None of the townspeople aside from St. Andrew’s parishioners, who all kept mum about the boys living in the rectory, bothered with the hill. To residents of Holly the hill might as well have been on the moon.
Thus it was not surprising that this was the first time since Jonas left six years ago that Captain Ransom had occasion to find himself back on the hill. He and Mr. Hartley walked into Sue Ellen’s room with the two police officers at their heels. The Captain removed his hat as he entered.
“Hello, young lady,” he said.
When Ransom then rounded her bed and sat on its edge, she recoiled. She didn’t trust any man right now, and Sue Ellen wanted nothing more at that moment than for these police officers to go away.
“He’s here to help you, honey,” said her father, as though he were talking to a newborn kitten that had gotten tangled in briars.
“I just need to know one thing, Sue Ellen,” said Ransom. “Did you actually see Billy Norwin attack you?”
Ransom got Swell’s attention immediately by his blunt question.
“Of course she saw him, Captain!” Walt shouted. “I mean, his head was bleeding, and she had his skin and blood under her nails.”
Ransom replied, “There’s no way of telling that the blood and skin under your daughter’s fingernails are Norwin’s.”
“What are you saying? That kid was injured, no doubt because my daughter was able to fight him off.”
“That could be a coincidence. You know how kids get hurt all the time. Anything could’ve done that to the Norwin boy.”
Swell zoned out, staring into blankness and listening to her father arguing with Ransom.
“Your daughter still hasn’t answered my question,” Ransom said to Mr. Hartley.
Sue Ellen swiftly snapped out of her stupor. She thought that, if she confessed that it wasn’t Billy, they’d then ask her who she thought the rapist to be. She’d have to tell them she didn’t know because her assailant’s face was covered by a hideous mask of a deformed pig. Then they’d probe even further. They’d ask where it happened. And if she told them the truth about being below the rectory, naked and waiting to have sex with a boy, her father would lose all respect for her. Billy was an ideal scapegoat on whom to place all the blame.
“Sue Ellen?” asked Captain Ransom. “Can you tell me that it was Billy Norwin for sure?”
“Yes, it was Billy,” she said softly.
“You’re sure?” Ransom replied.
“Of course she’s sure!” Mr. Hartley interjected. “Why the hell would she say it if she weren’t sure? It’s an open and shut case!”
Ransom paid Hartley no mind. “Sue Ellen, did he just beat you, or did he do something worse?”
“CAPTAIN, THAT’S ENOUGH!” erupted Hartley. “I called you up here because my daughter has been assaulted. I never said anything about… .”
“Okay, forget that last question,” interrupted Ransom, “but I want you to be sure, Sue Ellen. Because if you are, young Billy Norwin is going to be in a lot of trouble.”
Swell felt sorry for Billy, but she wasn’t going to risk her relationship with her father and the ridicule of the whole town just for him. “Yes, it was Billy Norwin,” she said and turned around in her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
Ransom thanked Sue Ellen for her time and excused himself. He and the two officers were led down the stairs by Mr. Hartley.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Hartley,” said Ransom. As he and the two accompanying officers started down the porch stairs, Captain Ransom stopped and turned back to Sue Ellen’s father. “One more thing, Mr. Hartley. When you saw Billy Norwin, did he have any visible wounds?”
“His head was bleeding good and proper.”
“How about the rest of his body?”
“No, not really.”
“No marks, no scratches?” asked Ransom.
“None that I could see,” said Hartley. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing. Good evening, Mr. Hartley.”
Captain Ransom and the two officers walked back down “The Path to Salvation” a minute later. The first officer asked Ransom, “Sir, why did you seem so reluctant to believe the girl’s story?”
Ransom took another cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket. “Well,” he began, “when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you see the signs.”
“Signs?” asked the other officer…
“That’s right,” Ransom replied. “Signs.”
“I don’t know, Captain,” said the first officer. “Like he said, it seems like an open and shut case.”
Ransom took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. “It just doesn’t make much sense. Her father said he found her sitting in the tub. Why would she run to bathe herself after an assault? And she wouldn’t even look at me when she had a chance to nail the son of a bitch for what he’d done. It was as though she were protecting someone. I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“Maybe she’d been so beaten up by the kid that she didn’t want to look another man in the eye,” observed the second officer.
“Yeah?” said Ransom. “And when do females behave like that? When they’ve been violated, right?”
The two officers nodded.
“Our girl isn’t being completely honest with us,” Ransom continued. “And if she’s lying about what happened to her, my guess is that she’s probably also lying about who did it. I mean, she really shied away from me when I asked her whether Billy Norwin was responsible.”
“Maybe she just likes Billy Norwin so much,” suggested the first officer, “that she doesn’t wanna get him into any trouble, despite the fact that he beat the shit out of her. You know how girls are. When they have the hots for a boy, it’s hard for them to see their faults.”
“Yeah,” added his counterpart. “And if she was raped, couldn’t Billy Norwin still have done it?”
“I don’t know how you have sex, Lupin, but when a girl scratches a boy so bad during sex that she gets his skin and blood under her nails, it ain’t from his scalp.”
