Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

  © 2012 Brian Kennelly

  All rights reserved. With the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical reviews, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form whatsoever, printed or electronic, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-61890-390-7

  Cover design by Chris Pelicano.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  Saint Benedict Press

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  2012

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  1

  September 5th, 1995

  AS I stand outside this small, stone church, I can’t help but wonder about all that led to this moment. It isn’t often that a Southern, black man born to Methodist parents finds himself outside a Catholic church, standing in the cool, gusty winds of a Rhode Island harbor town. But that’s where I am.

  I watch as strangers walk past the red, oak doors and into the church, wondering how they were affected by what took place here. I don’t know many of these people, other than the two priests. They both glance at me, and I at them. We smile. We know how we were affected. Their side of the story runs different from mine, but we’re all here today to honor what happened.

  I had a front seat view to the strange phenomenon that occurred three years ago in the early fall of 1992. But my place wasn’t here in Rhode Island; it was down south, where the winds aren’t so cold and fast. The marshes and dunes of Edisto Island, South Carolina also held witness to what happened, in a different sort of way but also the same, and that’s where I better journey back to if I aim to find the seed this story grew from.

  In 1988 I lost my brother Earl to lung cancer. I’d told him a dozen times to kick the tobacco, but he’d never listen to his baby brother, and besides, I was smoking those lung darts too. We’d both lived in Gable, South Carolina our whole lives. It was a pleasant place with more barns than stoplights. I’d always been one for dirt roads instead of paved ones, so I didn’t mind the slow pace of life. But I grew restless after losing Earl. Home didn’t seem like home anymore. It’s funny how that happens. Home is supposed to be a place, but it’s really more about the people.

  I decided I needed to see the ocean on a daily basis. That seemed like the best medication for a lonely man meeting the dawn of his later years, so in my mid-sixties I packed up and moved down to Edisto Island. I found a small house not a ways from the water, leaning toward the crashing waves like the tide had been pulling on it for years. If I were being generous I’d call it a beach cottage, but if I were being honest it was more of a beach shack. When I moved in it was clear the home hadn’t been inhabited in some years. Cobwebs, dust and mold seemed to be the only residents in the last decade or so. Rust gathered on the tin roof like sand on a beach, and the front door was lost to the rot and needed replacing real bad-like. But the home was stationed beyond the oak tree woodland of the island, where the trees ended and gave way to the beach. It was far enough away from the tourists and families with summer homes who’d invaded the island like termites to a barn. In this secluded corner, you could still hear the rustling of tree branches and still let the crashing waves put you to sleep. I would eventually learn the locals joked it was the moss draping the trees which hid us from the tourists, like a blanket of privacy provided by Mother Nature herself. So I didn’t mind so much the condition of my new home; the setting suited me just fine.

  It only took a few hours to move in. A bed, a table, a couch, some chairs and lamps, and a few pairs of overalls weren’t hard to unload. But don’t feel sorry for me; not owning much can sometimes be a blessing rich folk never know of. I settled in on my back porch right as the sun was departing for the night, with a cigarette and Budweiser, content with my solitude until the Grim Reaper came calling in his black cloak. I had all the entertainment I needed as I watched the pelicans dive into the sea in search of dinner. But to my right, in the direction of the only other house in the area, I heard the slam of a screen door. I looked over and saw an older, white man strolling down the steps of his back porch, holding a tackle box and two fishing poles, with a young, yellow lab nipping at his heels closer than a shadow. They walked across his backyard and into mine, just two patches of grass overrun by sand and bits of seashell. As they approached, I looked out over the ocean and pretended not to notice my new neighbor and his dog.

  He stopped just a few feet short of my porch. “Want to go fishin’?”

  The pitch of his voice was deep, but soft. I turned around. “Oh, hi there. I’m Buck Washington. You live next door?”

  I stood up and moved down the steps to shake his hand. After all, if he was nice enough to come over and invite me on a fishing trip, I should at least be cordial before I turned him down.

  He gripped my hand and nodded at his dog. “Walter Henderson, but call me Walt, and this here’s Sam. Want to go fishin’?”

  I looked him up and down, taking in his drooping face, graying hair, and faded clothes. He sized me up as well as I stood before him bare-chested, with my favorite pair of overalls hanging on my shoulders. He was white and I black, but I could tell neither of us gave that any mind.

  “Ya’ know, Walt,” I said as I rubbed Sam on the head and let him lick my hand. “That’s mighty noble of you to invite me, but I’m not really a fisherman. Never really had an interest in it.”

  “All right,” he replied, as if he already knew what my answer would be. “We’ll be down yonder in the cove if you change your mind. Nice little tide pool develops this time a’ day.”

