Andrew walks past pale hands, some fingers still wet enough to drip. He smiles and nods, says a kind word or two, giving the upraised hands the most cursory inspection. I look over and see Johnson grabbing wrists, turning hands over, studying fingernails. When a boy puts his arms down after he passes by, he turns back and rumbles something that makes the boy lift his arms once again. They shake discernably.
Andrew finishes his loop and approaches the head table. Johnson still hovers at the next table over, just a few feet away, seemingly frustrated. We’re all getting anxious to eat the food we can, for now, only smell, and my stomach rumbles loudly as I imagine the stew and bread cooling behind my back. I keep an impatient eye on Johnson as he stalks past the last boy, rounds their table and finally begins to head back toward the front of the hall.
His eyes meet mine for a moment as he is about to pass by, and I gaze back coolly. After a moment, his attention diverts away from me.
I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, when he stops.
He stands in front of Simon, whose arms are still extended. I can’t see Johnson’s expression, as his hulking back blocks my view, but I hear him clearly enough.
“Your hands are filthy.”
“What?” Simon replies, and I wince. “They’re not! Brother Johnson, where . . .”
“You talking back to me, boy?” Johnson says, loudly enough that the full attention of the hall narrows in on him and Simon.
Please don’t talk back anymore, please . . . I think, both out of concern for Simon and, being honest, my own gnawing hunger.
“No, sir,” Simon mumbles, defeated.
“Then go wash ’em. And be quick about it.”
Simon runs from the table, darts along the rear wall and out through the doors. I imagine him at a dead sprint for the washroom. He knows, as well as anyone, that the others won’t wait. Food is too precious, and they starve us. Water and a biscuit in the morning, a lunch of stew or soup, and a light dinner where we can share full pitchers of milk. When food is scarce it can be worse. Much worse. As it is the boys—me included—grab what we can, when we can. When you’re hungry, goodness is forgotten until you’re not, and the guilt lives in your stomach along with the meat and bread.
You get used to it.
Johnson turns to watch Simon go. As he does, he catches my eye again, a smirk on his lips. “All done here, Father,” he bellows across the small hall, and Poole raises his hand. The boys, on cue, drop their arms and bow their heads. Poole offers a brief blessing. When the word Amen passes his lips the boys fall silently, and diligently, to their task.
I sit quickly and begin moving food from platter-to-plate. As he sets up his own portion, Byron makes fun of Basil, who always does a personal set of prayers once his own plate is secured. An impressive feat.
“Who you always praying for, Bas?”
“My mother told me to always pray to the Saints,” he answers.
The others laugh between mouthfuls, but Basil only shrugs, stuffs a torn piece of bread and gravy into his mouth.
Byron raises his head and winks at me, greasy stew on his lips. “What? All of ’em? There’s thousands.”
“Nah,” says Basil. “Just the ones that matter.”
Soft-spoken Terrence takes the bait. “Which ones are those?”
Basil’s smile grows. It brings me joy to see it. “The English ones, o’ course!”
The twins burst out in laughter, as does Byron, which is rare for him.
I smile gamely and make short work of my plate.
*
No more than a few minutes have gone by when Simon runs back into the hall, lands with a huff at his table. I turn to watch as he sits slack-faced, studying the empty platters, the full plates of the other boys. None of them look at him. None of them speak.
I turn back to my own food. My hunger is an animal in my belly, clawing to escape, biting and chewing at my insides until I feed it what it wants. It will continue to make me suffer until I quell its need. In my suffering, and to my shame, my charity empties like water from a cup.
“Please,” Simon pleads. “I’m starving.”
I hardly listen. There’s a rushing sound in my head, filling my ears. I can’t think clearly, and I can’t help Simon. It’s beyond me. I’m smearing thin gravy off my plate with a knuckle-size piece of bread—the last of it—when an unfamiliar voice speaks up.
“Here.”
The voice is small, and I don’t recognize it because the word is rushed and whispered. I twist my head around, trying not to draw attention.
Bartholomew. Quiet, reclusive, dark-eyed Bartholomew. The studious dreamer with thin black hair and large, glassy brown eyes. From my angle, I can only study his face in profile, his eyebrow a slash across a pale forehead, as he reaches a hand across the table toward Simon. “Take it.”
I can’t help myself. I watch openly as Simon reaches, hoping it’s not a cruel joke. Bartholomew is handing him treasure, an offering of pure gold in the digestible form of a hunk of bread topped lazily with a portion of meat not big enough to fill the belly of a mouse. Simon’s face lights up as he reaches for it.
CLAP.
The loud, abrupt sound of someone slapping their hand against a table fills the room.
“Stop!”
The children fall silent, and all heads turn toward Poole, who is glaring directly at the table adjacent to our own. Staring, I know, at Simon and Bartholomew.
I notice that all the priests are watching the table now, most likely wondering what’s happened. Johnson is already on his feet.
After a moment, Poole speaks. Calmly, assuredly. “Something wrong with your food, Bartholomew?”
Poole is only asking a question, but everyone hears it for the threat it is. I pop the last bit of bread into my mouth and force myself to swallow it down as I watch.
Bartholomew, as if frozen, still has one hand extended. Simon, who looks visibly frightened, has pulled his own hand back. It sits in his lap, hidden beneath the table.
“No, Father.” Bartholomew’s voice sounds unexpectedly strong in the large, high-ceilinged room.
If I didn’t know better, I’d call it defiant.
That would be a mistake.
“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Simon whispers. “Please, it’s fine.”
Only a few of us are close enough to hear this. Bartholomew, however, acts as if he’s heard nothing.
Poole remains seated, but now he leans forward, elbows on the table, as if studying a chess board. “Are you not hungry? Or perhaps you are ill, Bartholomew?”
“I feel fine, Father.” Bartholomew’s tone sounds less certain now. He’s pulled back the offering of meat and bread, but continues to hold it awkwardly, as if unsure what to do with it. I watch a thin brown line of watery gravy run down his thumb and drip onto the tabletop.
I look toward the priests. Poole’s face flattens, a blank slate, but I notice Andrew’s brow is creased in worry. White appears his usual befuddled self. Johnson, of course, is eager.
Meanwhile, none of the boys in the dining hall have so much as twitched. All of us simply stare, transfixed. Helpless.
“Then,” Poole says mildly, silky as a cat inviting a mouse to dinner. “Eat your food.”
It’s truly a chess match now, everyone watching each move, all of us wondering how bad it’s going to get.