Father Powell nodded, but Peter pursed his lips and turned away from me.
I ignored him and pressed Father Powell. “You said Donald claimed Mary would warm the earth until a shepherd of the Church arrived in Jamestown; does that mean the heat will go away once that shepherd gets here? Did you ask Donald when the statue will stop doing this?”
“Yes, I asked him, but all he says is that the heat will remain until after it passes.”
“After what passes?” I asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Did Donald tell anyone else about this message? Or that he converses with the statue? Did you tell Sergeant Hampton about all this?” Father Powell shook his head to all my questions.
“I’m the only one Donald talks to. He may have mentioned it to his grandmother, but she wouldn’t understand. And I knew the time wasn’t right to tell Sergeant Hampton. I told him Donald must have been down in his supply room since morning, before we arrived here, but that I didn’t know why the heat didn’t seem to affect him.”
“We should speak with Donald,” I said. “Father Chase would want us to do that before we return to Worcester.”
Fr. Powell hesitated. “Now might be a bad time. Perhaps I can take you over to his grandmother’s house in the morning?”
Peter and I agreed to this plan but discovered that Father Powell wanted to take Donald home alone before returning to get us. He explained that riding in the car with strangers was the last thing Donald needed after the episode from earlier. We considered calling Mrs. O’Day for a ride, but decided not to disturb her so late in the evening. Instead, we would wait for Fr. Powell to return and pick us up.
Peter and I stood alone on the church steps in the midst of the darkness. The stars above us could be seen clearly against the black sky and the waves persisted with their rumbling into the cliffs below. I was on the verge of speaking with Peter about what we had just learned, but when I tried, he rose, cutting me off. He walked into the field on the east side of the church, approaching the cliff overlooking the water.
I could only wonder what he was thinking.
11
I GOT to Atlanta near dinnertime, too late to find the orphanage. If it was anything like the home in Aiken, I didn’t want to go there after the sun had gone down anyway. Instead, I found another dingy motel and checked in. I knew it would be the kind of place I was looking for when I saw the fluorescent lights glowing from down the road; that usually meant it fell into my humble price range. I paid the overweight motel clerk his forty-nine dollars and journeyed up to my room where I took a long overdue shower. The warm water and hot steam soothed my muscles and turned my spirits for the better.
As a rejuvenated man, I went back into the city, stopping at a steakhouse where I sat at the bar and ate dinner. I tried to strike up a conversation with a man sitting a few stools down, but not with much success. I told him why I was in town and asked if he knew the best way to get to the orphanage in Sandy Springs. He said to head north on a nearby highway and I would be in the suburb in under thirty minutes. But he had never heard of any orphanage there and it was clear the conversation was over when he turned his head back towards the television. He made me realize why I tend to stick with small towns like Edisto. You could spark up a conversation with anyone there—stranger, friend, or foe. There simply wasn’t enough going on in a small town to not take an interest in your fellow man’s life. But here in Atlanta, where the people scurried around like ants, there was too much commotion to bother. I don’t blame the big city folk; I think it’s simply human nature to shut yourself off when you’re surrounded by so many people with so many problems.
When I made it back to my room, I was asleep before I had closed the door. It was probably the first time in my life I was too tired to watch TV in a motel room. I even allowed myself to sleep to just past ten, when a maid woke me up by pounding on the door for the second day in a row. After a quick shower I thought about getting some breakfast, but I was hankering to get going so I headed north on an empty stomach, driving up the highway as the sunlight filtered its way through the cloud cover and shimmered across my windshield.
Not thirty minutes later, I clicked my blinker and got off at the Sandy Springs exit. I suddenly found myself driving through slow and pleasant neighborhoods, much different from the busy streets of Atlanta. Some of the homes were as big as any I’d ever laid eyes on, with perfectly groomed lawns and luxury cars in the driveways. I passed a park and then a school, both appearing like perfect places for kids to play and learn. I saw a nursing home, where I glanced at the old men sitting out front on rockers in the afternoon sun and wondered how long it would be before Walt and I found ourselves in such a home.
I pulled into a convenience store in an attempt to get directions. When I walked in, I knew this store had been around since the town had first popped up on the map. It looked like the type of place that would sell famous milkshakes and attract all the neighborhood children on their bicycles. No one stood at the checkout counter, so I wandered to the back and found a small deli stand. I knew my growling stomach was angry with me for skipping breakfast. To oblige it, I ordered a sandwich from a pretty, young brunette named Christina.
“I was wondering if you could help me find something in this area,” I asked her as she made my sandwich.
“Sure, where ya’ headed?” I handed her the piece of paper with the address of the orphanage. “Ah, yeah, I believe I know where this is. It’s nearby, but let me think.”
I almost jumped over the counter and hugged her at hearing that this place was not only still around, but could be just around the corner. Christina paused in making my turkey sandwich and looked to the ceiling. She mumbled under her breath and motioned with her hands like she was driving an invisible car.
