Embracing Darkness

by Christopher D. Roe

  “Ready to talk now, are you?” she said coldly.

  The priest walked over to Jessica, who clumsily grasped her spoon and was now holding it upside down. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her forehead. Then he went over to Jonas and said, “How ’bout some ball today, partner?” Jonas, eating his third spoonful of porridge, nodded vehemently.

  “Things might start to change around here. I have a feeling,” Phineas said to Sister Ignatius, who was cleaning out the pot in which she had prepared the porridge.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorted, sounding angrier than he’d heard her in years.

  “I guess they’ve all figured it out on their own.”

  “Oh, them. Well, they didn’t figure out anything on their own. Our little songbird here told them that she sleeps with me at night. They put two and two together. It’s as simple as that.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t think it’ll hurt us one way or the other. I really think they want to help.”

  The priest sat down in a chair across from Jonas and removed his spectacles, throwing them carelessly onto the table. “Too many people know now. There’s no way they’re going to keep this under wraps. When Ransom finds out about Jessica, who knows what he’ll do?”

  The nun dropped the pot into the sink. “I was worried about that, too. But I’ve just thought it through, and it’s now all so clear to me.” Her voice was calm again, although there was a slight look of reprimand in her eyes.

  “What?” he replied.

  Her face brightened again. “They’re Catholics. They know where their loyalties lie. At first I never thought that would matter. When I stormed out of the church, I thought the way you’re thinking now, but then I remembered our collective faith, and it became clear. There was a reason why God put this small church in such a town. It allows things like this to be kept in our community of common faith.”

  Two hours later there came a knock at the rectory’s front door. Both Father Poole and Sister Ignatius held their breath and stood motionless, as if the slightest motion would betray their presence.

  “Do you think it’s Ransom?” Sister Ignatius whispered.

  “I don’t know,” replied Father Poole. “He’ll be furious and have us prosecuted for kidnapping. That would get back to the bishop, and I’d be thrown out of the priesthood.”

  Sister scoffed at the idea. “Now why would he bite the hand that feeds him?” she rejoined. “We pay him every month, don’t we? He might just tack on a little more for Jessica.”

  Although he didn’t want to bring up the subject, Father Poole for once was relieved that there was no more Zachary Black. The boy’s exodus three years before had given the priest that much more peace of mind, because he was one less child Ransom might discover living on the hill, although the boy’s whereabouts and his welfare always preoccupied Phineas.

  A third series of knocks was followed by a call from the door. “Father? Are you in there?” It was Albert Wilson. The effeminate voice could belong to no other.

  “We’ve got some surprises for you!” Miles Wickham shouted. “Open the door. You’re gonna just love this!”

  Father Poole and Sister Ignatius walked together toward the door. There ten people were clustered on the grass: Patty and Milly Flynn, Nora O’Day, Molly Kelly, Albert Wilson, and Miles Wickham accompanied by his wife. In addition there were three children whom the two clergy had never laid eyes on before.

  Charlotte Wickham spoke first. “Father, Sister. We’d like you to meet a few new people: Joey Foster, Theo Thomas, and Rex Gunther. We’ve brought them to you because they’re in a bad way, these boys are.”

  Phineas and Ellen were dumbfounded at the sight of the three boys, who were as wretched-looking as any abused children one ever beheld. The bruises on their faces and the cuts on the arm of one boy added to the heartbreaking sight.

  “Hello, boys,” said Father Poole.

  He appeared so friendly and welcoming to them that little Theo Thomas smiled back. His smile seemed peculiar to Phineas, whose mind immediately wandered elsewhere as Sister Ignatius squeezed his hand tightly to get his attention as the introductions continued.

  “Joe is the eldest of the three. He’s going on fourteen,” Charlotte Wickham said. “And Rex is second in age at eight. He’s a special one, he is.”

  Before she could go on, her husband interjected with a cough. “Uh,” he began, “I think we should continue inside over some coffee and cake. My missus makes fantastic crumb cake and brought it especially.”

