry I couldn’t save everyone. That I can’t save him.
He closes his eyes. His face is peaceful, if saddened. “I don’t want to die.”
I study him as he slips away, his breath labored. I can’t help wondering.
“Is it finished?” I ask, even though I’m unsure whether I really want to know the answer.
Bartholomew’s eyes spring open, locking onto mine, and for a split-second there’s something else there staring back at me. Something unfathomable.
And then, it’s gone. And there’s nothing left before me but Bartholomew. He lets out a heavy sigh, and his body seems to deflate.
“Yes,” he says. “For now.”
I don’t know what else to say, so I simply stay with him. I reach out my free hand and place it on his head. He begins to weep, and I can hear the rasping of each breath as his body fights to function. “Forgive me,” he rasps at the end. Then he grips my hand tight, his word barely audible. “Absolve me, Peter.”
I nod, then close my eyes and say the words that, in this religion of men, takes away the sins of those who ask it. I do this as a vessel of God, as a servant of the spirit, in order to cleanse the light we all carry and release the weight of our doings—both good and evil—from that infinite space inside each one of us.
When I remove my hand from his head, his eyes are open and still, his charred lips pressed into the floorboards. He does not move again.
In the next moment, hands grip me hard beneath my shoulders and I’m being pulled away, backward through patches of flame. The last thing I see of Bartholomew is the fire catching in his hair.
60
THE ESCAPE IS A BLUR.
David pulls me free from the worst of the flames, back toward the far end of the dormitory where the ladder still hangs like a wooden tongue from the smoke-filled attic hatch.
After I fell through, they all made their way back down. David wrapped himself in the blanket of one of the few unburned cots and fought his way toward me, pulled me out of the worst of it.
He’s screaming something in my ear.
“The snow, Peter! It’ll break our fall. Trust me on this!”
I’m lifted to my feet as the whole world burns. The heat is unbearable. I can’t see, can’t breathe. Ahead of me is an empty square of roiling smoke and snowfall, a window completely smashed clear of glass. I watch in a daze as Byron hops on the sill, takes a last look back, then leaps.
“There’s a decent buildup right below this window! If we’re lucky, we’ll only break our legs!” He’s still yelling and pulling me through the smoke. I don’t know how he has the breath or the energy, I only know I am grateful.
“You first!” he says, and half lifts, half shoves me into the window frame.
I look down.
It’s a long drop. Twenty feet, give or take.
“Let your legs crumple when you hit, try to fall into snow so you don’t hit the ground, you know, too hard.”
At the open window, the cold air hits my face like a hard slap, and my breath goes out of me. From nearby, there is a flash of faces watching me anxiously, all of them eager to escape. I want to say something, to encourage them, but then I’m pushed from behind, and I fall into the night.
Once more I’m falling, not into fire this time, but toward earth.
Byron, the crazy fool, has his arms extended, as if he’s going to catch me.
Halfway down, I do David’s advice one better. I let my body go limp, turn to face the stars, and let my arms float out from my sides.
When I hit, there’s no pain.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m safe, or because I’m dead.
61
I’M DRAGGED AWAY FROM MY LANDING SPOT. ONCE released, I plop down into the snow on my rear, watch as David helps the last of the survivors out the window. Byron is admirably trying to build up as much snow as he can where he and I and a few others have already landed, fluffing it like a pillow. When he feels it’s good enough, he yells up at David, who pitches Finnegan out the window. Then Thomas, followed quickly by Timothy, who gives a mighty bellow as he leaps. I can’t help but smile at his bravery.
Finally, David jumps, and ironically is the only one injured, badly twisting an ankle.
Byron does the best he can wrapping a ripped sheet around my waist, pressing my wound, tying it so tight I can hardly take a deep breath. But the pain subsides, as does the blood loss.
“Can you walk?” David asks while he helps me up. He looks at my stomach—a place I’ve avoided looking since Byron patched me up—then back to my face.
“I can walk,” I say, not knowing if it’s the truth, but also knowing there’s no other option.
I won’t die here.
“Can you?” I ask.
He laughs, puts an arm through mine to steady me. “A hundred miles if necessary,” he says, and I believe him.
The five of us who remain walk a safe distance from the orphanage, then up a gentle rise, before turning back to watch St. Vincent’s consumed by fire.
To watch our childhood burn. For me, a second time.
It’s cold, but not as bad as I would have thought. The snowfall has lightened, and the wind, though strong, is not unbearable.