Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

  “Only four, ya’ say?”

  “Yes, sir. Now, a lot of times the scenarios are completely different when things like this happen, just as they were back in nineteen fifty-four. Sometimes the family comes to the hospital knowing they don’t want to keep the child, and hopefully they already have plans for what they want to do. It’s nice to see the adoptive family come for the birth because you know that child is in good hands. But occasionally, we’ll have a single mother, perhaps a young girl, who will sneak out of the hospital without her baby, just completely abandon it because she didn’t want the child.”

  “That’s terrible,” I replied, even though I knew this was not much different than what Walt had done.

  “It happens more than you’d think. In these cases, if we can’t find next of kin, we can only sign the children over to the state, at which point they’re sent to a group home where they’re given names and taken care of until we can place them in a more permanent foster home or work out an adoption. Of course, that could be years later, especially back in the fifties when the procedures for these types of situations were a work in progress. Some kids may have spent five or more years at a place like the one you went to yesterday. Back then they were called orphanages and today group homes, but they’re very much the same thing, or at least that’s my own personal opinion. I assume you did make it over to Home for Little Angels?”

  “I did. It was a very tough place to see.”

  “It is, but we’re lucky it’s there. Now, it sounds like your friend’s case was a bit of a unique situation. You said he didn’t want the child, but he didn’t have an adoption set up?”

  “That’s right. He originally would’ve loved to have a son, so he definitely wouldn’t have set up an adoption ahead of time. But his wife died in child birth, ya’ see, and he resented the baby for what happened. He left in a fit of anger without taking the boy home or signing any paperwork.”

  “I see. What was her name? Henderson?”

  I nodded. He flipped through another stack of papers, but gave me the impression I wasn’t supposed to see what he was looking at this time. “Olivia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Uh-huh, says she died in childbirth, but as you might expect, it says the child’s name is unknown and it doesn’t say where he was sent. In our current environment we’d have to report that information more strenuously, but as I told you yesterday, things weren’t so efficient back then. I guess your friend’s son could have been sent to the Home for Little Angels. I see here,” he said, looking to yet another set of records, “we signed two boys over to the state in September of that year. What did they tell you over at the home? Did they have a record of any boys coming in around that time, or where they could have been sent once they received a new family?”

  I sighed. “They couldn’t help me. I don’t think they really keep records over there at all. I got the impression that once a kid gets dropped off, they just make sure he doesn’t die before a family can come and claim him.”

  Mr. Hart nodded. I was about to thank him and be on my way, but he had one last bit of information for me. “There was one other thing I found out from a little, tiny footnote on our papers from that year. I didn’t even see it until a few minutes before you came in here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, nowadays, children left by their parents are going to be sent to some kind of home within state lines. It just wouldn’t make sense with funding issues and varying state laws to ship a kid born in South Carolina to a home in North Carolina or Virginia or wherever. It would cause too many complications. But it says here at the bottom,” he continued, pointing to a paper in his file, “that from nineteen fifty to nineteen fifty-five, because of overcrowding, hospital authorities were allowed to send a child to this place outside Atlanta. I suppose with all those baby-boomers there were a lot of kids coming to us around that time, needing a home and an adoptive family. I don’t know anything about this place, but they must have had some kind of program set up where our people here in Aiken could feed the kids into Georgia. Atlanta is such a big city that they may have had more places available for children like your friend’s son, and it’s really not that far down the road. I wasn’t around, but I’m guessing things weren’t as complicated back then, so sending kids across state lines wasn’t as big a deal. They were just looking for anywhere a roof could be put over their heads. I’m not sure we could get away with that in today’s environment.”

  Mr. Hart held out a sheet of paper and I looked at it. There was a name and address:

  Sisters of Charity Orphanage

  3434 Winding Grove Way

  Sandy Springs, GA 30328

  Walt had not mentioned this place when he told the story of trying to track down his son’s whereabouts. Whoever had helped him twenty-five years ago must have overlooked what Mr. Hart had found.

  “May I have a copy of this address?”

  “You may, but let me warn you that I don’t know for sure if the boy you’re looking for was sent there. We just know it was an option during the year he was born. But of course, we also had options to send him across town or even somewhere else in the state that might have had an opening.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I don’t have a phone number for this place or even know if it’s still there. A lot of orphanages were shut down in the seventies, so it very well could be an empty building at this point.” I sat still, waiting for him to write down the address. “But then again, maybe it’s still there, just like Home for Little Angels here in Aiken is still around. And if it is there, maybe they’ll have some information that could help you.”

  Mr. Hart wrote down the address for me and I thanked him. Back outside, I settled on a bench beneath an elm tree. Birds chirped, car horns sounded, and people walked by, all going about their lives as they did each day. But I ignored it all. I stared at the address in my hands as various thoughts ran across my mind.

