Two Statues

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Two Statues Page 10

by Kevin Kennelly


  He finally turned back to face me.

  “Okay, if you have all the answers, let’s get back to this statue. Why is this happening? Why is God terrifying these people with such an enigmatic and frightening situation?”

  I sighed. “Obviously I don’t know, Peter.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “We have to give it time,” I argued back, ignoring his sarcasm, “that’s the way life works. We can never understand things in God’s time, but some day we will. Some day we will know why this phenomenon is happening, and some day you will understand why God put you through all that suffering. I can’t promise when, I can only promise that you will. I understand it doesn’t make sense for God to keep these people away from their church, just like it doesn’t make sense that he loves all his children and yet some are destined to suffer for their entire lives. It’d be nice if we could find answers to all these troubling questions just around the corner, but things don’t work that way.”

  “Yeah, instead he has to heat a statue, scare a bunch of people and let a babbling retard speak for him.”

  My body felt like it would drop to the ground. I couldn’t believe Peter would say such a thing. It didn’t matter what his childhood was like or what his feelings toward God were. There was no need to disrespect Donald this way.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, before I could condemn his comment.

  I decided I would rather move on than accept his apology on behalf of Donald.

  “You know, to me it makes sense the statue would speak to him.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Think about it. The mentally challenged are at times the most Christ-like. They don’t judge; they don’t condemn; they aren’t wrathful; they often love more than we possibly could. Their innocence is as pure as the Virgin Mary. Why shouldn’t she seek a soul like Donald’s? Maybe she sees a little bit of her son in him.”

  Peter merely nodded and gave an uninterested grunt. He walked away toward the gravel parking lot. I followed him, but we waited for our ride a good twenty strides apart.

  Standing alone, I thought back to last week, realizing now why that orphaned girl in Costa Rica had brought back Peter’s bitterness. He saw himself when he looked upon her, and for that reason I found myself wishing he’d never met her.

  The glow of Father Powell’s headlights approaching from the distant road met our faces a few minutes later. He drove us back to Mrs. O’Day’s house and made plans to pick us up after breakfast. We used her key to let ourselves in. Finding her bedroom light on, we thought about telling her we were home, but decided not to disturb her. Instead, we walked into the kitchen where we found a note sitting on the counter informing us there were two sandwiches waiting in the refrigerator. We ate them together in silence before Peter sulked his way up to one of the guest bedrooms and shut the door. I stayed downstairs and studied some of the books I had brought with us, and the notes I had taken throughout the day. I spent an hour doing my best to make sense of what was happening here in Rhode Island, but by eleven o’clock, exhaustion consumed me.

  The next morning, Mrs. O’Day fixed us a feast: scrambled eggs, Belgian waffles with maple syrup, bacon, fruit, and fresh orange juice filled with pulp. The same classical radio station she had listened to in her car played throughout her house stereo speakers. As we listened to the music and ate our breakfast, she did most of the talking, much like she had done the day before. But I didn’t mind her chatter; I was not prepared to be alone with Peter.

  Father Powell called and said he would be a little later than he had anticipated. Mrs. O’Day was thrilled by this news, realizing she got to keep her company a little bit longer. Her loneliness was obvious, seen clearly in her body language. She talked of her late husband constantly, with a smile, but one cloaked in pain. I learned they were never able to have children, and she confessed her regret of not having looked into adoption before he got sick. I thought of Peter’s words the night before, how he questioned why God would scare this parish. I wondered the same thing. This woman had experienced enough sadness and confusion in her life. Why was this happening?

  While we waited for Father Powell, she took us on a walk into the woods behind her home and showed us a hawk that had become an unexpected companion of hers. “You must be completely still,” she pleaded with us. “He’s as big as a cat, but he’s easily frightened.” Peter and I stood motionless, glancing up about twenty yards into a pine tree. “I’ve been coming out here almost every day since Bobby died,” Mrs. O’Day whispered without taking her eyes off the hawk. “He used to love to take walks in these woods.”