  He and Sam disappeared past the dunes leading to the water as I went back and sat on my rocker. Glancing behind me at my mostly empty and dark house, I wondered why I shouldn’t take the chance to sit with my toes in the sand and enjoy the salty air rising off the sea. I’d told Walt I never had an interest in fishing, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. A few minutes and an empty beer later, I had an unexpected change of heart. I kicked off my shoes and followed the path they’d taken. After rounding a bend in the island, I saw the pair sitting before the water with their backs to me. When I reached them, Walt didn’t even turn ‘round; he just held out his extra pole, and I took it from him. Judging by his wagging tail, Sam seemed glad I had changed my mind.

  Walt, Sam, and I fished for an hour that day. We didn’t say a word to each other and we didn’t catch a fish; just sat on a small bank of sand before a gentle tide pool. Night fell around us, making it easier to see the glow of the fireflies and the sprinkling of the stars against the black sky. When it was time to go we walked back to our separate homes.

  I drifted off to sleep with ease that night as the crickets sang their melodies outside. I had one of the deepest sleeps I can recall that first night in Edisto, but at the break of daylight I was awoken by something I wasn’t expecting.

  Music.

  But not music from a stereo. It had that distinct sound live music has, the way it tickles your ear with a little more meaning. I climbed off my rickety, single-mattress bed and stumbled to the window. I rubbed my eyes to get rid of the blurriness. When I had gathered my wits, I finally saw the source of the music: Walter Henderson was outside on the beach, sitting in a chair and playing a violin, with his dear dog Sam lying ne
xt to him on the sand, as still as a figure in a painting. It took a few moments for it all to register. I thought for a second I may have been dreaming, but I surely wasn’t. I sank back down on my bed and leaned against the wall. Walt’s music drifted around me, as peaceful a sound as I’d ever heard.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I was listening to a man speak with God.

  2

  September 5th, 1995

  AS I stand outside this small, stone church, I can’t help but wonder about all that led to this moment. Many of the people walking past the red, oak doors and into the narthex glance at me and smile, though as a visiting priest I know very few of them. Eventually, I catch the eye of Buck Washington and exchange a nod. I can’t help but smile myself as I recall his Southern charm. The paths which led us to this Rhode Island, harbor town were as different as our accents, but those paths converged today because of what happened in the fall of 1992.

  If there is one thing I know that the common man overlooks, it is that priests are not born priests. There was a time when I was simply Paul Moore; I chose to become Father Paul Moore over ten years ago, in the midst of my early twenties. But just as we are not born into our calling, we may also not die with this white collar around our neck. I once assumed in my youth, perhaps ignorantly, that a priest would never lose sight of his faith.

  Three years ago I learned how wrong I could be.

  I awoke in the pitch of night to a commotion coming from the front of my house. For the last five years I had lived on the campus grounds of Assumption College in Worcester, Massachusetts with my friend and colleague, Father Peter Davis. It was just the two of us in the one-story home, so I assumed the noise was coming from him. At least I hoped it was him and not a stranger.

  I threw on my robe and opened the door to my bedroom. Turning toward the front of the house, I saw Peter standing in the open doorway, a knapsack thrown over his shoulder and dressed in a way I had never seen. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a gray, hooded sweatshirt. When he saw that I had woken up, his expression dropped. He suddenly looked guilty of something.

  “What on earth are you doing, Peter? Where are you going?”

  He shook his head. “I … I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? What are you talking about? Come back inside.”

  “I can’t, Paul.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I mean, I don’t know. Can we just sit outside? Go on a walk or something? I need to get some air.”

  “Why do you need a duffle bag to get some air?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Just hold on. Let me get some shoes and clothes on.”

  I changed quickly and when I returned he was sitting on our front stairs. He rose and together we turned down the street toward the main part of campus. We both knew where we were going. We’d often follow the same path on daily walks around the school, cutting through the campus buildings and circling around the church before coming back up around to our house. The night was dark and cold and it was clear summer was over as the silence between us settled in the autumn wind gusts. I felt that he should speak first but it didn’t appear that he would.

  “What’s going on, Peter?”

  We had taken several steps before he answered.

  “I have to get out of here, Paul.”

  “Out of Worcester?”

  “Out of this life. This isn’t for me anymore.”

  I wished I could’ve said this admission came as a shock, but it didn’t. As Peter’s best friend I could easily see the change that had overtaken him in the last months. He was not the same priest I met five years ago when we both arrived on campus to begin our teaching duties. Just last week I had found him passed out in his bed with an empty handle of vodka sitting on the floor. He was so sick the next day I was forced to replace him at the early morning, student Mass. It was the lowest I had ever seen him, until perhaps tonight.

  “I tried talking to you last week but you wouldn’t open up. I don’t know what you’re going through but I want to help. Why would you try to leave in the middle of the night without talking to me?”