  I wondered if I could track down an Atlanta phone book or call information in search of the home, but something I’d never felt before churned at my insides, something that told me this adventure of mine was not quite over yet. It became clear that I had to journey to Atlanta and follow this lead. I had to actually go there and see what awaited me with my own eyes. Besides, I was a retired, old man, what else did I have to do this week? I reached for my keys, hopped in my truck and sought a west-bound highway.

  10

  I GATHERED my thoughts and emotions as best I could while Father Powell escorted the frightened boy to a nearby car. After removing his protective suit, Sergeant Hampton relocked the church doors before running into the parking lot, hollering and demanding that he be told what was going on. Burt followed his boss like a frightened puppy, still shaken by the incident. Fr. Powell gently placed the boy in the backseat and shut the door, then did his best to calm down both the firemen as he led them back towards their truck. I assumed the elderly priest was trying to give an explanation for this unexpected episode with the boy, but I couldn’t be sure, as Peter and I were both still struggling to remove our own suits and remained perched on the church steps some twenty yards away. When we had finally shed them, I said, “Should we go over there?”

  “I don’t think so,” Peter replied. “Let’s wait here for Father Powell.” I agreed with Peter as I took in the dumbfounded expressions of the firemen.

  I turned toward the sea, noticing the dwindling daylight for the first time. A powerful wind flew in off the bay, chilling me as it dried my perspiration from earlier. We watched as the firemen packed up their things in only a matter of minutes and drove off, not even bothering to retrieve the suits Peter and I had worn. Father Powell left the boy in his car and approached us.

  “Will you take a walk into the garden with me?”

  We followed him around to the other side of the church, out of sight from the parking lot and through a set of white, garden gates. Father Powell led us to a pair of benches opposite
one another where we all sat down, Peter and I on one and he on the other. A fountain rested between us with a faint trickle of lazy water falling into a gentle pool, barely heard over the crashing waves reverberating against the cliffs in the distance. A decorative street lamp rose up past our heads with ivy wrapped tightly around it, providing just enough light to make out our surroundings.

  We waited for Fr. Powell to speak, but he didn’t. He sat with his head down, his hands clasped together like he was praying. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “Is that boy okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. I gave him a book to flip through.” Fr. Powell took a deep breath and finally raised his eyes to meet ours. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Donald. I planned on telling you eventually, but I didn’t know he would be in there today.”

  “How did he get in there?” I asked. “And how did the heat not seem to affect him?”

  “I can only answer one of those questions.”

  When he didn’t go on, Peter said, “Please …”

  “Donald is a good kid,” he began. “He has something called Fragile X Syndrome. Have you have heard of that before?”

  Peter and I both shook our heads.

  “I hadn’t either, until I met Donald, but I still don’t understand everything about it. The best I can tell you is that it’s a little like Autism, and it tends to affect boys much more than girls. He struggles with some day-to-day things that we all take for granted. It’s hard to get through to him, as I’m sure you just realized. He has to get to know you; that’s why he panicked with the firemen.”

  “He seems to feel comfortable with you,” I said. “How long have you known him?”

  “Donald’s been cleaning the church ever since I came to Jamestown five years ago, but it took about a year before he really let me in. I quickly realized that he’s a patterned young man, which is another symptom of his syndrome. He often does the exact same thing every day, and that includes his cleaning regiment. Donald keeps his broom, mop, dustpan, and other supplies in a little room in the basement. The first day I locked the doors because of the statue, I was pulling out of the parking lot about noon and saw Donald crawling out of a hatch on the side of the church. My heart just about stopped when I saw him. I knew the vent was over there but never realized it led into his little room. I surmised he must have been down in the supplies room when I locked the doors. I should’ve thought of that at the time; he’s down there every day. But in his own words, Donald explained that he’d found a way out through that hatch. At first I was relieved he’d gotten out, because I didn’t know I had locked him inside. But it didn’t occur to me until later that night that he didn’t complain about the heat inside the church. I have no idea why it doesn’t affect him.”

  “How do you think he got in the church today?” Peter asked.

  “I assume he crawled in through the hatch. He must have remembered that it led into his basement supply room. From there, he just walked up the steps to the door that leads into the back of the church.”

  “But how did you not notice him coming in while you stood outside?” I asked.

  “Donald gets to the church very early in the morning. His grandmother drops him off and he usually goes to work. Sometimes, though, he’ll sit down in his room and read old gospel books and hymnals, or at least he pretends to read them; I’m not sure he understands what he’s taking in.” Father Powell paused in thought. “I guess no one was here when his grandmother dropped him off this morning. Donald must have discovered that the doors were locked and climbed down through the hatch. I told him he shouldn’t come to clean the church until we figured out what was going on, but I guess he’s been doing it anyway.”

  “What about his grandmother?” Peter asked. “Doesn’t she know to keep him out of there?”

  “No. She’s not all there, if you know what I mean. Ironically, Donald’s about the only one who can get through to her. I don’t know where his parents are, but he’s lived with his grandmother ever since I knew him. I told her to keep Donald away; I guess she just forgot. Her poor mind can’t keep up with things anymore.”

