BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “Aye, Savannah,” Sean's mother replied.

  “Let me get the paperwork started. You are Catholic, of course.”

  “There is no other true religion,” Mrs. Cullen pronounced softly.

  “I agree completely,” Mrs. Cureton said. “Naturally you'll need to register with the parish to get parishioner tuition rates.”

  “Aye. We can do that.”

  “Are his shots up to date?”

  Sean's mother reached into her purse. “Aye. Here is the documentation.”

  Each time his mother spoke, Sean Cullen winced. To Bronnie, whose grandmother still bore the lilt of the West Country, she understood his embarrassment. She was about to speak to him when Sister Mary Pat called her into her office. With a smile of encouragement the boy seemed to ignore, Bronnie left him standing awkwardly at his mother's side. Though she did not see him again until a few days later, she thought of him constantly, for his good looks had fired her girlish imagination. By the time she laid eyes on him again, she had developed a strong crush on the boy with the blue eyes.

  It was a crush that had only grown stronger over the years.

  Because Sean was two years older, Bronnie only saw him when he passed her in the hall or as he sat in church during daily Mass. Though he never spoke to her and she was too shy to talk to him, the only contact they had was when their eyes met. It was during those brief times Bronnie thought she saw deep sadness in Sean Cullen's cobalt gaze.

  Now, she thought she understood why.

  “I love you, Seannie,” she said and sighed, pulling the bear tighter against her.

  * * * *

  Sean turned over in bed and winced. He felt the pull of his shorts against the broken flesh on his backside and knew the crusted blood had glued the fabric to his flesh. Though he had taken a shower and his mother had salved the lacerations caused by the priest's diligently wielded paddle, the abrasions must have opened again. Gently, he reached behind him to tug away the material. The sting made him draw in a breath and mentally curse Goodmayer to the Abyss and beyond.

  “You are evil, Sean Cullen!” Fr. Goodmayer had snarled with each slap of the paddle. “You are evil!”

  Bent over the priest's desk, with Goodmayer's hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, Sean had been able to see the man's legs and the thick bulge between them that gave evidence to how much the priest was enjoying the punishment. The harder the hits, the firmer the bulge, until with one last brutal pass of the wood, the cloth covering Goodmayer's crotch darkened in a spreading stain.

  “Evil!” Goodmayer pronounced one final time, then stalked to the window, his back to Sean. “Return to class, and as you walk, think on the sins you have committed. I will talking with your father about your misconduct.”

  His rump on fire with the pain, Sean straightened. He hurt so badly he could barely hobble to the door. Not bothering to look back at the sadist who had inflicted such savage punishment, Sean went into the foyer and leaned against the wall, his head down, and his legs trembling.

  “Don't let him come out here and find you, Sean,” Mrs. Harold, the priest's housekeeper, warned. She had come down the hallway, drying her hands on a towel. “Get going now. You don't need another paddling, son.”

  Later, when Tym Cullen arrived to escort his son home, Sister Mary Justice had come to Sean's classroom to get him. She looked at him with pity as he walked down the corridor beside her.

  “He doesn't look pleased, Sean,” Sister whispered.

  “He never does,” Sean said quietly.

  One look at his father's face and Sean knew he would pay dearly. He had to grit his teeth to climb into the cab of his father's pickup because he did not want the man to witness his pain.

  “This is a hell of a note!” his father snarled as he slammed the truck into reverse. “Being called down here to get your ass in the middle of the day!”

  Sean knew he should not speak. His father's hands were wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles were white. From the way those huge hands squeezed the plastic, Sean knew his father was itching to lash out at him.

  “When we get home, I'll teach you to embarrass me like this!”

  Sean kept his eyes straight ahead. His bottom throbbed with the cuts left by Goodmayer's beating. It was all he could do not to shift on the seat or to cry out as the vehicle bumped over the roadway.

  “Well, you won't be coddled in that Papist resort after today.”