As the officers made their way down the hill, Zachary Black, known to everyone as Jack White, finally emerged, bare-chested, at the top of “The Path to Salvation.” He watched as Ransom and the two policemen got smaller and smaller until they were finally out of sight. The sun was almost down, and a strong breeze started to kick up on the hill. Black slowly took the long-sleeve shirt he’d been holding and put it back on, feeling a dull pain from the scratches that scored his back. He ignored it, as he did any pain he’d ever felt, and smiled his crooked smile, as he watched the sun finally set in the distance, signaling the close to another Saturday.
Twenty-Four
Things That Fall Apart Stay Broken
Father Poole had a lot of time on his hands. Although it had been a week since Sue Ellen’s attack, and all had been quiet, Phineas was feeling increasingly uneasy. It wasn’t just what had happened to the Hartley girl but how lately everything was collapsing around him like a house of cards next to an open window during a hurricane.
It greatly pained the priest to think that all his sacrifices might end up in vain, as matters on the hill appeared to be worsening by the day. It was becoming painfully clear to Father Poole that he might not be able to continue to pull off the charade of the existence of the Benson Home or keep the church and rectory financially afloat.
Church attendance was again drastically down. Sunday’s collection tally had thus dwindled to almost nothing. Moreover, Billy Norwin had been forced to leave the hill for God only knew where. Father Poole checked the south side of the maple every day for a message from Billy, but as yet there was none. Meanwhile there was the pressure of Captain Ransom’s ongoing investigation. When Ransom came up to the Ha
rtley residence for two follow-up interviews, he carefully investigated St. Andrew’s and its rectory in hopes of finding something that might lead him to the truth about Sue Ellen’s attack. Even after a week she was still not cooperating. She had only offered a lie to the policeman, accusing Billy Norwin of assaulting her. Ransom still found this to be farfetched.
The worst development for Father Poole, however, was that the love of his life was apparently dying, and he couldn’t be with her as often as he wanted. Given recent events, too much time away from the hill was just not feasible, and there was no one whom he could fully trust to watch over the church and the children in his absence. Mrs. Keats was too feeble to be trusted for more than an hour or so, and Jack White had his own duties around the grounds that occupied him constantly. So Phineas was resigned to telephoning Sister Ignatius as often as he could, but many times he was told that she was asleep.
In his office Father Poole leaned back in his chair, put his right foot up on the desk, and crossed it with the left. He removed a rubber band from the bundle of papers sent by the archdiocese that he had to peruse before his sermon the following Sunday. He had just begun reading when a reference to Bishop John Ramsey caught his eye. He reflected on the man so named, partly because his heart was not into sermon-writing today.
Of the three bishops during Father Poole’s tenure at St. Andrew’s, two were pleasant and affable, showing an abundance of personality. The first, Archibald Kanter, had been highly congenial to Father Phineas, who at the time had just been appointed to the parish of St. Andrew’s. Bishop Kanter was especially fond of performing card tricks and taught several to the young priest. When this mentor suffered a massive stroke in 1927, he was replaced by an equally friendly sort, Ronald Rivers. The new Bishop had tried, albeit without success, to teach the mechanically challenged Father Poole how to drive an automobile. Both of these men were what Phineas thought of as “the right kind to lead.” Unfortunately, however, Bishop Rivers didn’t last long either. In 1933 he was accused of gambling away money from the diocese on horse-racing.
The successor was the antithesis of his two predecessors in terms of congeniality. Bishop John Ramsey was a hard, austere, dull man not given to long conversations or small talk. Generally speaking, he was insipid, pompous, mean-spirited, and envious. An even worse trait in Father Poole’s eyes, however, was Bishop Ramsey’s indifference to those in need.
Phineas discovered this quite early in Ramsey’s tenure when he visited the new bishop on a matter of great importance.
“Congratulations on your new appointment, Excellency,” said Father Poole, kissing Ramsey’s ring.
“Do be seated, Father,” replied Ramsey, who was carefully scrutinizing the priest in an attempt to find something wrong with him. The Bishop sat back in his chair and paid scant attention to Phineas’s first fifty or so words, still trying to detect the slightest imperfection in his subordinate’s person or conduct.
“And I believe,” Father Poole was saying, “that these children can benefit greatly from shelter in my church. I ask only… .”
“Father,” Ramsey interrupted.
“Yes, Excellency?”
The Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of a name is Poole? It certainly is an uncommon name for a Catholic.”
Father Poole chuckled nervously, trying to find a humorous response. “Yes, it is actually. It’s British, I believe. My Father was a Congregationalist turned atheist. My mother, born in Ireland, raised me as a Catholic, much to the chagrin of my father’s side of the family.”
“Because those on your father’s side were WASPS,” Ramsey said bluntly.
“Yes, you can say that.”
“I did say that, Father.”
Phineas bowed his head for a second to recompose himself. This interview wasn’t going as planned. He knew that he needed to get the Bishop’s consent for the Benson Home for Abused and Abandoned Boys if it were going to happen legitimately.
“Irish,” Ramsey said in a louder voice than earlier. “My family’s roots are in Scotland.”
