Two Statues

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Two Statues Page 9

by Kevin Kennelly


  “Yes, of course we have records, records of where these kids came from and records of where they’re sent when they leave. And they’ve gotten better in the last few years as we’ve reached the computer age. A lack of records is not the problem.”

  I hung my head. “I know. I don’t have a name. I can’t believe I’ve tried to do this without a name.”

  “Yes, your not having a name doesn’t help, but it does not surprise me either. Probably half the children back then came to us without a name. The other sisters and I were given the honor of naming those children. We usually went with apostles names for the boys and saintly names for the girls,” she said with a bit of laughter as she reminisced. “But here is your other problem. You said the boy was born in September of nineteen fifty-four and could have been sent to us from the town of Aiken. I probably could look back in our files and find some helpful information, but very rarely was an infant sent to us in the same month in which he or she was born. Some of the kids we got were anywhere from three months old to a year when they arrived, sometimes even older than that. Unfortunately many of them lived other places and were passed between different government-run homes before they ended up here. So with that in mind, and the fact that you don’t have a name, I don’t see how I can be of much help. The boy you’re trying to find could have been sent to us from South Carolina in the mid-fifties. Lord knows we received children from all over back then. But he could have arrived at any point in a maybe a two or three year span, and if he did arrive here later in his life, he would’ve arrived with a name he received from somewhere else, which you of course don’t have. I wouldn’t be surprised if we received over fifty boys in that time frame, whether they had a name or not. It would just be too hard to track.”

  “I understand,” I replied as I looked out toward the surrounding forest. “I don’t even know for sure if Walt’s son was sent here. I was just followin’ a hunch.”

  As our conversation found a pause, one of the little girls riding the merry-go-round got off and approached us on the bench.

  “Sister Marie!” she said with a burst of energy. “I hurt my knee.”

  “You did? Let me take a look.”

  Sister Marie bent down and grabbed the girl’s leg. As she examined the small scrape, the girl eyed me. “Who’s this, Sister Marie?”

  “This is my friend. His name is Buck. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

  “Hi,” she said, her voice as soft as a nightlight.

  “Hello,” I replied with a big grin. “What’s your name?”

  “Magdalene.”

  “What a pretty name.”

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked, looking back to Sister Marie.

  “He’s trying to find out if one of his friends lived here many years ago, and I’m trying to help him.” The Head Mother took a Band Aid from her pocket and placed it over Magdalene’s cut, then kissed the injured area. “Now, you go back and play.”

  Magdalene bent down and reviewed the work Sister Marie had done on her knee. Approving of the care she’d been given, Magdalene took off toward the sandbox. But she turned around one last time before leaving. “I hope you find your friend, Buck.”

  I smiled. “Do you always keep Band Aids in your pocket?” I asked the nun sitting next to me.

  “Ever since 1960; I go through about a box a week.” We both laughed. “Look, Buck, I have great sympathy and admiration for what you’re trying to do. I feel your efforts to find this boy, or young man as he would now be, may end without the results you’re looking for, but perhaps there is another reason you’re here today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways. That is perhaps the most commonly used expression I’ve ever heard, but it is also the most accurate. Something brought you to our home today, Buck. I have no idea what it is, but it was something.”

  I thought about her words, turning to the statue behind us before returning my gaze to Sister Marie. “There’s something I may want to do before leaving,” I said, even surprising myself a little. “Can I come back in about thirty minutes and meet you again.”

  Sister Marie looked at her watch. “Most of the children will be doing their afternoon study hall by then. I suppose you can meet me in my office.”

  I shook her hand and jogged away, down the dirt path that had led us to the playground. I hopped in my car and a few minutes later I was back in the convenience store.

  “Did you find those nuns?” Christina asked from behind her deli stand.

  “Your directions were perfect. Thanks again.”

  I made a simple purchase and found my way back to Winding Grove Way. After getting some help, I arrived at the door of Sister Marie’s office. She sat behind her desk grading papers with a red pen. “Looks like they made a lot of mistakes,” I said, tongue-in-cheek. “You sure you’re teaching these kids properly.”

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Well, we do our best. But we aren’t helping raise these children to get into Harvard; we’re raising them to get into heaven.”

  “Not a bad goal,” I replied.

  “What did you buy?”

  I reached into my plastic bag and pulled out a yellow, disposable camera.

  “I don’t know if it will make Walt feel any better,” I began. “But he’s told me how bad it pains him to think about his son growing up in that run-down home in Aiken. I figured … well, I figured if I showed him how nice this place is he might be comforted by the thought that maybe his son grew up here. Even though this place has changed some since then, you said what’s going on here is pretty much the same, and it looks the same as it used to, right?”

  “It very much does,” she replied. “I understand what you’re trying to do. Would you like me to walk around the grounds with you?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  We walked outside to the courtyard and began to take pictures. She pointed out a few of her favorite scenes, including the chapel garden and a fountain built in front of the dormitory. I took about ten pictures of the grounds, but then realized I had one more left to take.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Sister Marie, but I need you to be in one.”