  Slowly closing his eyes, Sean knew what that meant: public school.

  It wasn't that he cared one way or another where he got his education, but St. Teresa's was where Bronwyn McGregor was.

  “I'll teach you,” his father growled, turning to give him a steady look. “You're nothing but trouble and never have been from the day you was conceived. Well, I'll make a man of you if it kills me!”

  The beating he'd been given at the unholy hands of the priest was nothing compared to the strapping he received from his father at home. Despite his mother's pleading from the other side of the locked door not to inflict further punishment on their child, Sean's father had made good his promise to teach him a brutal lesson. His blood flowing from lacerations caused from the barber's strop his father wielded savagely, Sean finally slipped into unconsciousness as the vicious pain continued. He awoke to find his mother kneeling beside him, his hand held protectively in hers, and one of her eyes swollen and already turning black from Tym Cullen's fist.

  Now, lying in bed, staring at the wall, Sean knew that one day Tymothy Cullen would meet his rightful end and, when it came, it would be a violent end to a violent, brutal life.

  “One day, I'll kill you, Tym Cullen,” he vowed. “Before God, I swear I will kill you.”

  In the adjacent bedroom, he heard his mother cry out as she did nearly every night.

  “I don't sleep so good, Seannie,” she had told him once. “Your Da thrashes about and he accidentally hits me sometimes.”

  “One day there will be no more beatings, Ma,” he said softly. “No more black eyes or broken arms.”

  As he had grown older, Sean tried to stop his father from abusing his mother and the results had been disastrous. The one time Sean tried to physically restrain his father, Tym Cullen had beaten him so savagely, Sean stayed in bed for three days.

  But the brunt of that fury had fallen on Sean's mother, and she had wound up in the hospital with a fractured jaw, a broken arm, and a ruptured spleen.

  “Fell down the stairs, she did,” his father told the doctors at the hospital in Savannah.

  Unable to prove otherwise and incapable of getting Dorrie Cullen to press charges, the authorities were forced to drop the matter, though one burly black officer had warned Tym Cullen that they would be watching him.

  “Go ahead, Sean,” his father said later. “Stand up for your Ma and see what I do to her next time!”

  So, through the years, Sean had been forced to watch his mother's abuse and endure his own. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  “You are a dead man walking, Tymothy Cullen,” he declared as he drew his pillow closer to his chest. He buried his face in the clean scent of ozone that permeated the fabric.

  As he drifted into sleep, the soft material beneath his cheek became the creamy flesh of Bronwyn McGregor's shoulder and he nuzzled against that phantom sweetness.

  He sent his mind out into the night and his thoughts moved gently into the cheerful lavender bedroom where she slept. In his incorporeal state he stood there and watched her sleeping for a moment, then laid his spectral hand against her cheek.

  “Seannie,” she sighed and turned to rub her cheek against his ghostly palm.

  Her words erased the pain in his body. He relaxed, giving in to the closing arms of sleep, and withdrew to his own dismal room and lonely space.

  His lips moved against the fabric of his pillow. “Goodnight, Milady,” he whispered. “I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER 2

&nbs
p; Albany, Georgia, September 1983

  The halls smelled stale and old as Bronwyn stopped beside the library. The bustling corridors of Albany High School seemed intimidating. There were too many students jostling past her, eyeing her as though she were an alien creature dredged up from the muck, and none seemed inclined to ask if she needed help. She shifted her French II, Geometry, and Biology books to her left hip and let out a snort. Just as she started forward again, a rowdy boy ran past and hit her arm. Her books went flying, skidding across the floor before her.

  “Thanks, you little creep!” she yelled, and was astonished to find herself on the receiving end of the boy's middle-finger salute.

  Exasperated by the rudeness, angry at being thrust into this new and unsettling experience, Bronwyn clenched her jaw and stooped to grab her notebook.

  “Need some help, Princess?”