  “Sister Ignatius!” said the priest in a show of enthusiasm, “Doesn’t our Mrs. Keats make the best coffee in the county?”

  Accompanied by Jonas and Jessica, the three boys were then taken into the common room to amuse themselves while the adults congregated to discuss other matters.

  With the fresh coffee distributed and squares of cake offered on doilies, the hosts and their guests sat silent for a long time. Charlotte Wickham admired the painting on the wall just above the badly damaged hutch. Meanwhile her husband Miles methodically picked at the large crumbs that had adorned the top of his dessert, stacking them in a pile and then eating them one by one, ultimately abandoning the rest of the cake.

  For her part Milly Flynn tapped, to the tune of “Stardust,” the glass of water placed in front of her. Her husband Patty picked up the tune almost immediately and began humming it, at first quietly to himself and then, in an attempt to break the silence, louder, hoping that someone else at the table would join in.

  Albert Wilson, on the other hand, steadily drank his coffee, not because he craved caffeine but because he needed to deal with the awkward silence in his own way, which meant movement on his part. He didn’t like sitting still during a group silence. When he was done with his coffee, he placed the cup back on its saucer abruptly. “Forgive me,” he said under his breath. It sounded strange hearing a spoken word at the table.

  Nora O’Day and Molly Kelly were anxious to begin talking, which was their natural inclination, but they too sat motionless, breathing loudly through their noses. This was especially annoying for those near them. The two friends sat next to one another, their hands perched primly on their purses.

  Still the silence continued. The only noises audible were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner by the window, which looked out to the front lawn, and the faint sounds of Jonas and Jessica talking to Rex, Theo, and Joey.

  Without even realizing it, Sister Ignatius, who was struggling to hear what was going on with the children in the common room, blurted out, “The boys are very well behaved, aren’t they?” As the last word left her mouth, her face expressed regret. She didn’t even want to broach the subject, since she knew why the boys had been brought to the rectory.

  “Oh, yes indeed they are!” answered Charlotte, apparently relieved by Sister Ignatius’s comment. “They are wonderful boys. Strong as oxen, even the little one, so they will pull their weight around the grounds. After all, your groundskeeper is getting on in years. It will be most advantageous, in my opinion, to have three strong lads about to help with the chores.”

  Father Poole leaned forward, having removed his napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. “Am I to understand that you mean to leave these children here?” he said.

  Charlotte’s cheery demeanor was extinguished almost immediately upon hearing this. Based on what the parishioners had inferred after seeing two children obviously living at St. Andrew’s, they all had assumed that Father Poole and Sister Ignatius would welcome the boys with open arms. It wasn’t until their priest voiced his reaction that the group of seven realized his reservations.

  “Are we to understand, Father Poole,” Miles Wickham said, “that you mean to turn these boys away? It can’t be because you haven’t the room. I mean, just look at this p
lace! So what is it then, Father? Whatever happened to Catholic charity? I remember that being one thing that we Congregationalists always looked favorably upon when it came to Catholics.”

  Charlotte managed an uneasy giggle. “He doesn’t mean that,” she said nervously, removing her napkin from her lap and placing it carefully on the table. “He’s been a Catholic for years, Father. I swear it.”

  “How did these boys come to be in your custody?” inquired Phineas.

  “Nora O’Day and Molly Kelly, naturally.” replied Miles Wickham. The two ladies simultaneously corrected their posture to a perfect ninety degrees in a show of pride. “They make everyone’s business their own.” Molly Kelly wrinkled her nose at Miles.

  Patty continued, “And they’re good talkers, they are. They convinced the mothers of these three to allow us to bring them to where they could be helped.

  Nora O’Day and Molly Kelly could hold back no longer.

  Molly sucked her teeth and said, “We’re not accomplishing anything.”

  “I quite agree.” Nora continued. “Now see here, you two,” she said to the priest and the nun. “These boys all have different stories. They are tragic, each of them, in their own way. Albert Wilson here knows more about Rex Gunther than anyone outside the boy’s family. Mr. and Mrs. Flynn can reveal Theo Thomas’s story, and my dear friend Molly can tell you about Joey Foster.”