  Suddenly, the hawk took off from his nest.

  “Oh!” Mrs. O’Day pointed. “There he goes!” Our heads tilted back, watching as the hawk climb above the tree line with his massive wings. I glanced over to Mrs. O’Day, enjoying her excitement just as much as watching the bird.

  When Father Powell arrived, we hopped in the car with him and made our way to Donald’s house.

  “Don’t expect Donald’s grandmother to welcome you with open arms,” he said as he turned out of the neighborhood.

  “She’s not too friendly?” I asked.

  “No, she just doesn’t realize when people are around sometimes. And as far as Donald goes, treat him as you would anyone else. He seems to respond to people who don’t talk down to him.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. Peter sat in the back and hardly said anything for the ten minute car ride. His behavior was changing more and more by the hour, and I could tell Father Powell had taken notice of Peter’s detached mood when he began directing all his conversation toward me without even considering Peter’s presence.

  We arrived at a small brick home in the back of a cul-de-sac. It looked similar to Mrs. O’Day’s house, but the exterior was not well kept like hers. The grass was tall, weeds grew in the cracks of the sidewalk, and shutters hung loose off the side of windows. Father Powell walked into the home as if he lived there, without knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell.

  “Donald?” he yelled. “Mrs. Devonshire? Anyone home?” We followed him into the house, making our way through the kitchen. Dirty dishes, empty bags of chips and soda cans were scattered all over the place. The tile floor was sticky and the stovetop was caked in some kind of crusty food. Father Powell threw his hands in the air. “I came here last week to clean this place. Look at it now.”

  We moved into the den where a small TV was tuned into a talk show. Three people with tattoos and piercings were screaming at one another about who was the true father of a child. I watched as obscenities flew from their mouths like bees from a beehive. But even worse, there were rows of people standing in the crowd cheering them on. Why would people encourage this hate? Better yet, why was this entertainment? I could only feel sorry for the child who was sitting backstage, shown in a small box at the bottom of the screen. Or perhaps I felt sorry for all of them.

  “Hello, Mrs. Devonshire,” Father Powell said.

  I glanced around the room. It wasn’t until I saw where Peter’s eyes were pointed that I realized there was someone on the couch: an elderly, feeble lady, buried beneath blankets and pillows. Only her head and short, white hair were visible. Father Powell walked over to her and crouched down. “These two men have come from Massachusetts to visit Donald. They’re here about that statue at the church. Do you remember me telling you about that?” She didn’t react much, only a moan and a nod as she kept watching the TV. “Is Donald upstairs?”

  His question was answered by a thumping noise from the floor above. It was a constant sound, with only a second between each thump.

  Father Powell glanced up at us. “Sounds like he’s in his room.” We walked up the steps, past the clothes lying on the floor and the sports magazines spread everywhere. Father Powell walked straight up to one of the bedroom doors and knocked.

  “Donald? You in there? It’s me, Father Powell.”

  We heard heavy, rapid footsteps approach the door. D
onald swung it open and embraced Father Powell with his free hand. In the other hand he held a basketball. “Hello, Fader Powell!”

  “Hey buddy! Are you working on your dribbling?”

  “Yep, yep. Workin’ on my dribblin’!”

  Donald moved back into his room and attempted to dribble the basketball through his legs, though not with much success. He was wearing green athletic shorts and a small, white T-shirt. He also wore the same green headband from the previous day. The three of us moved into the room. Donald picked up his ball and backed away from us.

  “Who them, Fader Powell? Who them, Fader Powell?”

  “These are my friends, Father Peter and Father Paul. They have come to talk about the statue at church. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  Donald didn’t answer. He swayed back and forth, keeping his eyes away from us and glued to the ceiling.