“Okay,” she finally said, “I’m pretty certain if you come out here on Henry Street, you’ll eventually hit Harden Boulevard. Take a left on Harden, and after about five minutes you’ll see Winding Grove Way. You’ll want to take a right on that. But I’m not positive how long you’re on Winding Grove before you get there. And I don’t think it’s an orphanage, by the way, like what you have written here,” she said, looking back at the piece of paper. “I haven’t driven by it in a while, but I think it’s like, a daycare or something like that. But I know it’s the same place ’cause it’s run by those nuns. Not too many places around here are run by nuns,” she added with a smirk. “I see them around town every so often.”
I nodded, trying to retrace everything she had said. She spoke too fast for my elderly ears and smacked on her gum as if her life depended upon getting the flavor out of it. I wasn’t happy to hear the home was no longer an orphanage, but I knew I should be thankful that it was at least still there and run by the same group of women.
“You want mayo on this?” Christina asked, handing me back the address.
“Sure, only a bit, though. I’m mindin’ my health.”
She gave me a courtesy laugh and made the rest of my sandwich in silence. I thanked her when she had finished, for my lunch and for the directions. There was no place to sit in the store, so I ate my sandwich and chips in the car and washed it down with a soda as a breeze cooled me off through the rolled-down window.
When I had finished eating, I followed the directions I’d been given until I found Winding Grove Way. After a few miles, I wondered if the girl from the convenience store had been mistaken. I was suddenly in a wooded area, only seeing farm-like homes every so often. It seemed the town of Sandy Springs had thinned out to only trees and cows. But finally I saw a big wooden sign on the left side of the road: Sisters of Charity—Home for the Children. It was rustic, with a cross carved in the top and a quote on the bottom that read, “Let the children come to me.” Bright, yellow sunflowers grew at the base of the sign and a few ferns were sprawled out around it. I pulled in the driveway that cut through the woods. On each side a thick forest stretched as far as I could see, with not the slightest sign of hu
man activity. But I drove cautiously, thinking there may be kids running about.
After several minutes I moved through a large, stonewall entrance with another cross on top of it, this one made of iron. When I entered the grounds I was surprised by what I saw. Unlike the group home in Aiken, this place consisted of several stone buildings rather than one rundown house. There were four structures of all different sizes built in a square pattern, with a courtyard in the middle. Unsure of where to go, I followed my nose to a parking lot behind one of the buildings and pulled into an empty spot. I climbed out of my car and looked around for someone who could help me. Not seeing anyone, I figured I better explore the grounds. I moved forward into the courtyard, reading the plaques just above the front door of each building. The largest structure was the dormitory, and the one across from it, the second largest, was a school of some kind. The other two buildings were a rec hall and a stone chapel.
As I meandered around, I became stunned by the lack of activity. Shouldn’t I be hearing kids playing and running freely, or even nuns singing and praying? But there was nothing. Not knowing what to do, I hunkered down on a bench. It felt wrong barging into one of the buildings without an invitation. I knew I had to be careful in a place with so many children, me being a stranger and all.
It was nearly twenty minutes later when the doors of the chapel triumphantly burst open. Organ music erupted from within the stone walls, along with about thirty kids and several nuns. The children ran towards the rec hall across the courtyard, I assumed to eat some lunch or play games. The nuns tried to keep them in a straight line but it was more of a tsunami of toddlers and adolescents. A few of them glanced at me with curious eyes. I smiled and waved but most looked away. I chuckled when some of the girls broke into cartwheels and a few of the boys pulled baseball cards from their pockets and began comparing them.
One of the nuns took note of me and came my way. She wore a black dress that stretched all the way down to her black shoes, and a black veil of some sort covered her head. A white border collar framed the veil and she wore a white undergarment beneath her dress that could only be seen up around her neck. My first thought was that she must have gotten hot in the summertime.
I removed my hat and stood up when she reached me. Alongside her she held a little boy by the hand. “May I help you?” I was distracted at first by the young toddler picking his nose, but I composed my laughter and answered her.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Buck Washington. I was wondering if I could speak to whoever’s in charge. I had some questions concerning someone who may have lived here many years ago.”
“Do you mind waiting here in the courtyard while I let our Head Mother know she has a guest?”
“Be my pleasure. Thank you kindly.”
She disappeared into the school with the little boy, still digging for gold up his nose. I returned to my bench, knowing I couldn’t do much else. A few children walked about as I waited, some with an adult, and some who appeared old enough to mind after themselves on their own.
Finally, an older nun emerged from the school doorway, waving to me with a pasty white hand. She had a white sweater draped over her habit, but otherwise looked the same as the others. I had expected her to be wearing something else if she was the head of this place, but what did I know about the hierarchy of nuns?
“My name is Sister Marie Joseph,” she said extending her hand. “Was it Mr. Washington?”
Short as she was, I had to lean down to shake her hand. I thought she may have been taller in her younger years, but her elderly body looked like a candle that had been lit for a long time and lost its wax.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied. “But please, call me Buck.”
