Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

  I wanted to say something to comfort him, but I couldn’t find the words.

  “As the years have gone on, I’ve realized I can’t change what I did. But that doesn’t mean I forgave myself for abandoning my son and treating Olivia so badly in the last months of her life. When I play my violin each morning, I’m asking God and Olivia to forgive me. I ask God to let me have some kind of an effect on my boy’s life in order to make up for what I’ve done.”

  “What do you mean, ‘effect’?”

  “I know it’s damn near impossible, but a man likes to go to his grave knowing he helped his son in every way possible. For me, I just want to help him in any way possible. Olivia knows where our son is and I know she hears my prayers, so I hold out hope that one day I can somehow be a father to my son.” He looked over to me. “You think that’ll ever happen, Buck?”

  “Sure, crazier things have happened.”

  He didn’t seem to believe my words. “Let’s postpone this game. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  He walked back in his house with Sam following. I sat there on the porch for several minutes and stared out over the sea, the moonlight glazing the water like icing on a cake. I wished there was a way I could help my friend, but I was completely helpless.

  8

  WE WALKED toward the front of the small church with the two firemen leading the way. Out of habit, Peter and I both reached over to the Holy Water Font, but the water had evaporated. The tabernacle behind the altar appeared to be empty as well. Father Powell must have removed the Eucharist before locking the doors of the church. As we moved slowly up the center aisle, I felt as though the black suit on my body would melt at any point and burn my flesh. But despite the soaring temperature, the heat didn’t seem to be affecting the structure of the church. The mahogany-paneled walls were not warped, the Stations of the Cross paintings had not melted in any way, and the stained-glass windows were not fogged or distorted at all. I didn’t know how strange this actually was, but a part of me expected to see at least some effects from the temperature being over two-hundred degrees.

  I tried to keep my wits about me, taking in everything I saw and processing information as best I could as we moved past the fifteen or so pews on each side. I couldn’t write anything down at that moment, so I would have to mentally register my observations. I wasn’t even exactly sure what I should be looking for, but I knew immediately that this was not some hoax and was anxious to relay that back to Father Chase in Worcester.

  When we had reached the front steps leading up to the altar, Sergeant Hampton pointed toward the left side of the church. Peter and I took this as our cue to move past them. We hesitated, both waiting for the other to go first, before I gave in and led the way. Despite moving at a snail’s pace, I was panting like a dog and sweating profusely. It was hard to ignore that the heat was becoming almost unbearable. They may have originally used some kind of tool or gadget to gauge where the heat was coming from, but anyone could feel the temperature rise in this part of the church.

  Within a few seconds we had rounded a thick pole bracing the roof and came face to face with the statue, tucked away in a stone enclave on the front wall of the church. As with most statues of Mary, she stood straight up with her arms extended outward, as if waiting to embrace someone standing before her. She wore a white gown that stretched to her feet and a light blue robe thrown over it. Her face was familiar, as it always felt to me. A pool of wax was caked on the ground below a metal rack which normally would’ve held votive candles, one of the few signs that the heat was affecting something other than us. Two kneelers rested in front of the candle rack. I knelt down on one and bowed my head to pray. I expected Peter to do the same, but he didn’t.

  As I stood up, I watched Peter take a step toward the statue and reach for his gloves. I knew what he was thinking. I too felt the need to touch the statue with my bare hand, out of curiosity more than anything else. But just then we heard Sergeant Hampton’s voice snap at us from behind.

  “You can’t do that!” He quickly approached. “Are you crazy? If you take those gloves off and touch the statue it will burn your skin off.” His voice was muffled and sounded eerie through the mask.

  “Can I touch it with my gloves on?” Peter asked.

  “If you think you can stand within a few inches of that thing without backing away, give it a shot.”

  “We may have to move this statue,” Peter replied, mainly talking to me. “We have to be able to approach it.”

  “You two can’t move that thing. It’s far too heavy.”

  “We realize that, Sergeant,” I said to him. “I believe Peter meant higher authorities may have to come in and move it out. At some point we want these people to get back in their church.”

  Sergeant Hampton huffed as he stepped back. Peter and I moved around the metal candle rack and found ourselves at the foot of the statue. I recalled from many of my studies that Marian statue phenomenon’s sometimes had photos to validate them, but I couldn’t see any changes in appearance. A picture could not capture the temperature, and I wasn’t even sure an ordinary camera would work in this heat.

  Peter shuffled his way around to the back part of the statue and peered upward. He placed his hands on it to brace himself, but soon realized he couldn’t keep them there. He quickly released his hands from the statue, instinctively waving them in the air. “Don’t touch it, Paul. It’s too hot.”

  I wanted to respond, but suddenly everything went black. Not a second later I felt myself fall into the candle rack behind me. I tipped it over and fell to the ground.

  Peter scurried back around the statue and grabbed me. “Paul! Paul! Are you okay?”