  The smirk in the voice did nothing to improve Bronwyn's state of mind so she ignored the speaker. Grumbling to herself, she picked up her textbooks and slammed them on top of the notebook on the floor at her feet.

  “Suit yourself,” the speaker said.

  After lifting the heavy stack of books into her arms, Bronwyn stood. As she did she took in the faded jeans and rundown sneakers of the young man who had spoken. Her gaze moved up his chest, past a plaid shirt that had seen much better days, to his expressionless, thin face.

  Despite the lack of the light blue shirt and dark blue twill pants that had been the uniform at St. Teresa's, Bronwyn would have recognized him anywhere, although he had grown taller. “Sean?”

  He shrugged, but didn't reply.

  “How are you?’ she asked, smiling.

  He shrugged again. “Okay.”

  The day after Fr. Goodmayer had punished Sean, the boy's father had enrolled him in public school. Bronwyn hadn't seen him since that day on the playground at St. Teresa's, but she had never forgotten him.

  Her dreams were often of him.

  She wanted to talk to him, to tell him what she never got a chance to tell him that day three years before. She wanted him to know how sorry she was about what had happened.

  “Sean, I—” she began.

  “What class are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Browne's English.”

  “It's upstairs.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “Don't mention it,” he said and turned to go.

  “What do you have for sixth period?” she asked, falling into step beside him.

  “Why?”

  “Just asking.”

  He stopped and looked down at her. His stare was intense. “Do you ever dream about me, Bronnie?’ he asked in a silky voice.

  She blinked, her face flaming. “W...what?” The heat of his body, the pleasant smell of him, was overpowering and made her legs tremble. She stared into his lean face, into the lightness of his green eyes. “I don't know what you mean.”

  He leaned toward her. “I think you do,” he whispered.

  She took a step back. When she did, he grinned.

  He chuckled. “Go to class, Princess.”

  She watched him walk away, his hands deep into the pockets of his old jeans. Fleetingly, she wondered why he carried no books.

  * * * *

  The next time she saw him, he was sitting outside Coach Barton's office, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Reclining on the bench as though he owned it, he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. It had been four days since their encounter in front of the library. Each day, she had diligently searched the halls for him during class changes and became increasingly frustrated when she could not catch sight of him. She had not been able to get him out of her thoughts, though she hadn't really tried.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He opened one eye. “Hey, yourself. How're things in the kingdom, Princess?”

  She arced her chin toward the Dean of Boy's Office. “Are you in trouble?” she asked in a teasing voice.

  “I'm always in trouble.” He grinned. “I'm a bad boy, or haven't you heard?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I punched Dave Cox in gym class,” he replied, staring into her eyes as though he dared her to rebuke him for what he'd done.

  “Dave Cox,” she said in a flat voice. “My Dave Cox?”

  Something evil moved in his eyes; his mouth tightened. “I wasn't aware he belonged to you,” he snapped and drew in his legs to push erect on the bench.

  “He's my friend, and I know you know that.”

  “Aye, I have the scars on my ass to remind me.”

  She flinched. “I'm sorry about that. I never—”

  “Don't apologize, Bronwyn. Don't ever apologize to me for anything.”

  “But—”

  The door to Coach Barton's office opened and the Dean of Boy's stuck his head into the hallway. “Let's go, Cullen,” he said, his round face hard as flint.

  Sean sprang up from the bench and, without a backward glance at Bronwyn, walked past Coach Barton and into the Dean's office. The door closed behind him with a snap.

  Bronwyn stood there a moment longer, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. She wanted to wait, to be there when Sean was released from the Dean's office, but she knew she couldn't. She'd been on her way to the restroom and if she dallied much longer, Mrs. Gentry would send someone to look for her.

  She was about to turn away when she heard the popping sound coming from the office.

  She stilled, her hand going to her mouth. The unmistakable sound of the paddle being applied was one every student recognized. Not immediately realizing she was doing it, she counted the hits: eight, nine, ten.