  “Shame, I guess. It’s not like I want to feel like this.”

  “Where were you even going?”

  “Don’t know; anywhere but here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out crumpled cash folded over and held together with a rubber band. “I’ve been stealing this out of the Poor Box in church for the last two months. I was going to buy a Greyhound ticket to wherever this would get me.” My jaw dropped. “Save your lecture,” he mumbled, returning the money to his pocket.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You know you can tell me no matter what it is.”

  He took a deep breath. “Do you remember our mission trip to Costa Rica this past summer?”

  I hesitated, confused. “Yes, of course I do.”

  “I met a child there, a little girl, probably five or six years-old. I learned on our first day she was an orphan. When I tried to find out what happened to her parents, I regretted it. It turns out her father was just a stranger who’d raped her mother, and her mother had killed herself shortly after giving birth to her child. I don’t know why the mother committed suicide, but I assume it was because her life had become unbearable. I know the girl hadn’t eaten in days, and when we left I had no reason to believe she would survive another month.”

  We crossed the street and curved around the Philosophy and Theology building where our classes were taught. I peered up to the second floor window to the office Peter and I shared, taking note of the small statue of the Virgin Mary which sat perched on our windowsill. I liked looking at it throughout the day.

  We circled the building and cut through a courtyard. My mind was racing back to our mission trip and whether or not I had met this little girl.

  “I’m sorry, Peter, I don’t understand. What does this little girl have to do with you picking up and leaving in the middle of the night?”

  “Nothing, really. I guess I just saw something in her. I started to wonder how God could let that happen, how he could let a little girl have that kind of life.”

  “Is this really what you want to talk about? As priests we’ve both had hundreds of conversations with distraught people, trying to explain how God brings goodness out of the tragedies of this world. I’ve heard you counsel people brilliantly on these matters. Why are you all of a sudden questioning God after meeting a little, orphaned girl?”

  “Relax, Paul. To answer your question, I don’t want to talk about this. I’m in no mood for a philosophical conversation about suffering and God’s intentions.”

  Up ahead I could see the silhouette of the church steeple as it rested flush against the moonlit sky. We walked toward it blindly and without thought; we had made this walk a thousand times.

  “What do you want to talk about then?” I asked.

  He hesitated, seemingly lost in thought for a moment.

  “I’m not sure why I became a priest, Paul. If I’m being perfectly honest, I sort of fell into it by necessity rather than by choosing. I’ve never really told you much about my past because there are some things there I’d just as soon forget. You wouldn’t believe what I could tell you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Positive.”

  He nodded, but hesitated again, deciding if he truly wanted to let me in.

  “After I turned eighteen, I found myself out on the streets. My family …” he paused, “let’s just say they weren’t the most loving people, so I ran away from home. This sounds pathetic, but I think it took about two weeks for me to fall into a world of drugs. I was too weak to fight temptations at that point in my life. I slept for a whole month in a crack house, without a single possession to my name except the clothes on my back and the drug pipe in my pocket. It was a dangerous place but it put a roof over my head for a while, until the co
ps came one night and I was on the run.”

  As he spoke, I struggled to digest everything. Hearing this made my best friend seem more like a stranger in only a matter of seconds. I couldn’t imagine Peter, the man and priest I had come to know so well, living through such horrid experiences.

  “I began to frequent a few homeless shelters from time to time,” he went on, “but I kept getting attacked in my sleep by some of the other men there. They were trying to take advantage of my youth and innocence, I suppose, so I left there too. I was as lost as a young man could be and had nowhere to go. I spent six months on the streets before Sister Marie took me in.”

  “I didn’t know that’s how you met Sister Marie,” I said, recalling the framed picture in Peter’s bedroom.

  “That isn’t how I originally met her, but I did live at her convent for about a year.”

  “How did you originally meet her?”

  He didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if on purpose or not.

  “I thought about joining the military since I was of age at that point, and obviously I needed some discipline in my life, but I’ve always had this weak lung thing, asthma type stuff, and I knew that would never work. So Sister Marie started talking to me about the priesthood. Obviously she had a big influence on me going to seminary, but in a lot of ways I wound up there because I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t blame her for the way I feel now, all these years later. It was me who made the final decision, and to tell you the truth for a number of years it did feel like the right decision. I’d have doubts, as anyone might, but during those doubts I’d convince myself I didn’t become a priest just because I had nowhere else to go. I convinced myself I had a good, specific reason for choosing this life.”

  “And what reason was that?”

  “I wanted to make sense of suffering, my suffering, mostly. I thought if I entrenched myself in the work of God, I’d eventually find out why it all happened. A few times I thought I was close to finding an answer, but I never really did.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this before?”