“Alright, Buck. What brings you here today?”
“I wondered if we could go somewhere and talk for a moment. I’ve got a question, but it’s more of a story.”
She smiled. “Everything you see here moving on two feet is a story, Buck. But of course we can talk, that is, if you don’t mind walking to the playground with me. One of my sisters has fallen ill and I must take her afternoon shift of watching the young ones while they play.”
I agreed and walked alongside her through the stone buildings to a dirt path leading into the woods. We spoke casually at first, with her asking most of the questions. She asked all about me: if I had family, where I was from, and what profession I’d spent my life working in.
In the distance I could hear children laughing and playing, and soon we had reached a small playground. It was deep within the woods, surrounded by several weeping willows. The clearing held slides, sandboxes, monkey bars, a miniature merry-go-round, and a colorful jungle gym. Sister Marie walked over to a bench and relieved the nun who had been there watching the ten or so children. After she had departed down the path, Sister Marie and I sat down. Behind us there was an ivory statue, maybe the size of my torso, resting on a gray, rock base. It was a lady dressed in a white robe, with her hands folded together and her feet standing on top of a snake. Her position behind us made it seem she was about to join our conversation.
“Is this Mary?” I asked.
“It is.”
“Seems like she’ll be listening in on us,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
“She’s always listening in on us. Now what can I do for you?”
“Well, I understand this place used to be an orphanage? Is that right? Or … I mean, is this still an orphanage? A girl in town told me she thought it was a daycare.”
Sr. Marie laughed. “Is that what they think this place is now; a daycare? I suppose that is a good enough term for our modern world.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No, you’re actually right; this did used to be an orphanage. In a way it still is, or at least that’s how I look at it. Terminology changes all the time in our society but the point of this place has been the same for almost a hundred years. You see, I came here in September of 1954, when this place was a home specifically for orphans. About fifty to one hundred children lived here for various lengths of time, children who had been abandoned by their birth parents for whatever reason. We took care of them, fed them, gave them shelter, and taught them school lessons if they were old enough. We helped find them families through adoption, which was always bittersweet. The sisters fell in love with those little orphans, especially the ones who stayed here for several years. But in our hearts we knew they needed a family, and it was our duty to help find them one.”
“So when did things change?”
“To be honest, I’m not certain of when things began to change. I find my mind to be tired these days.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I believe it was in the seventies that our country’s social policies changed and we moved to a line of thinking that children should be in foster homes or foster families rather than an orphanage like this. Don’t ask me why people started thinking that; we took care of the little ones just fine. But some battles are out of my hands. Over the years we’ve adapted to what God calls us to do. To this day we sometimes still have an infant who needs a home for a while, and they will live here with me and the sisters for as long as they need to. Others are children whom the State has taken out of an abusive home and are only here temporarily until a better situation can be found for them, and still others are local kids whose parents just struggle through the day-to-day battle of raising their children and look to us for help. Or rather, when I say local, I mean from inner-city Atlanta. We have a daily bus one of the sisters drives. It shuttles the children to and from a downtown church in the morning, afternoon and evening.”
I grinned at the thought of a nun driving a bus.
“The local kids sometimes come here because both parents work and the child just needs supervision for a while, but most often it’s because the parents know their child will get a warm meal and a safe place to rest their head, not to mention some tutoring from us.”
“Shouldn’t
some of these kids be at school right now?” I asked, looking at my watch.
“We only have a few locals here right now; more should be arriving later today in the afternoon bus. But to be honest, yes, some of them should be at school. But often when we take them home at night there’s no one there to pick them up, so the sisters must bring the children back here to keep them from sleeping on the street.”
I looked at the children playing before me and tried to picture them sleeping on the streets.
“I assume these parents don’t pay you?”
“Oh, no, of course not. These are adults who can barely put food on the table for themselves, much less their children.”
“Then who pays for this, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, thankfully this land was purchased by the Church decades ago for a very cheap price, which was a huge blessing. But as far as our day-to-day operations, we get most of our funds from contributions, and we get a lot of help from the Catholic Social Services group in Atlanta. They help raise money for us through golf tournaments, auctions, dinners, and other things like that. I try not to worry about money because I know we’re doing the Lord’s work. He will provide for us.”
“You really are doing a great thing,” I agreed. “No question about that.”
“Thank you, Buck. Donations are always welcomed if you feel that strongly about what we’re doing.” I laughed at her wit. “But you still haven’t told me why you’re here,” she went on, “unless you just wanted a lesson on the history of orphanages.”
She listened intently as I told her the story of Walt and his son, and my trip to Aiken before coming to Atlanta, never once letting her eyes drift from my own. We both had a chuckle at the coincidence of Walt’s son being born the same month she arrived here in Sandy Springs, but couldn’t find any reason on why that might help. It took me nearly twenty minutes to explain the situation.
“What do you think, Sister? Do you think you can help me? Do you think you have some records you can review?”
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