  I nodded but was too woozy to speak. The two firemen ran over and helped carry me to a nearby pew. I could instantly tell the difference in stepping back from the statue. It was at least twenty degrees cooler.

  I could barely hear my own voice as I tried to assure Peter I was okay. “I’m fine. Really, I am.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have let anyone else in here,” Sergeant Hampton said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “No,” I fired back. “Don’t say that. Let Peter go back to the statue.”

  Sergeant Hampton shook his head in frustration before walking away. When we were alone again, Peter said, “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. What else should I do?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered him. “We already know this is for real, and that’s all Father Chase wanted from us. Just go back to it one more time and see if you can examine it or find anything out of the ordinary. Any information we bring back with us won’t hurt.”

  He patted me on the shoulder and braced himself for another approach. But just as he took a step forward, I heard two noises: a humming jingle and a scuffling on the floor, both distant through the mask on my head, though I could tell Peter and the firemen had heard the strange sounds as well. We turned around, our stunned eyes met by a young man, no older than twenty or so, coming up the right-side aisle. His dress was plain, with a pair of jeans, ragged sweatshirt, a green, athletic headband gripping his forehead, and no protective suit. He swept the floor casually, as if nothing strange was taking place within the walls of this church.

  “Hey, Donald!” Sergeant Hampton yelled. “What’re you doing in here?” The boy did not flinch or acknowledge us in the least. He just kept coming up the side aisle, sweeping and humming his song all the while. “How did you get in here?” Sergeant Hampton barked as he made a move toward him.

  I slowly found my footing and made my way over to where Peter stood at the end of the pew. “What’s going on?” I asked. Peter didn’t answer me. We watched as Sergeant Hampton and Burt eventually came face to face with the young sweeper. The Sergeant threw his hands up and questioned him again.

  “How did you get in here, Donald, and how … how can you be in here without a suit?”

  The boy finally stopped with his sweeping when he realized he could not move forward
anymore. He tried to shift around the large man standing before him, but Sergeant Hampton would not allow it. The unexpected visitor rocked back and forth and swayed his head from side to side, never making eye contact. He began to moan and mutter senselessly.

  “Can I … can I … I must keep it clean …. keep her home clean. Please … please ….”

  “What’re you talking about?” the Sergeant fired back. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

  As he and Burt went to grab him, the boy screamed.

  “Please!! No, no! … I must … clean her floors. No!”

  The two firemen threw the broom aside and dragged him against his will toward the back doors of the church. Peter ran down the center aisle. Not knowing what else to do, I followed. “Don’t hurt him,” Peter yelled as he approached them. “He doesn’t understand.” The boy continued to scream hysterically. Again, Peter pleaded with them. “Stop it! Let him go!”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Sergeant Hampton yelled. “I don’t care if he doesn’t understand.”

  The Sergeant tried to give the impression he was in control, but I could see through his mask that the color had left his face. The mystery of this situation stole the strength from my legs as I followed the commotion to the exit of the church. Sergeant Hampton unlocked the doors and flung them open just as the frightened boy freed himself of their clutches. He awkwardly sprinted into the gravel parking lot straight to a waiting Father Powell. The elderly priest embraced the crying boy as he looked up at us.

  I could tell by Father Powell’s expression that there was more to this phenomenon than he had originally claimed.

  9

  I HAD a plan.

  I hated lying to Walt, but I knew he wouldn’t have approved of what I intended to do. So I told him I was headed to see my nephew for a few days. In truth, I headed clear across the state to Aiken, the town on the Georgia border where Walt’s son was born. The drive entailed three hours of highway cutting between rows of corn, wheat and cabbage. I left early on a Wednesday morning in the spring of 1991, with the radio playing and a hot cup of coffee at my side.

  My decision to meddle hadn’t been instantaneous. After Walt told me the story of his son, I spent almost a whole year trying to think of how I could help. He did his best to convince me that he’d done everything he could to find his child, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try to do my part. With great care and a bit of slyness, I got all the information I could from Walt. In a leather journal I had purchased, I wrote down the name of the hospital, the date and year his son was born, the orphanage in Aiken where the boy was most likely sent, and a few other bits of knowledge I thought could be helpful. Three different times I set out to find the highway before turning around and returning home. I wondered what good my efforts could do for such a hopeless situation, and I also feared I would hurt Walt since I knew he wouldn’t want me digging through his past. But still, my conscious wouldn’t let me rest, and I finally did find the highway in April of 91.

  I pulled off at the Aiken exit about noon on a warm Wednesday. It was a town surrounded by pristine horse pastures and a quaint Main Street lined with shops and restaurants. Before I could do anything, I needed to eat. I ventured in to the local diner and struck up a conversation with an elderly man at the next table who made me look like a young, spring chicken. I told him why I was in town and listened while he gave me directions to the hospital. I figured this was the best place to start.