  “Me?” she asked with a hoot of laughter. “Why on earth do you want me in one of these?”

  “You’re the one who would’ve raised Walt’s boy, if he lived here, that is. Walt needs to see how nice you are. Of course I’ll have to tell him that, along with the picture, but you know what I mean.”

  “All right, all right. Where do you want me?”

  “Why don’t you sit on that bench in the courtyard, where I was when we first met?”

  We found our way over to the bench so she could sit down. I crouched to the ground, trying my best to get one of the stone buildings in the background. I counted down from three and snapped the photo. Sister Marie rose from the bench and stood next to me as several children moved by in a straight line, being led by one of her fellow sisters.

  “You know, one thing struck me about your story, Buck.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your friend’s wife knew she was in danger by giving birth to her baby, but she still chose to give life to her son.” I nodded but wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “Sometimes I think orphanages are a thing of the past because of social policies and how things have changed, but other times I think it’s because we’ve changed what we do when we don’t want a child. I don’t know if you friend’s son has led a good life, but at least he was given the chance God intended him to have.”

  I now knew what she was getting at, and for some reason the little girl from the playground popped into my mind. I couldn’t help thinking how difficult Magdalene’s life probably was, but she knew what it felt like to be cared for, like she was when Sr. Marie placed that Band Aid on her cut and kissed her knee. Not everyone gets the chance to feel that. I was surprised when I felt my eyes water.

  Sr. Marie was right to admire Olivia, and th
e elderly nun had helped me realize Olivia deserved my admiration too.

  I turned and hugged Sr. Marie, probably holding on to her for longer than she expected. About five hours later, I was pulling back into my driveway in Edisto, tired as an old Hound dog.

  12

  I REMAINED on the steps of the church and waited for Peter to return for fifteen minutes, but realized he intended to stay out by the cliff. I crossed myself, walked into the grass pasture and stood beside him. We stared out over the dark ocean and the vast, night sky. A few glittery stars and a thumbnail shaped moon provided us with enough light to see the shifting water below. After a few seconds spent in silence, I said, “Did I ever tell you when I knew I was destined to become a priest?”

  “I think so,” Peter replied, turning to me for the first time. “When you visited Fatima with your family in high school, right?”

  “That was what first inspired me, but I still had some doubts after coming back from Portugal. It was about a year later when I knew.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve heard this, then.”

  I put my hands in my pockets to shield them from the chilly wind. “I used to love being an altar boy,” I began, “even when I was very young. It felt right to be so involved with the Mass, and I took pride in serving. But I especially loved to serve at midnight Mass. I thought that was the most peaceful experience, with the quiet anticipation, the Christmas songs sung by the choir, and the decorations all over the church. It was my favorite night of the year.”

  “I think Christmas Eve is a lot of kids’ favorite night of the year,” Peter said, a drop of sarcasm in his tone.

  “True, but I like to think I was focusing on the right reasons to appreciate the night.” Peter didn’t respond. “Anyway, normally my family went to midnight Mass, but the Christmas after we returned from Portugal, my mom decided she was too old to stay up that late. I asked to go serve at midnight Mass, but my mom said I had to go with the family the next day. I didn’t want to cross her, obviously, but I was going to serve at midnight Mass no matter what.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “A few weeks before Christmas, I signed up to serve without telling my mother. I went up to my room about ten-thirty on the twenty-fourth. Once my parents had gone to sleep, and once I had sworn my brothers to secrecy, I climbed out on the roof through my bedroom window and made my way down a ladder I had set up earlier in the day. I rode my bike to church in the middle of the night, served as an altar boy at midnight Mass, rode my bike home, and snuck back into the room using the ladder again.”

  Peter reviewed the story in silence before responding. “So you snuck out of your house in the middle of the night, against your parents’ wishes, to go to church?” I nodded. Seconds later Peter couldn’t help but chuckle and I joined in his laughter. “I think most kids were sneaking out to drink beer at that age,” he added.

  “Probably, but that’s how I knew I was meant to be a priest.”

  My story had served its purpose, loosening Peter’s mood. “So what do you think about all this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I turned toward him. “You’ve got to think something.”

  “So do you,” he fired back as he bent down to pick up a rock. “Why don’t you ask yourself what you think this all means?”

  He threw the rock into the ocean. Despite not being able to see it in the darkness, we didn’t speak until we felt it had landed in the sea.

  “Well, I do have thoughts. But I’m not the one—”

  “You’re not the one named Peter, the shepherd made of the rock, right?” I didn’t answer him, but we both knew he was right. “Think about the absurdity of all this,” he went on. “Do you really think this statue is speaking to that kid? How would the rest of the world view the Catholic Church if we told them this handicapped boy is speaking with the Mother of God through a concrete statue? That’s not fair to Donald, but that’s reality. And perhaps Donald did quote scripture concerning Saint Peter. So what? Never underestimate the power of a coincidence. Maybe one of the parishioners is named Peter.”