  A brief silence ensued. It was now clear to Phineas that these people had brought the three boys to them with no intention whatsoever of leaving the hill with them in tow.

  Taking his cue from Nora O’Day, Patty Flynn began his narrative. “Little Theo Thomas is a fine lad. Five years old, he be, and not a month older. He just celebrated his fifth birthday last week. His father—and I know all this sordid business since the Thomases are me neighbors—gave him a thrashin’, he did, for turnin’ five. No presents of any kind, just a thrashin’. His name used to be Stephan, but as soon as the boy was old enough to speak he lisped. His father was embarrassed by that. Gettin’ the boy to ‘talk normal,’ as he’d say, he’d take the boy’s tongue with two wooden spoons pressed together and yank it out and pull it to one side and then the other. He’d go back and forth with it and up and down until it’d had enough exercise. Then he’d release it. Theo’s tongue’d be bleedin’ so bad it’d get swollen, and the lisp’d be that much worse, Father.”

  He then reached for Sister Ignatius’s hand and squeezed it to show that he wasn’t ignoring her. “Sister, he’s in need of God’s love and guidance. I know he can get that here.”

  She interrupted. “You said his name was Stephan. Why do you call him Theo?”

  Patty put his head down as if the answer were going to cause pain. “That damned father of his! Such a violent sort he is, and a favorite drinkin’ buddy of many a scum down at “The Watering Hole”. He beat the boy silly one day about a month ago when I was over there returnin’ some tools I had borrowed to fix me cellar door. When I saw the boy comin’ out of his room, I said to him, ‘Hey there, Stephan, me fine lad! A good mornin’ to ya!’ and he says to me, ‘Thank you, thir. Thame to you!’ and his father went and cracked him across the face. He said to the boy, ‘Damn you! I told you not to say all those s words! And what’s more, when people call you Stephan, you correct them and tell them your name is Theo. And you don’t say, “My name is,” because of the word is. You say, “I’m Theo” and keep walking.’”

  “The boy has bad teeth,” Father Poole interrupted, remembering Theo’s strange smile.

  “Well,” Patty Flynn answered. “Skyler Thomas, the boy’s father, thought the best thing to do to cure his son’s lispin’ was to get rid of all the things that were gettin’ in the way of his tongue. He kept poundin’ on the boy,” said Patty, “till the poor kid lost every last tooth. Just… kept… poundin’.”

  Patty broke down and began to sob into his coffee. Milly leaned over and put a hand on his arm. He turned his head to her, his eyes still shut, and buried his face in the crook of her arm. “There’s no way that boy’s teeth’ll ever be right again.” Patty added, his voice muffled against the lace of his wife’s dress.

  Talking only to Sister Ignatius and Father Poole, Milly said softly, “And now you understand why we think Theo needs you two. He’ll be safe up here. His father will never find him.”

  After another long silence Molly Kelly reckoned it was her time to speak. She dreaded having to tell about little Joey Foster, due to her chagrin that everyone in the small congregation of St. Andrew’s, not to mention everyone in Holly, regarded her as a gossip who craved the misery of others so she’d have something to talk about every Saturday afternoon when she’d meet with her fellow housewives for bridge.

  For this reason Sister Ignatius despised the woman. She couldn’t stand how Molly Kelly and Nora O’Day would titter to one another in their pew during Sunday Mass.

  Molly prefaced her account of Joey’s history by reminding all assembled that it was in everyone’s best interest to help the boy. “We don’t need a dead child on our hands and on our consciences,” she said firmly. “We’re all God-fearing folks. Besides, I can’t tell you how bad it would be for the town if the authorities from another part of the county were to come in to investigate the death of a child and see the immoral activity that thrives in Holly.”

  Her prologue was interrupted by Father Poole. “Mrs. Kelly,” he said calmly. “I’ve been here when homicide was committed in this town, and I can tell you that, as sure as I am a forty-year-old Catholic priest in a poor parish in the middle of a rural community, things in Holly get covered up quite conveniently when the need arises.”

