Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

“Come on, Paul. You know me; I’m not one to open up. Besides, who on earth would want to talk about a past like that?”

  I nodded. “You mentioned leaving your family and running away. Why did it come to that? How did it come to that?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “It’s relevant because that’s what started all this for you. To make peace with this you should try to understand the origins of what led you to a life on the run filled with drugs and homeless shelters. You should talk to me about this and go back even further so we can make sense of your suffering, like you said you wanted to do.”

  “I think I’ve said enough already. I don’t want to relive anything else tonight.”

  We circled the church and navigated our way through the garden bordering the west face. The path through the garden was narrow and forced us to walk one behind the other. Once on the back avenue behind the church we turned in the direction of our home.

  “Have you told Sister Marie about this? About you wanting to leave your calling?”

  “Yes, I’ve told her a few times actually. I think she knew I was serious this time.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She took it in stride, like she does everything else.” He suddenly laughed, surprising me considering our topic. “She calls herself the wise, old nun. She said God would bring me back when I was ready, and that if he didn’t, she’d find a way to bring me back herself.”

  I smiled and stuffed my hands in my pockets to avoid the wind. Peter had never told me much about Sr. Marie, but it was clear how important she was to him. I knew that now more than ever. He had once told me she was a family friend, but I began to wonder if that was a lie. I wished I could contact her about Peter and what he was going through, but all I knew of Sr. Marie was that she lived in a convent somewhere down south.

  “I can’t really explain it, but all this kind of came to a head when I met that little girl in Costa Rica this past summer. She made me realize that I hadn’t found an answer to our suffering, to mine or hers or anyone else’s. When that realization hit me, I began to understand that I did just fall into this calling by default. I was looking for a safe roof over my head that would keep me out of trouble, and that’s no reason to become a priest. I justified it back then because I was so desperate, but after a decade in the priesthood I see how out of place I actually am. I never had much faith in God to begin with. I tried to find that faith over the last ten plus years, but it’s just not there. I feel like I’m living a lie. It’s time I leave, Paul. That would be best for everyone, including you. I don’t want you to find me passed out again like you did the other night. I’m afraid the next time you find me it might be worse than that.”

  “You’ve got it backwards, Peter. You’re more likely to be found like that again if you leave. If you stay, we can keep an eye on you. You have to give this some time. You can’t just steal from the Poor Box and take a midnight bus trip to the middle of nowhere.”

  “I have given it time.”

  “But you’re just now telling me about it and I’m one of the people who knows you best, or at least I thought I did. Why can’t you stay for a while and let me counsel you, let me help you with what you’ve been through. I can help you make sense of this if you’ll just let me in. You’re forgetting how good a priest you are. I have to help you see that so you’ll realize you are meant for this life.”

  “I appreciate that, Paul, I really do. You are a good friend. But we’re past that at this point. I feel like you trying to help me will only make me want to leave even more.”

  “A week, just give me a week to pray and think this over. You can’t just leave.”

  We were nearing our house and walked in silence until reaching our front steps. Peter picked up his duffle bag which he’d left on the front stoop and threw it over his shoulder. I thought for a second he would take it and leave, but instead he reached back into his pocket and handed me the money.

  “Will you put this back in the Poor Box tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  He reached for the door and turned the knob. “Okay, Paul. I’ll stay for another week.”

  3

  OVER THE next few days in the calm of the early evenings, Walt and I fished some more. That was about the only activity we did together. But each trip down to the tide pool didn’t differ much from that first day; we rarely spoke and we didn’t catch much.

  When I wasn’t with Walt, I spent some time wandering the rest of the island, admiring the low country views and meeting the other locals, including a few old ladies down the dirt road a ways. They were kind-hearted and I enjoyed flirting with them, but I had a hard time tolerating their chit-chat. I had a better chance of stopping a hurricane coming in off the sea than I did putting an end to their long-winded stories.

  I went to town and tried to eat lunch at some of the restaurants. The food was good, but I couldn’t relax with the young people hopping around all about me. They spoke fast, laughed loudly, and at times it seemed they’d come from another planet. It didn’t take me long to realize I should go to the market and bring my food home with me in order to keep my sanity.

  At night I fixed some fine dinners: fried catfish, oysters, shrimp n’ grits, Brunswick stew, and even the simpletons like hotdogs and burgers. I read those books I had always wanted to read, the ones I’d been meaning to get to for about thirty years. I sat on my porch and looked at the stars reflecting off the Atlantic, and watched as the tides obeyed the moon.

  And when the night had come and gone, I always woke up to Walt stirring the morning air with his violin.

  If you knew how much I enjoyed my rest, you’d think I might hold some resentment toward him for waking me up each morning. But if you heard him play just one note on that wooden instrument, you might understand why I didn’t mind so much. I heard him joke once that his fingers had begun to feel like they were stuffed full of nickels, but I swear the way he played with those stiff fingers caused the angels to stop midflight and have a listen. Each one of his notes hung in the air like the pleasant smell of a daisy. Some days I watched him from my window, enjoying the sunrise right along with his music. Other days I merely lay in bed and listened as I stared at my cracking ceiling. And still other times I would somehow find Walt’s music woven into my sleep. His songs on the beach were the perfect transition from a fine dream to the beginning of a new day, though sometimes I wasn’t quite sure when my dream had ended and my rising had begun.

