Every Wickedness

by Cathy Vasas-Brown

  Inside, to Beth’s left was a glassed-in reception area. As she approached, a small window slid open. A dour-faced matron ruled the kingdom on the other side. Beth resisted the impulse to request a cheeseburger and an order of fries; the woman’s raised eyebrow told Beth she was all business.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked, her voice cracker dry.

  “I’m here to speak with Father Daniel Fortescue. My name is Beth Wells.”

  The woman raised slightly off her swivel chair to get a better look and didn’t bother to disguise her disapproval of Beth’s above-the-knee skirt.

  “He’s expecting me,” Beth added firmly. “Could you tell me where I might find him?”

  “His room is at the top of the stairs. Name’s on the door.” With that, the woman closed the glass partition and sat back down. Beth wondered whether the glass was to keep the woman in or other people out.

  Ahead was a large open concourse and, against the far wall, a statue of Jesus, a flock of sheep at His feet. An inscription above the tableau read: And the lost shall return to the fold.

  Beth recalled the parable of the prodigal son, a story she had learned so many years ago. Was this reflective of the philosophy of the school, to shepherd those whom others had led astray? A formidable task. Beth wondered how the teaching priests kept the black sheep in line, then quickly dismissed the thought. One stern-faced secretary and the eerie quiet did not a prison make.

  Dividing the foyer were two open staircases, one to the right, the other to the left. Great. Father Daniel’s office is at the top of the stairs, the charming hostess had said. Of which flight? A quick scan of the empty lobby told Beth she was on her own. There was no one to ask, and she wouldn’t be caught dead going back to the receptionist for clarification. Appropriately, she remembered some basic Latin — sinister meant left, so accordingly, Beth went to the right and proceeded up the stairs.

  Rounding the landing to the second floor, Beth was nearly trampled by two youths, fifteen years old, she guessed. One mumbled an apology, then they both continued their descent, two stairs at a time, before Beth had a chance to ask for directions. From the flight below, Beth heard a wolf whistle. At least this was normal.

  At the top of the stairs, Beth faced another dilemma. She could turn right or left — straight ahead would send her back down the opposite staircase. Either corridor was a Pavlovian nightmare — a warren of doors, archways, and ramps. Some sadistic architect had fooled the casual observer by designing a building, symmetrical on the outside, a circus funhouse within. Again, lacking a coin to toss, Beth turned to the right.

  Her shoes resounded on the tiles. The initial feeling of peace she’d experienced upon seeing the church was completely gone now. The interior of the school was as dismal as the receptionist had been. Everything was in tones of brown — reddish brown tile, sienna-coloured brick walls, wooden baseboards, and doors stained burnt umber. The lone bulletin board was bare, its natural cork adding another brown to the palette. The absence of students’ artwork made Beth wonder again what Jordan’s childhood must have been like.

  Three doors up on the left, a man poked his head into the corridor. “Beth Wells?” he said. “I’m Daniel Fortescue.”

  Well, she thought, here goes nothing.

  34

  Standing before the white stucco building, the place where so many dreams had taken shape, he marvelled at how sharp his mind was, how after so many years, the sounds, smells, and impressions of those earlier times remained so clearly in focus. He sat beneath a huge sycamore tree, barely aware of the coldness of the earth, his sense of the present overshadowed by the vividness of the past.

  He remembered the night the two priests stood in his room, their stern, wrinkle-ravaged faces glowering. The older one, Father Francis Xavier, held a bottle of Russian Prince vodka in one hand, his Bible in the other. Father Anthony Bennedetto, only slightly less wrinkled than Father Francis, stared over his bifocals, first at the boy, then at the stack of magazines lying open on the bed.

  “You have much to atone for, young man,” said Father Francis.

  The boy gave them his best wide-eyed expression. “But you don’t understand! Those aren’t mine!”

  “Lying will only make it worse,” the old priest said. “You must repent.”

  “Ask the other boys, why don’t you?”

  “Now is not the time for cowardice.”

  “What about that kid at the end of the hall? The goody-goody. He could have set me up.”

  Father Anthony remained mute. His bifocals had slipped farther down his nose.

  “The Eighth Commandment,” Father Francis said. “Recite.”

  “But —”

  “Recite!” A large purple vein bulged at the priest’s temple.

  “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour,” the boy mumbled hurriedly.

  “Again!”

  The boy spoke louder this time, carefully modulating his voice to mimic sincerity.

  The old priest appeared satisfied. “Come with us, son. And make no sound.”

  Father Francis threw the vodka bottle onto the bed. It landed beside a semi-nude centrefold. The three left the room and moved in silence down the corridor. They reached a stairwell at the far end of the hall. Father Francis pushed the door open and stepped onto the landing. With Father Francis leading the way, they descended the concrete steps single file, each gripping the banister for support. The boy heard the stairwell door overhead clunk shut.