  The door opened and Sean walked out, his jaw clenched as tightly as the fists at his side. He seemed to look right through her as he walked past, but when he got about five feet away, he stopped.

  “Meet me at Burdette's after school,” he said without turning to look at her. When she didn't answer, he jerked around. “Did you hear me?”

  She nodded. Her heart thundered. “I'll be there.”

  Her palms were suddenly sweaty, her legs weak. She watched him until he entered one of the classrooms at the end of the hall. It was the detention class and she had a feeling he was going to be there for a few days—if not weeks—to come.

  The rest of the school day passed in a blur. As the hands of the big clock on the wall of her Biology class crept slowly toward 3:15, she grew more and more restless. She had licked her lips so many times they were fast becoming chapped. Her skirt was wrinkled from the repeated drag of her sweaty palms against the fabric. When the bell rang, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

  Without taking time to think, she hurried out of the classroom to the school's west entrance, where she knew her mother would be parked, waiting for her.

  “I gotta go to town,” she said when she got into the car.

  “Not today,” her mother replied, starting the engine. “I promised your Aunt Doris I would—”

  “Mama, please! I have to go to town!”

  “To do what?”

  “I gotta go to Burdette's.”

  “Again, to do what?”

  She locked eyes with her mother. “To see a boy.”

  Deirdre McGregor's eyebrows shot up into the thick chestnut of her bouffant hairdo. “Oh, really?” she drawled. “And just who is this young man?”

  “He's my soul mate,” Bronwyn said fiercely. “The man I am going to marry one day!”

  Her mother sat back in the seat. “I see. Is this someone of whom you believe your father and I would approve?”

  Bronwyn's face puckered in a frown. “Probably not, but it doesn't matter.”

  “Oh, I'm quite certain it will matter to your father.”

  “Mama, please! I have to meet him. I swore to him I would. I have to keep my word!”

  Deirdre shook her head. “I'm not ready for this,” she said with a long sigh and put the car in gear. She cast her daughter
an exasperated look. “You'd better tell me who he is.”

  Bronwyn crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “Sean Cullen.”

  Deirdre pulled out into the traffic. “The butcher's son.”

  “I love him, Mama.”

  Her mother made no comment, but Bronwyn couldn't overlook the tightening of Deirdre McGregor's hands on the steering wheel or the look of shock in her hazel eyes.

  “Mama, please?” Bronwyn beseeched.

  * * * *

  Deirdre chewed on her lip for a long moment, remembering something her older sister had once said about her own daughter: "When I forbid Siobhan to do something, she always finds a way to do it anyway. Saying no is like waving a red flag at her, like you're daring her to do whatever the heck she wanted to in the first place. Teenage-girls are like that, DeeDee, especially where boys are concerned. Forbid them to see a boy she thinks she can't live without and she'll end up pregnant just to spite you! I've learned to let her date whomever she wants and just hope he does something to show her his true colors before it's too late."

  “Mama?” Bronwyn pressed.

  “This is against my better judgment,” Deirdre said.

  As she pulled in front of the ten-cent store, Deirdre clenched her jaw. She was not good at parallel parking and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she managed to angle her car into the slot.

  Bronnie leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you!”

  She was out of the car before Deirdre could reply.

  * * * *

  He was sitting at the lunch counter when Bronnie entered. He did not look at her as she took the seat beside him. “We'll have trouble with your mother and father,” he said, poking his straw up and down in his Cherry Coke.

  Bronnie nodded. “You may be right.”

  “I know I am and you know it, too.”

  She swiveled her stool to faced him. “How does that make you feel, Sean?”

  He turned his gaze fully upon her. “It doesn't matter. I'm used to people telling me what I can and can't do. What I can and can't have.”

  “What is it you want?”

  He smiled. “To be with you.”

  Bronwyn blushed and ducked her head. “I want to be with you, too.”