  After several invitations from Walt to go fishing, I realized I needed to return his hospitality. I decided to invite him over for dinner one evening when the summer air was just arriving. But as I went about my tiny kitchen pondering what I could prepare, I realized there was a problem: I only owned one set of dishes. Only one plate, one set of silverware, one bowl, and one cup. I liked it this way because it forced me to do the dishes after each meal. It also saved some cabinet space for books and what not.

  This was going to be a problem, and could potentially be downright embarrassing. Still, I had to invite him. I moseyed on over to his back porch right before sundown, walking below tall, fluffy clouds that looked like whipped butter stacked high on top of pancakes. I climbed the rickety, wooden steps of his house for the first time and looked around. Given the small holes in the floor and the nails not hammered into the wood quite enough, I suspected Walt had built the porch himself. Two rocking chairs pointed out toward the water with a small table in between them. On top of the table rested a faded checkerboard weathered by the salty air. I immediately wondered who Walt played with; I’d never seen a soul visit him.

  I heard a slight tapping coming from the other side of the porch and glanced down that way to see Sam lying on a small, dusty rug next to the screen door. He must’ve been tired ’cause he didn’t get up, but he did give me the courtesy of wagging his tail; made a nice little rhythm as it whipped against the porch floor. I strolled over and gave him a pat on the head.

  �
��Hey there, Sammy. You had a good, long day, have ya’?” Sam lifted his head and gave me a sniff, approving of my scent as he normally did, until a squirrel suddenly scurried by in the mulch just off the porch. Sam quickly rose and chased it up a tree, returning to my side a moment later with that sense of accomplishment dogs have after frightening off an inferior critter.

  “Is that you, Buck?”

  I squinted through the haziness of the screen door and saw Walt. “Yeah, it’s me, neighbor.”

  He opened the creaky door. “What can I do for ya’?”

  “Well, to repay you for taking me fishin’, I thought I’d cook you dinner. You want to come on over and have a bite?” He didn’t say a word. “Ole’ Sammy here can come to.” Sam jumped up and licked Walt’s hand. We both laughed.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “That sounds real nice.”

  “Okay, great! Why don’t y’all come on over in a few; that’ll give me a chance to get things goin’ on the grill.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I was half way down the steps before I had to stop. “Oh, and Walt?”

  “Yeah?” he replied as he reopened the screen door.

  “Uh, I know this might sound strange, but can you bring over a plate a set of silverware?”

  “Sure,” he replied, as if I had asked him the simplest question in the world. “But I’ll have to wash them first; I only got one set. I’ll be over in a bit.”

  I chuckled before walking away.

  I got my charcoal grill lit up and threw some burgers on just as Walt and Sam strolled over. He held his dishes in a plastic bag, but also carried a brown paper bag with him. “Brought you some syrup,” he said. I was confused at first. No sane man puts syrup on his cheeseburger. But I understood his slang when he pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. “My mama always said to bring someone a gift when you come to his house for a dinner party, but that’s about all I have to give. Besides, we’ll put a hurtin’ on it tonight.”

  We both laughed in agreement, although we decided to start out with a couple beers while the burgers cooked. We spoke some about our pasts, but I found myself doing most of the talking. I told him about a cross country trip I took years ago with my brother, Earl, before he passed. Walt took great interest in the story since he’d never been on such a vacation. His eyes widened when I told him about driving through the beauty of the Great Plains in Kansas and Oklahoma, and seeing the Rocky Mountains rise up in the distance before watching them fall into the Pacific in California. I also told him some about Earl and our years as auto mechanics in Gable.

  I was able to learn a little about Walt’s life when he told me about his service in the war, but for the most part he didn’t give the impression he wanted to talk about his past. I wasn’t sure if he was being polite, or he just didn’t enjoy talking about himself.

  We found common ground when we talked about the island: the old ladies down the dirt road, the young people, the tourists, and of course, the weather. We were old men, after all. Despite his private nature and initial gruffness, I enjoyed watching the layers fall off Walt as he got to know me. His laugh was epic, contagious in its sound and the way it made you feel as you laughed alongside him, and he was a great listener; one of those people who genuinely makes you feel like he’s interested in what you’re saying. This was a talent I felt that humanity underrated.

  When the burgers were cooked proper we sat down on the porch steps to eat. I put some water in our two cups, laid out the condiments, and scooped some of the mac’n cheese I’d prepared on our plates. We didn’t forget Sam either. He had part of a cooked patty and a bowl of water right there next to us. The sun had disappeared but it wasn’t night yet. In the sky you could still see glimmers of light sprinkling the clouds as they grazed above. A gentle, summer wind blew by at all the right moments to cool us off and wisp away the mosquitoes.

  After our dinner had settled, we drank a few more beers and took some swigs of Walt’s syrup. It wasn’t long before Walt had an idea.