“Well now!” rejoined Father Poole, attempting a jovial tone. “The land of St. Andrew, just like my church.”
“My ancestors, before coming to this country, fought your people!” announced Ramsey.
“I’m not sure I follow you, Excellency.”
“I mean your Protestant ancestry,” replied Ramsey. “I’m one hundred percent Scottish stock on my father’s side as well as my mother’s. And both sides were Catholic. My people fought off those Presbyterian bastards and didn’t give in to their Calvinist heresy!”
“I believe,” said Phineas, “that my father’s ancestors belonged to the Church of England. They were, in other words, Anglicans.”
“I’m aware of what the Church of England is, Father, and what its followers call themselves. I’m simply referring to all those Protestant bastards.”
Father Poole leaned forward in his chair, galvanized by a sudden burst of courage. “That’s all well and good, Excellency, but I don’t see what it has to do with my reason for being he… .”
“DON’T INTERRUPT ME, IMPUDENT PRIEST!” exploded the Bishop.
This time Father Poole didn’t say a word.
“Now, as I was saying,” continued Ramsey. “My people didn’t sell out. They didn’t flee to Ireland, though that would have been the easiest thing for them to do. No! They stayed and fought to keep the true faith of their forefathers, to remain steadfast and true to their Catholicism. They faced adversity and dealt with it. They didn’t run. I am only glad that your Irish mother had sense enough to raise you as a Catholic.”
Father Poole waited a few moments so as not to appear to be interrupting the Bishop. “Unfortunately,” he ventured, “my mother passed away some time ago.”
Phineas expected that the man would offer a word or two of condolence. Not surprisingly, however, he did not. Father Poole thus took it upon himself to revert to the topic that he’d come to discuss in the first place.
“I don’t know whether you heard me before, Excellency, but I am here on business of a most important nature. You see, there are these chil… .”
“I’m a Scot and a Catholic,” nattered Ramsey. “Now just think how few of us there are, Father. My grandparents on my mother’s side came to this country and gave birth to her in this very city. My father came here as a child. Marrying a Scottish Catholic was paramount to them both. Had I married instead of joining the Church, I’d have chosen the same as my parents.”
Father Poole thought, What the hell am I doing here? Clearly this man is on another planet, and he obviously doesn’t like me or anything not Scottish Catholic for that matter.
Phineas took a deep breath and made one last attempt to bring up the matter of the abused boys currently residing at St. Andrew’s. “Excellency, there are these boys. They are fine boys, but they come from horrendous backgrounds. They’ve been severely mistreated and abused. I would like to open up a home for them within the confines of my church. There’s ample room in the rectory, which to the casual observer could pass for a hotel.”
Ramsey brought his fingertips together and inhaled deeply. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.
“I-I beg your… .”
“Don’t you know that this country is in a deep depression?”
“Y-Yes, Excellency, I… .”
“And don’t you realize the project you’re talking about would require money?”
“Yes, Excellency, but I wouldn’t simply look at it like… .”
“And are you aware that this diocese does not have abundant funds like other archdioceses such as Boston and New York?”
“I understand, Excellency.”
Father Poole once again bowed his head and began twisting a ring on his finger. It was one he’d had made and it closely resembled the ring his mo
ther had given him when he’d entered the seminary; the same ring with which Zachary Black had absconded.
Remembering the original ring’s inscription, he thought of his mother again. She had her faults, he thought to himself, but how I loved her.
Father Poole lifted his head and smiled as best as he could. “Thank you for your time, Excellency.” He then rose, but Ramsey remained seated. The priest offered the Bishop his hand. Ramsey reciprocated by offering Phineas his ring, which the priest kissed.
Father Poole, still in a daze in his office, played with the rubber band and recalled what happened after the disastrous meeting with Bishop Ramsey. During the thirty-mile return bus ride to Holly, Phineas had begun stroking the replica of the ring given him by his mother and thought back to his childhood, something he didn’t like to do. Before the bus made its first stop in Derry, Father Poole was fast asleep.
He dreamed that he was in his office at St. Andrew’s. The year was 1926. He had just come back from a trip into town to get the mail, first delivering Ben Benson’s letters. As usual there was no correspondence for Sister Ignatius or Mrs. Keats. Among the rest was the usual weekly missive from Father Brian Leonard, a good friend of Phineas’s at St. Luke’s; a card from Mrs. Hillard, most likely thanking St. Andrew’s for her husband’s recent funeral; a letter from Dolores Pennywhistle, probably a reminder about the Fourteenth Annual Holly Orphanage Picnic; and an envelope whose return address read R. Poole, M.D., 35 Faulkner Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. A chill came over Father Poole when he saw the last item. He slid his finger underneath the seal and scanned the letter.
April 23, 1926
Dear Phineas,
My boy, it’s been far too long. I know we have this thing standing between us, and we have much to sort out and talk about, but I think it’s terrible for a son not to want to speak to his own father. I remember seeing you at your mother’s funeral. Have you forgiven her and not me? During all that time you kept in contact with her, despite how she treated us both.
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