  “Is Donald a parishioner?” I asked. “I mean, does he go to Mass? Or can he not really … ah …”

  “I know what you mean,” he answered, stopping me from finding a respectful way to finish my question. “Donald has been at every single Mass I’ve ever said at this church. He may be a little off in the responses at times, but he’s always there, sitting in the front row. I’ve asked him why he comes so often and I think it’s the pattern of the Mass; he says he likes how it’s the same every time. I think coming here every day is something stable that keeps him on track. He doesn’t go to school and this is his only job. I guess you could say he pretty much lives here at the church, down in that little room of his.”

  “Have you asked him about the heat?” Peter asked. “And why it doesn’t seem to bother him?”

  “Yes, I asked him. It’s hard to get a clear answer from him, though. He says things in the church feel like they always do.” Father Powell hesitated before going on. “But Donald knows about the heat even though he can’t feel it.”

  “You mean because you told him about it?” I asked.

  “Not quite.” He rubbed his hands together as his legs jittered. “Look, I’m obviously a man of faith, but I don’t want you to think that we’re crazy here at this parish. I obviously believe in the things of the spiritual realm, but I hesitated to tell you about Donald because some of this is beyond my understanding. I don’t know what to think.”

  “You need to tell us everything,” I insisted. “We understand this is difficult, but nothing will get accomplished if we don’t have all the information we should.”

  Father Powell stood up and walked over to a row of daisies, keeping his back to us.

  “Donald says she talks to him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The Virgin Mother.”

  “As in, Mary, the Mother of God?” Peter asked rhetorically.

  “He says when he’s alone, sweeping the floors and wiping down the pews, she speaks to him through the statue.” Father Powell turned to face us, but did not return to the bench. “I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I don’t know what to think at this point because—”

  “What does she say to him?” Peter interrupted.

  “Lots of things, apparently. He says she’s been talking to him for years. I never really paid much attention to him. Like I said, Donald is a good kid. He’s never brought any harm to anyone. He’s a simple boy and I felt he should be left alone. I thought if I told someone about this, they may take him away to a psychiatric ward or something. That would be the worst thing for him.”

  “Do you believe him?” I asked.

  “Do I believe that the statue speaks to him?” I nodded. “I wasn’t sure for the longest time. I never really had reason to ask myself if I believed him. If he thought Mary was speaking to him but he wasn’t hurting himself or anyone else, why not let it be? But now things are different.”

  “Because of the heat?”

  “Yes, but also because you showed up.”

  Father Powell looked in our direction, but not to me. He stared at Peter.

  “What are you talking about?” Peter asked.

  “A few weeks ago, Donald told me the statue had delivered him a message, but he comes to me a lot and says this. He usually either tells me the message was private and I can’t hear it, or he does tell me the message and it just makes no sense. This latest message fell into the category of not making sense until the statue got warmer. And then I met you.”

  “You’ve got to explain yourself,” I demanded.

  Father Powell slowly walked back to the bench across from us and sat down. He delayed what he had to say as long as could.

  “Donald claimed that Mary would warm the earth until a shepherd of the Church arrived in Jamestown, a shepherd made of the rock.”

>   When he stopped, Peter and I sat still, not understanding. “I’m sorry,” I said, “what does that have to do with …”

  I stopped as something occurred to me.

  Peter frowned. “I hope you don’t think that message was for me.”

  “Thou art Peter,” Father Powell said with an uncomfortable smile, “and upon this rock I will build my church.”

  “I know the passage,” Peter snapped.

  “Look, I don’t know what to think. When Donald told me this over a month ago, I brushed it off. How could that statement possibly mean anything to me at the time? But then I noticed the statue getting warmer and began to wonder. I told the parishioners about the statue and even joked about it with them. But I didn’t tell anyone about what Donald had said. When the statue kept getting hotter, I called the Bishop and he informed me the next day that a Father Paul and Father Peter would be coming to investigate. I understand a lot of the things Donald says don’t make sense, but doesn’t this make you wonder?”

  Peter tensed beside me. “I am not Peter the Apostle.”

  “But that is a strange coincidence,” I interjected.

  Peter glared at me in disbelief. “It’s crazy to insinuate that this has anything to do with me. Even if we assume Donald is telling the truth, and even if we assume he is relaying the message correctly, no one will be confusing me with St. Peter any time soon. He’s the rock Jesus spoke of, not me.”

  “If it was a divine message, you can’t take it literally,” I argued. “You have to try to understand the underlying meaning, sense the meaning, if you will. A perfect example is that Donald said she would ‘warm the earth,’ but the entire earth is not being warmed; only on these church grounds can the heat be felt. That’s the way these messages are, if you believe them, of course. Besides, Donald said, ‘made of the rock,’ not the rock. Right?”