  The old priest was wheezing now, an asthmatic whistle coming from somewhere deep within his chest. The boy pictured a pair of shrivelled, frail lungs crumpling to grey dust like a scorched butterfly’s wings. He smiled a little at the image, knowing the priests couldn’t see his face. Another image broadened his smile — that of Father Francis tumbling head over feet down the concrete steps. This, the boy found caricature-funny, the black cassock flailing about, billowing above the priest’s head, bony hands reaching out to grab at anything along the way. Maybe there would even be a glimpse of some very unpriestly boxer shorts. The boy bit his lip.

  He wondered what the sound would be like — Father Francis’s head hitting the concrete. Would it be a thud, like dropping a melon on pavement, or a sharp crack like splitting a log with an ax? And how many times would it hit? Just once, and break wide open, or would the body gain momentum and somersault all the way to the next landing just like in the cartoons?

  The boy’s hand stretched toward the old priest.

  Just in time, he remembered Father Anthony. The boy glanced over his right shoulder. The second priest was still silent and peering over his bifocals, which the boy was certain were worn for authoritative effect. The boy’s hand returned to his pocket.

  Where were they going? Father Francis continued to shuffle downward in the semi-darkness, moving past the doorway for the second floor. The boy was surprised, for this was where the classrooms were. There had been marathon recitations of scripture in the deserted study hall until his voice was hoarse and his eyes burned with fatigue.

  At the main floor, too, Father Francis ignored the door and continued still downward. So they weren’t going to the priest’s office either. Or the cafeteria. Mentally, the boy ticked off the punishments — scrubbing the cafeteria floor, cleaning the priests’ toilet, dusting each page of the leather-bound volumes in the priests’ study, all seven thousand books. Any one of these he expected, but as the silent group continued its descent, he knew the priests had come up with something new.

  He was, for a moment, flattered they were going to so much trouble, that for him, they’d exercised some creativity. Whatever they had planned excited him. There would be a great story to tell tomorrow, and when he told his schoolmates how the old farts hadn’t gotten to him, there would be nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Yes, tonight he would climb another rung on the ladder.

  As Father Francis reached a double set of doors at the bottom of the stairs, his breath came in short bursts, the
flute-like whistle constant now.

  They entered the gymnasium.

  Even in the darkness, his mind could picture the blue concrete block walls, the wooden bleachers along the west wall, six basketball hoops, one of them still bent forward from when he’d swung on it. Ten cracks with a ruler and no gym for a week after that little stunt.

  He predicted they would make him run laps, do one hundred pushups or perform some other feat of muscular endurance until his body collapsed. In his weakened, defeated state, they would make him pray the rosary and expect him to make a good confession. He would have to complete some duty in public, too, as an example to the other boys that such behaviour at the School of the Good Shepherd was not to be tolerated. He prepared himself mentally for the exertion to come, knew just how to shut off enough of his mind so he wouldn’t really notice what was happening. He imagined himself physically strong, unbeatable, and listened to Father Francis’s laboured breathing. No contest. He could outlast these two relics.

  The hardwood floor creaked as the three walked across the gym. The boy pressed his sneakered feet against the floorboards and twisted, each step producing a high-pitched squeal. Ahead of him, there was a flash of white collar as Father Francis turned around, his glare slicing through the darkness like a scythe. The boy, suppressing a grin, resumed his normal gait.

  The gymnasium reeked of stale sweat and damp socks, and the odour seemed to intensify as they moved deeper into the room. As they neared the lighting panel at the far end the boy paused, waiting for one of the priests to throw the switch that would bathe the gym in pale, cheerless light. But the click that came from the panel left the gym in darkness. Instead, there was a faint glow ahead of them, visible through the separation between another set of double doors.

  The change rooms. Father Francis still led the way, holding one of the doors open for the boy, who squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. Hurrying after the old priest, the boy released his tentative hold on the door, allowing it to slam on Father Anthony.

  In the change room, the stale body odour was strong and mingled with spray deodourant and foot powder. The block walls were painted the same industrial blue as the gym. Blue for the heaven to which they were to aspire, and red for the blood of sacrifice and the sacred heart of Jesus. The school colours.

  There was a long bench against each wall in the change room, which was otherwise an empty square. Tarnished hooks jutted from varnished pieces of plywood screw-nailed into the concrete. Many of the hooks were broken off. Others dangled from loose screws.

  The oppressive presence of Father Anthony behind the boy’s shoulder was unnerving. The priest had yet to utter a single word, but somehow, his role in the drama raised the small hairs on the boy’s back.

  Father Francis beckoned them onward, and they passed through an archway into the next room. Here, the boy nearly laughed aloud. Sinks and showers. They were going to wash his mouth out with soap.

  Honest, Father. I’ll never sin again, he could hear himself say. I just wanted the others to like me. Yeah, that would work. The question was, when should he start apologizing? When they produced the soap, or should he let them get in a few sudsings first?

  Eight grimy sinks lined the wall to the right, with rubber stoppers suspended from chrome beaded chains. Vertical paths of rust stained all eight basins.

  The sinks weren’t the intended destination. Instead, Father Francis moved toward the shower stalls at the back of the room. Finally he stood in front of the last stall on the left.

  Suddenly there was a tightness in the boy’s throat, and he thought of making a run for it. But Father Anthony was too close and seemed to sense his thoughts, for at that moment, he grabbed the boy’s right forearm.