  He paused and smiled at her, then begged her to continue.

  “He likes playing with himself,” Molly Kelly said bluntly, not believing her own ears because she had been more candid than she wished.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sister Ignatius gasped. “YOU MEAN TO SAY THAT HE ENJOYS WAGGING HIMSELF OFF?”

  “SISTER!” scolded Father Poole.

  Everyone at the table shifted uneasily in their chairs at the Sister’s outburst. Father Poole was aghast at her choice of words in front of company. For a split second he feared that she’d gone back on the glue again after having been clean for several months now. Since he didn’t smell it on her, however, he dismissed his suspicions.

  “Yes, Sister. That is correct, if you have a mind to put it that way,” Molly snapped back, as conscious of the nun’s disdain for her as ever. “His own mamma told me she’d catch him doing it every time she’d turn around. He’d do it on his bed, in the bathtub, on the toilet, at the table, whether doing his homework or eating dinner.”

  Molly seemed to feel more at ease talking about it now, since all she was doing was to enumerate the locations of the sin in question and not so much repeat the nature of the vulgar idea.

  “Oh, his mother said he’d do it any place in the house. Why, it got so bad that she was finding stains on her sofa, on her rugs, on his bedclothes. She said that she had first caught him doing it when he was an infant. Just reached down into his nappy, he did, and left his hands there. She said he even preferred keeping his hands down there to holding his bottle. Mrs. Foster thought she’d try not feeding him until he’d take his hands away from that business to hold his formula, but he didn’t. She didn’t want him dying or anything. I mean, what kind of mother would starve her own offspring to death? So she accommodated him all his days and held the bottle while he left his hands down below. As he got older, she’d feed him from his highchair. He’d still keep his hands down there, doing his business, while she’d feed him his broccoli and cauliflower.”

  A few of the assembled group chuckled in spite of themselves. Father Poole frowned disapprovingly, as did Sister Ignatius. It quickly ceased.

  “Mr. Foster would have none of it,” Mrs. Kelly went on. “He told his son that anytime he saw h
im touching his business, he’d kick it.”

  Mr. Wilson interrupted by inhaling loudly and flailing his arms in the air. After this display he exclaimed, “He kicked his son in the balls so hard once that he sent him flying five feet in the air! It was during the Founder’s Day Picnic at Slater’s Quarry. I know! I saw it with my own eyes!”

  Molly ignored Albert Wilson and his coarse language. “His mother,” she continued, “that is to say Joey’s mother, told me that the last time the boy—well, you know—it came out kind of pinkish, like blood was mixed in with it. She feared for her son’s safety as well as her chances to have grandchildren. I told her that we Catholics—not including her, since she’s an Episcopalian—look out for those in need.”

  Father Poole sighed and said, “And so we add another to our happy home.” His mood was grim.

  “We know what you’re thinking, Father Phineas,” said Mr. Wickham in his falsetto voice, “but you have us to supplement your income. We’ll dig deeper into our pockets than ever before.”

  At this everyone around the table except Charlotte Wickham reacted subtly at the promise of increased financial aid offered by tight-fisted Mr. Wickham.

  “We’ll also start convincing others to come to church. Hell, times being what they are, folks can’t afford to drop ten dollars at the bar, but they can spare a single dollar once a week. Can’t they?”

  Miles Wickham searched for a show of anonymous agreement at the table, yet everyone bowed their heads—all, that is, except Father Poole and Sister Ignatius. Mr. Wickham’s comment sounded naïve to the others present, and they voiced their opinion not with their lips but by their silence.

  The priest was a practical man, but Phineas wasn’t going to voice his opposition either to his congregants or to Sister Ignatius. He then thought of how his relationship with her was possibly damning him for eternity. And perhaps it isn’t stealing from the collection plate when that money was going toward church matters and not lining his own pocket. He also thought that perhaps taking in more children was the answer to making up for the sins he was committing with Ellen.