  “But one of them wouldn’t be a ‘shepherd of the church.’ ”

  “Maybe one of them is thinking of becoming a priest; I don’t know. But nothing a statue does inside that church has anything to do with me. Don’t forget I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m only here to chaperone you.”

  “You’re still here, Peter. Who cares how you got here? I don’t see how you can say for certain that this has nothing to do with you. And you can’t deny the heat inside the church. Isn’t that amazing? And did you notice the heat hasn’t affected the wood paneling or the paintings? It’s unheard of for a painting to not be affected when it sits in such high temperatures like that. How can you explain that?”

  “I don’t know if I can explain it, but if the heat is being caused by something beyond this world, then it only frustrates me, not inspires me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “These poor people can’t even go inside their own church,” he snapped. “You heard Mrs. O’Day and Father Powell; they’re terrified. Why would God do this? At first I was intrigued, but after going in there it only makes me angry. I know you don’t like hearing me say this, Paul, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “You don’t think this could be some kind of miracle?”

  “No. What good has come from it? Has God or the Virgin Mary blessed these people by keeping them from their church and scaring them half to death?”

  “I don’t know if I can claim they’ve been ‘blessed,’ but something is happening here, and we should—”

  “Can we just stop talking about it?” he interrupted. “I told you before, I made a commitment to Father Chase to investigate this, and that’s what I’m going to do out of respect for him. But I’m beginning to see more and more that I need to move on when we get back to Worcester. Just look at how different we’re viewing this situation; I’m not meant to be priest.”

  When I saw that our focus had shifted away from the statues and toward Peter, I leapt at the opportunity. “Why can’t you tell me more about your past? I can’t get through to you if I don’t know what originally caused your struggles. Why did you run away from your family? What happened before your time spent on the streets?”

  “I told you before, that’s not relevant.”

  “It is relevant. You’re upset with God for the many struggles of your life, and you told me you’ve tried to make sense of everything that happened. But all your time spent on the street and your issues with drugs would’ve never come about had you not left home.”

  “It would’ve been worse had I stayed home.”

  “Why? Why do you say that? Were you abused?”

  Peter turned his back on me, walking alongside the edge of the cliff.

  I followed him. “I’m not going to let this go, Peter. I know it must be something awful if you want to wipe away all these years in the priesthood just like that. You’ve become a completely different person. Why do you want to leave it all behind? Why now after all this time? Tell me!”

  Peter whipped around. “You don’t want to know! No one wants to know what it’s like to be abandoned! To be left at an orphanage for ten years, waiting and praying every night for a family to come and take you home!” He continued to walk toward me, pushing me back over my startled feet and screaming just inches from my face. I was so taken aback by his sudden rage I forgot we stood several feet from a treacherous cliff. “Or is this what you want to hear, Paul? Do you want to hear that when a family finally did take me home, my adoptive drunk of a father beat me senseless each night! Yeah, that’s right; I was abused, just like thousands of other children across the world. Why do you suppose that happens, Paul? Now that you know, what will you do to fix it all? What will you do to fix me? Do you want me to go on? Do you want to hear that they treated me like a slave instead of a son? That the only reason they got me was to work me to death in their fields? Do you want to hear that
I still have nightmares reliving the beatings I received as a boy? What is it that you want to hear? Please, tell me!”

  I fumbled a response even I could barely understand. “I … I … I don’t know. I’m sorry, Peter. I do want to hear. I want to help.”

  “I don’t want your help!” He backed away, releasing his vengeful gaze. Both of us took several deep breaths. For nearly a minute, we didn’t speak. When the intensity had settled, Peter went on, now in a calmer voice, a tired one, with his back to me.

  “I lived with nuns for the first ten years of my life, Paul. They said that God loved me, and that I was one of his special children. They said I should pray to him each night. So I did. I prayed for a family, one that would actually want me, unlike the one that gave me up. Eventually, he answered those prayers by sending me an abusive, alcoholic father and a mother who hated me. So I prayed some more, trying to understand why I was being put through such anguish. But the anguish didn’t stop, and I lived through an adolescent hell for eight years.”

  “That’s horrible, Peter. I don’t know what to—”

  “But I finally gained the courage to make a run for it, and I ran right into a life in the gutter, saved only by the grace of an elderly nun who remembered me from my days at the orphanage. If it wasn’t for Sister Marie I probably would’ve ended up dead or in jail, and I was well aware of that. When she started talking about the priesthood, I felt guilty for not following that path. I felt like I owed her. So I made the ridiculous decision of becoming a priest. I thought at the worst it would keep a safe roof over my head. All that stuff I told you back in Worcester about making sense of my suffering was just to make my troubled faith sound poetic. It was bull. I became a priest because of pressure; pressure from my troubled surroundings and pressure from a nun who brainwashed me into thinking this life would help me make peace with God.”

  “That’s not fair, Peter. You just said Sister Marie saved your life by taking you in. The God she loves and serves lived through her decision to do that. I’m sure she didn’t brainwash you. She was just trying to pass on that love because she thought it would help get your life back on track.”

 

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