  Father Francis seemed to be examining the shower stall. It was curtainless. The ceramic tiles were dull and mildew-stained, the grout black. Several tiles were missing, leaving gaping green-black squares that made one wall resemble a grinning skull. Two push brooms leaned near the stall entrance.

  From the folds of his cassock, the old priest produced a small bottle of oil. He uncapped it, then poured the contents onto the floor of the shower stall. This small effort seemed to expend what little energy the priest had, his wheezing now accompanied by a rattle.

  The boy stared transfixed as the last drop of oil left the bottle. Like lightning, Father Anthony’s grip shifted, both arms locking around his waist.

  “No!” the boy yelled. He kicked out at Father Francis, landing the shot at the old priest’s shin. Doubling over, the priest swore, and the boy kicked again, this one catching the priest in the chin. There was a crack, and Father Francis howled. When he stood up, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.

  The boy winced in preparation for a blow, but there was none. Instead, Father Anthony wrapped a leg around the boy’s legs from behind, preventing another kick. With equal efficiency, Father Francis began stripping him, tearing the clothes from his body. The priest’s breath quickened.

  They shoved him into the stall and stood as a barricade across the entrance.

  “You must take care not to move quickly,” Father Francis instructed, his voice barely audible. “The floor is very slippery, and you may do yourself an injury.”

  Father Anthony turned on the tap. Jets of cold spray flew from the nozzle. Embarrassed by his nakedness, the boy turned his face to the corner, away from the water and the gleaming, greedy eyes of the priests. The water was freezing now, like daggers of ice piercing his back.

  He began his monologue. “Please, Father Francis. Father Anthony. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Those magazines were mine. The alcohol too. Please forgive me.”

  Although the cold water was bad enough, the boy was more put off by the fact that the two old geezers were seeing him naked. Probably liking it too. He kept his front pressed into the corner.

  There was something else, too. Something that he couldn’t quite figure out but gave him the creeps anyway.

  The brooms.

  He begged some more, pleaded, but his penance fell on deaf ears, for the priests had begun a litany of their own.

  “Repent and find peace.”

  “Through punishment find salvation.”

  “Suffering shall set you free.”

  “Let the water purify you.”

  He shouted, “I said I was sorry! Christ Almighty!”

  The water stopped.

  For seconds, it was deadly quiet. Over.

  His toes were slick with oil, his scalp numb, his penis shrunken. His entire body shook.

  Behind him, he heard the faucet.

  He screamed.

  The water, scalding hot, pelted against his bare flesh like millions of fiery needles. He turned to reach for the faucet, shielding his face, his genitals. Father Anthony anticipated the move and picked up one of the brooms. Above the sound of the rushing water was a hard crack, as the handle of the broom came down on the boy’s groping hand.

  The boy lunged at the priests, slipped, and fell hard onto his knees. He cursed aloud. The stall quickly filled with steam as he slid around the oily floor, trying to escape through the priests’ legs. They both had brooms now and were shoving at him, the harsh bristles razing his tortured skin. They forced him into the corner, one broom at his neck, the other at his back. He covered his head with his arms and made himself as small as he could, but still the water burned, searing his exposed flesh like raw meat. He was sure he was bleeding, that every blood vessel in his body had exploded, and he was slowly dying.

  The water went cold again, ice-cold, and he waited for the heart attack that he was certain would accompany the shock. From some faraway place, he could hear the priests chanting, fragments of their sadistic benediction rising above the torrent of water.

  35

  The withered, hunched-over cleric Beth had expected didn’t appear. Father Daniel stood straight and tall and was clad in navy sweats and red sneakers. His long hair, greying only slightly at the t
emples, was tied back in a ponytail. Beth judged him to be in his mid-fifties, though it was difficult to be certain. This man probably always looked younger than his true age.

  After a friendly handshake, Father Daniel beckoned Beth to follow him into what she assumed was his classroom. The space was anything but traditional and bore none of the depressing beigeness of the corridor. Desks were arranged in groups of six, the teacher’s desk in the centre of the room. The walls were alive with history, art, music. Every square inch was filled with posters — Paul Revere, Benjamin Franklin, Susan B. Anthony — all drawn by students. A clothesline strung across the width of the room. From it hung the class’s projects, replicas of explorers’ logbooks, the pages artificially aged with brushed-on coffee. Clay pots of philodendron, English ivy, and sanseveria flourished on a ledge by the window.

  The priest led the way into his office, another space that revealed much about the man. One glance around told Beth this teacher was truly beloved, that he’d established a rapport with his students that made him more friend than teacher. Mementos from former pupils were everywhere — plaques, photographs, paperweights. Coffee mugs with witty sentiments lined up on a shelf.

  “You know you’re getting old when former students come in with pictures of their own children,” Father Daniel said as he filled the kettle.

  A guitar rested in one corner. Beth sat on a leatherette divan next to it. She and Father Daniel exchanged niceties for a while, their conversation filled with observations about architecture, how kids have changed, the demands of the teaching profession and the priesthood. It was easy for Beth to understand why students felt so drawn to this man. He had a broad knowledge base but, more importantly, he was a good listener.