  “Why do you wear a headband, Donald?” I asked him. He reached up and patted the green cloth gripping his forehead, as if to ensure that it was still there. He pointed to a poster above his bed of a professional basketball player. This same player was posted in a variety of other places throughout Donald’s room. For the first time I noticed his headband had a Boston Celtics’ emblem on it. “So you like Larry Bird, huh?” I asked, looking back to the poster. Donald nodded but still didn’t look at me. “We’re from just outside of Boston,” I told him. “We’ve both seen Larry Bird play.” Donald’s face brightened with color and his fingers gripped the basketball tightly. He finally made eye contact with me, but only for a second. “Have you ever seen him in person?”

  You could tell Donald wanted to answer but was still uncertain about the situation. “Donald absolutely loves Larry Bird and the Celtics,” Father Powell said on his behalf. “He never misses a game on TV, but I don’t think he’s ever had the chance to see them in person.”

  Donald shook his head.

  “One of the assistant coach’s sons is actually in my class,” I said. “Maybe we can work something out and get you to a game.”

  At hearing this, I thought Donald might leap out his second story window.

  “Wouldn’t that be great, Donald?” Father Powell asked, answered shortly thereafter by Donald vigorously nodding his head. “Well, you better be nice to my friends, then. They won’t want to take you to a game if you aren’t helpful. Why don’t you sit down, buddy?”

  Father Powell waved him into a chair by a brown desk covered in various carvings of basketballs, flowers, smiley faces, and hearts. Donald sat down, allowing the three of us to do the same. I sat on the corner of the bed, closest to Donald and the desk, while Peter and Father Powell sat in two chairs in the corner of the room.

  “Did you do all these carvings?” I asked him as I perused the desk. He nodded. I pointed to a heart with the letters “AD” carved in the middle of it. “Is this for your grandmother?”

  Donald nodded again.“Ammey. Yeah, that’s Ammey.”

  “Amy Devonshire,” Father Powell clarified.

  Peter approached the desk and examined the carvings. “What about this one? Who is ‘M’?”

  The boy leaned away from Peter, bit his lip, and blinked his eyes.

  Father Powell patted Peter’s leg. “Please sit down, Father Peter.”

  Peter returned to his chair and Donald relaxed a bit. He played with his ball again, gingerly tapping it back and forth between his hands.

  “So Donald,” I began, “do you enjoy working at Our Lady of the Sea?”

  “Must keep her floors clean,” he replied. “Dirty floors make fo’ dirty shoes.”

  “That couldn’t be truer,” I agreed. “It sounds like you spend a lot of time at the church, keeping those floors and pews clean. Father Powell tells us you’re a hard worker.”

  Donald did not answer this time. He swayed back and forth in his seat, playing with the basketball. He clung to the orange ball and constantly patted the scaly rubber.

  Peter decided to take his chance at asking a question. “When you say keep ‘her’ floors clean, do you mean the statue, the statue at the front of the church?”

  Donald picked at the ball.

  “Listen to them, Donald,” Father Powell insisted. “Answer their questions. I know you can hear them.”

  “I keep … I keep her floors clean,” Donald finally said. I realized we may not get a better answer on this particular question and moved the discussion forward.

  “We understand the statue told you she would warm the earth, but you don’t feel the heat inside the church, do you?” Donald shook his head. “Why is that?”

  “Her home feel like it always do.”

  “But why is it that you don’t feel the heat?” Peter persisted from the other side of the room. I was surprised to see him taking interest in the situation after his distant behavior all morning.

  Donald turned to Father Powell and spoke in a loud, erratic tone. “Her home feel like it always do, Fader Powell. Like it always do. Like it always do. Like it always—”

  “Okay, Donald,” Father Powell interrupted. “Okay. Calm down.”

  Father Powell glanced at us. It was becoming more and more clear why he hadn’t told us about this boy at first. Still, I pressed on. “What about when the statue talked to you about the shepherd? What did she say about this shepherd of the church?”

  “She say we have a visitor to her home soon, real soon. She say, she say, she say she warm the earth.”

  “That’s what we heard,” I said. “But did she say anything else? Did she say who this visitor was, or why she was warming the earth?”