  “How about we go to my porch and play some checkers?”

  “Yeah, I saw your board. When was the last time you played?”

  “Gosh, seems like a week before never, but I suppose it’s been about ten years. I sure do miss it. It’s my favorite game.”

  “If it’s your favorite game, why hadn’t you played in ten years?”

  “Hadn’t found the right person to play with.”

  I smiled.

  Walt, Sam and I carried the Jack Daniels to Walt’s porch and settled in. To cover up some of the bitterness of the liquor, Walt went and got a small cooler and filled it with beer and ice. He had no light outside, so he lit his lantern and placed it on the floor next to our feet. Between that and the glow of the stars, we had just enough light to see the checkerboard, which sat on a wobbly, wooden table. We played two matches and split victories. We drank more beer and liquor. We got downright drunk and laughed like goons at stupid, old-man jokes, with the moon hanging over the ocean being the only witness to our stupidity. It was a little past midnight when we started the third and final game. The mood grew tenser with each move, both of us knowing this was the championship. Then, I did something foolish, though at the time I didn’t know it would be so foolish.

  I asked Walt a question.

  It was a simple question, one I thought was harmless. But I suppose my drunken state caused me to think it was more harmless than it actually was.

  “Say, Walt,” I said after making a move, “why is it you go out on the beach in the mornin’ and play that violin a’ yours?” Walt didn’t flinch. He stared down at the board intently, as if his next move would decide the fate of his life. After he had made his move, I repeated my question. “Why do you play your violin in the mornings, Walt?” Again he ignored me. I made a quick move without thinking. “You gunna answer my question, Walt? I know ya’ hear me.” He quickly capitalized on my bad move and took one of my men. He placed the chip on top of my other fallen chips and looked to me with eyes I had not yet seen from him.

  “You ain’t quite there yet, Buck.”

  I made another foolish move.

  “What does that mean? It’s only a simple question.”

  “Are you going to take this game seriously? That’s the second boneheaded move you’ve made in a row.” Walt jumped my man and landed on the last row of squares. “Now king me.”

  I placed a chip atop the one that had landed on my back row, giving him a tall and mobile king. But I didn’t much care about the game anymore. “I’ll be able to concentrate on the game if you at least give me a reason for why you don’t want to answer my question.”

  “Time just ain’t right yet. All good things in time.”

  I puffed my chest, making another quick move in the game. This time it wasn’t a bad one. Walt settled back in to the game and pondered his next move. But I couldn’t let go of our other topic. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see—”

  “Drop it or the game’s over.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue when he snapped at me. I decided to call his bluff. “Maybe the game should be over then.”

  Walt stood up, grabbed his cup of whisky and headed for his screen door. “Come on, Sam,” he said as he opened the door. The frightened dog knew Walt meant business as he scurried into the house with his tail between his legs. I sat there alone on Walter Henderson’s back porch, with nothing but a checkerboard and lantern to keep me company. I didn’t move for about ten minutes, thinking Walt would come back outside at some point. But he never did.

  I stumbled back home and climbed into bed. I couldn’t imagine why my question had sparked such a tense response from Walt. But as I continued to think about it, I eventually passed out.

  A few hours later, I awoke to the sound of Walt playing his violin.

  4

  MY CONVERSATION with Peter weighed on me over the next twenty-four hours. I slept with a sensitive ear, wondering if I would hear our front door open and close again, signaling Pete
r’s departure from my life forever. When I was able to fall asleep, I experienced a nightmare. I saw that little girl from Costa Rica who Peter had told me about. She walked out of a village set ablaze with fire, slowly approaching me as other panicked villagers ran wildly in the background. The scene was chaotic, but I could hear her clearly as she whispered into my ear the same question Peter had asked. “How does God let this happen?” I’d wake up in a hot flash before I could answer with sweat drenching my body. Each time this happened I was disappointed; I wondered what answer my subconscious self would give to such a question.

  I prayed for guidance on how to reach Peter but found no answers. He went about his daily duties just as he had done for the last several years, but he barely spoke a word and behaved like a zombie. I knew at any point I could return to our home and his belongings would be gone.

  Three days after the night he nearly left, an unexpected envelope appeared underneath our office door. We were both working at our desks when it came flying into the room. We looked at each other.

  “I’ll do the honors,” I said as I rose from my desk.

  “Take a look out the door,” Peter suggested.

  I picked up the envelope and opened our door. The school hallway was empty and dark, with only a thin layer of dust on the tile floor and a light flickering with fragile life from the ceiling. “No one out there,” I informed him. I opened the white envelope and read the letter folded up inside. “It says we’re supposed to go see Father Chase in the morning—at six, before we go to breakfast.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  I handed Peter the letter and leaned up against my desk.

  “That’s strange,” he said after confirming what I had read.

  I lay in bed that night trying to think of what our upcoming meeting could be about. I wondered if it had to do with what Peter and I had spoken about last week, but I didn’t think he had said anything to anyone else, and surely I wouldn’t be involved in such a meeting.