  When I walked into the hospital lobby, I approached the front desk and told the receptionist why I was there. She informed me with a polite but practiced smile that I needed to speak with someone on the fourth floor in the Social Services department, but before I walked away she asked me what year the child was born. When I told her, she laughed. “I’m sure they keep good records up there, but good luck with that.”

  One hour later, a man named John Hart in Social Services also turned up his nose at me.

  “Nineteen fifty-four?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “On September fifth.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’m not sure they really went the extra mile back then to keep track of stuff like this. Did you say you at least had the child’s name?”

  “I know his father’s name. The fact I got his last name has to help, right? Or at least the last name the child would’ve had.”

  “Not necessarily. When a child is sent to an orphanage or a group home they often don’t keep their family’s name, that’s what makes them orphans.” I stared at him until he shuffled some papers on his desk to avoid my stare. “What was your friend’s name?” he asked.

  “Walter Henderson.”

  “Even if I could find something, we generally don’t give out this kind of information to non-family members. You’ve got to know that.”

  “I understand, sir, however I sure would be grateful for any bit of information you could give me.”

  Mr. Hart took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can dig up if you want to come back tomorrow. In the mean time, I would go across town to the children’s home on Bluff Rd. My secretary can give you the address. Today it’s just a group home for kids we’re trying to get out of abusive situations, but back then it used to be an orphanage and it was probably where your friend’s son was sent. Maybe they’ll have some records you can review.”

  “Home for Little Angels?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “How’d you know that?”

  “My friend gave me the name of that home. He came up here in the mid-sixties to see what he could find. I was planning on going there when I left here, but I will need the address. I’ll grab it from your secretary. Much obliged, sir.” I stood up and shook his hand.

  “If your friend already came here looking for his kid,” Mr. Hart said before I left his office, “what could you possibly do all these years later?”

  I smiled and put my hat back on. “You never know what you’ll find, I reckon. Thanks again, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I left the hospital with directions to the foster home across town. I knew it had probably changed some since Walt visited over twenty years ago, but I assumed it would be in a poorer area of town based on what he’d told me. Turns out my assumption was right when I turned on Bluff Road and encountered abandoned homes, broken street lights, hungry stray dogs roaming the sidewalks, shady men standing on street corners, and buildings covered in graffiti.

  Twenty minutes later, I had left the poverty-stricken neighborhood with nothing positive to show for it. An older lady had come to the door. She hadn’t wanted to let me in and I couldn’t blame her; she probably had strange men knocking on her door all the time. During our short conversation, I heard children running and screaming all about the house. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for this lady. Her face and body looked as rundown as the home she ran. She explained that she had ten kids under her watch and she didn’t have time to help me. She also informed me that the lady who’d run Home for Little Angels in the fifties and sixties, the wife of a Methodist minister and her aunt, had died, and the records from back then were probably lost along with her. And again, if I didn’t have a name, what could I possibly hope to find?

  I checked into a hotel across from the hospital, then ordered a pizza and ate it in bed. In my younger years I would’ve gone into the town in search of fun, but my bones were tired. As I ate my pizza and let the television pass the time, I began to wonder why I’d bothered with any of this. It was foolish to think I could stir anything up by coming to Aiken. I became frustrated with Walt. If only he‘d given his son a name on the birth certificate, or actually signed some paperwork turning him over to the state instead of just walking out of the hospital and into the first bar he saw, there’d be some hope, some paper trail that we could follow. Going to the hospital with only his son’s birthday just didn’t seem like it would be enough, but I stubbornly hadn’t let that set in my mind until I found myself in that motel room.


  Eventually I drifted off to sleep on the lumpy mattress, only to be awoken in the early morning by a maid pounding on the door. After an awkward and brief exchange, I assured her I would be out shortly. I ate a quick breakfast and made my way over to the hospital.

  I knew Mr. Hart would not expect me this early, but I didn’t mind waiting. And wait, I did, for nearly three hours. It was past one o’clock when I finally got word from his secretary that he was ready to see me. The look on his face when I entered his office did nothing to boost my moral.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Washington. Did you enjoy your stay in Aiken last night?”

  “Sure did. This was my first time coming here. You’ve got a great city to call home.”

  “It’s really nothing special. Please, have a seat.”

  I sat in the seat opposite Mr. Hart’s desk. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but everything in his office was made of metal, including the desk, file cabinets, and bookcases. The floor was a bland, vanilla tile and he had no paintings or pictures on his walls. His hollow office made me anxious even in my own skin.

  “I did some research this morning,” he began, “and I still feel like you’re reaching a little far on this.”

  “I understand,” I assured him.

  He opened a file and tilted it sideways, prompting me to lean up in my seat so I could look along with him. “This is a copy of the records of all the children born in this hospital in September of nineteen fifty-four. Because of our policies, I can’t give you any family names, so I’ve blacked those out. But I can tell you that only four were not taken home by their birth parents that month.”