  Donald only repeated everything he had just said, word for word. Peter let out a powerful sigh and leaned over to me. “This is going nowhere. Let’s get out of here.”

  I ignored Peter. “Donald, Father Powell told us the statue would stop giving off heat when ‘it’ passes.”

  “Uh-huh. Dat’s what she say. When it come to pass.”

  “When what comes to pass?” I asked. “What will happen?”

  “She knows,” was all he said.

  “But we need to know,” I pleaded. “We need to know if anything will happen, and if we can prevent anyone from getting hurt.”

  Donald shook his head and laughed. “No, no. She knows. We not supposed to see yet. Why you think you need ta’ know when she knows for you?”

  No matter what I asked, Donald didn’t give us any helpful information, and in fact he kept turning the conversation back to the Celtics. I tried my best not to get frustrated with him, but that proved difficult. I wanted so badly for him to say something that cleared up this whole matter. I didn’t know what I expected, but I expected more than what I was getting.

  In the midst of Donald telling us about the Celtics upcoming season, Peter interrupted him with another question, one I hadn’t planned on asking.

  “Where are your parents, Donald?”

  Donald paused and looked to Father Powell.

  “Do you know where your parents are?” Peter asked again. “Why don’t you live with them?”

  “Mommy and Daddy gone.”

  “They didn’t want you?”

  “Peter,” I grunted under my breath, “cut it out.”

  “Ammey wants me,” Donald answered.

  “But your parents didn’t?” Peter asked, ignoring my fierce stare. “Why didn’t they want you?”

  Donald shrugged. “Ammey’s my favorite. She love me fine, and … and, and make me happy. I told you, Mister, about the message. She knows. Why you need ta’ know when she knows for you?”

  “Who knows?” I asked. “Your grandmother? Did you tell your grandmother more than you’re telling us?”

  Donald didn’t answer. He stared directly at Peter, so much that Peter had to look away.

  “Why his eyes so sad, Fader Powell?”

  Father Powell and I looked back and forth between one another. “What was that, Donald?” he asked.

  “Why this man’s eyes so sad?”

&nbs
p; Donald pointed to Peter, but then seemed to lose interest in his own question. He put his basketball on the ground and fidgeted with his fingers, as if he were trying to crack his knuckles.

  “Why do you think his eyes look sad?” Father Powell finally asked.

  “Cause they look sad, sad like when my puppy can’t play. Puppies need to play, Fader Powell.”

  Father Powell forced out a nervous chuckle. “Donald’s dog is about ten years old, but he’ll always be a puppy.”

  It was apparent that I had lost all control of the situation. Before I could get us back on track, Peter stood up.

  “This isn’t doing any good. We didn’t come here to talk about the Celtics and puppies. I think it’s time we headed back to Worcester.” I didn’t get up from my chair, still trying to make sense of everything. “Paul,” Peter said even louder than before, “don’t you think it’s time we leave?”

  Struggling for words, I agreed. “Sure. Sure, I suppose we’ve tried everything we could.” I stood up and held out my hand. “It was nice to meet you, Donald.” He looked at my hand like I had a disease. “We have Father Powell’s phone number so we’ll be in touch about trying to get you to a Celtics game.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Donald said, now grabbing my hand with both of his and shaking it with all his power.

  We watched from the hallway as Father Powell said goodbye to Donald, making him promise he would not go back to the church today. Donald said he wouldn’t but didn’t seem to be paying attention. He had begun to flip through a stack of baseball cards piled on his desk.

  A few moments later, Father Powell joined us in the hallway. “I’m sorry this meeting wasn’t more beneficial. It may be best to keep everything about Donald between us. If he can’t be more specific or clear about what the statue is telling him, I’m not sure we should involve him in all this. It may be too overwhelming for him, and I don’t see further questioning providing any answers.”

  “I agree,” Peter said. “We’ll return to Worcester and tell Fr. Chase what we’ve seen, minus anything about Donald. From there, it’ll be in his hands to relay all this to the Bishops. We’ve done everything we can do here.”

 

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