Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

  I smiled. “Maybe so.”

  I exchanged information with Father Harris and assured him I would be in touch after I had spoken with Father Powell in Rhode Island and Father Chase back in Worcester. Father Harris walked back to Walt’s truck in a daze, no doubt trying to figure out what had exactly happened at his parish over the last few weeks.

  I stood alone with Walt now. “Thanks for all your help, Walt. I don’t know what will come of it all, but I appreciate your cooperation and input.”

  “No, no, thank you. You and Peter helped me take care of Buck. I would’ve struggled to do that without you two.” We shook hands. “You think he’ll be okay?” Walt asked, motioning his head toward Peter.

  I turned and glanced at my friend. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “Well, I know he doesn’t care to say goodbye to me, but will you tell him I’ll be praying for him, as soon as I get to my morning prayers.”

  “I sure will, Walt. It was nice to meet you.”

  I walked away, wondering what I would say to Peter when I entered the car. I sat down in the driver’s seat and shut the door. Peter turned towards me.

  “I’m no shepherd, Paul. Please get me out of here.”

  Peter and I flew to Boston later that day. After taking the commuter rail back to campus in Worcester, I called Father Powell in Jamestown. By no surprise to anyone, the statue there had also returned to normal. Father Powell informed us that Donald had not revealed any new messages, and frankly, Father Powell was happy for that. All he wanted was for things to return to the way they were. I couldn’t blame him. We told him to contact us if anything changed, but I knew we wouldn’t hear from him again.

  Over the next weeks, news of the heated statues was leaked to the local media in Rhode Island and in South Carolina. Several stories were done on the news and in the papers, but without any hard evidence the stories died without much interest. As expected, they spun it to look as if both parishes had gone mad.

  It seemed from the moment we landed in Boston Peter was through discussing the statues, leaving in the past like so many other things that had saddened him throughout the years. He didn’t accompany me to meet with Father Chase the next day, nor did he speak about it with anyone else when news spread of the happening.

  Peter spent the next week working out tentative plans for his future. Like they had agreed upon before our trip down south, he and Father Chase worked out a sabbatical that would last six months. At the end of that period, if Peter hadn’t changed his feelings about his faith and his calling, he would have to leave for good.

  Father Chase was kind enough to call a good friend on Peter’s behalf to help him during his hiatus from his calling. Peter would live above a garage in Floral Park, New York, just outside the city, and work on the docks with Father Chase’s friend every other day. Each week he would also be required to participate in various seminars and workshops set up for priests on sabbatical. Father Chase thought this was the best thing for Peter. Experiencing a “normal” job for a brief period would hopefully clear his mind, but at the same time Father Chase made sure Peter would have constant contact with the Church. The various classes Peter would be involved in were set up to let him discuss his issues with psychiatric counselors, as well as other priests. His vows would still be followed, but for six months he could get away and hopefully cleanse his weathered soul. Father Chase was confident this plan would benefit Peter greatly, and he would be back before the six months were even up.

  I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. Father Chase had not been with Peter over the last several weeks. He had not seen firsthand the bitterness and confusion welling up inside Peter. The things he had said, the miracles he had denied, the unfamiliar feel of his company; it was too much for me to believe Peter would return.

  And so I stood outside our house on campus, waiting for Peter to pack up his things so he could make his way to New York. I hadn’t slept much since the day we returned from Edisto. All I could think about was what I would say to Peter when he left. That moment was upon me before I had figured out how to say goodbye.

  He exited the house, duffle bag in hand, and met me at the end of our sidewalk.

  “Want to take a walk?” he asked me.

  “Sure.”

  We turned toward campus on the jagged and broken sidewalk we knew so well.

  “Are you sure you got everything?” I asked.

  “I think so. You don’t own too much when you’ve been a priest for over a decade.”

  It was strange to see him in normal clothes. His blue jeans, cotton T-shirt and tan jacket would look normal on anyone else, but not on Peter. I was reminded of the last time I saw him dressed this way, the night I caught him leaving for the bus station. So much had happened since then, but yet here we were again. What good had come from all this? Maybe Peter would’ve been better served had I let him leave that night. I felt my efforts over the last weeks had only pushed him even further away.

  “I want to say I’ll keep in touch during this break I’m taking, but I don’t want to promise something when I don’t know if I can keep my word. I’ve decided,” he took a deep breath, “I’ve decided if I’m truly going to get away from this life for a little while, it won’t help if I’m constantly calling and visiting.”

  “I understand. Will you stay in New York the whole time?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve looked over the different things Father Chase has given me the chance to do. Some of the workshops and seminars involve traveling. Those decisions will hopefully work themselves out.”

  “Well, I think this will help. I’m happy for you.”

  “No you’re not.”

  I smiled. “How do you always know when I’m lying?”

  “You look awkward when you’re not telling the truth.”

  “I’ll have to work on that.”

  “No, please don’t.”

  After a few minutes we curved around the classroom buildings and approached the church.

  “Do you think you’ll come back?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to answer that right now. Give it time.”

  I nodded, looking to the ground as the wind blew fallen leaves atop my shoes. “You want to hear something strange?” Peter asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You’d think I would have constantly thought about those statues over the last few days, but I haven’t at all. You know what’s occupied my mind when I think back on our two trips?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s something Walt said on that back porch. He suddenly began to talk about a little girl in Costa Rica he helps out through a program with his church. He sends her letters and money, and even exchanges pictures with her.”

  I thought back to the little girl Peter had mentioned weeks earlier. I had dreamt about her the night before we left for Rhode Island, and thought about her several other times in the following days. I remember thinking that I wished Peter had never met her.

  “Why did he bring her up?” I asked.

  “I guess I mentioned that I’d been through a lot of stuff that was out of my control. I think he brought her up because he was trying to comfort me, trying to show me that everyone suffers, even those who don’t deserve it.”

  “Had he ever visited her?”

  “He said when he started the program about a year ago, he had always been afraid of traveling places. Just a strange phobia, I guess. But about two months ago he seriously considered going down there to finally meet her.”

  “And did he go?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  He looked around, hesitating. “The day Walt was going to buy a plane ticket he went to the doctor because of some pain he’d been having in his stomach. He got diagnosed with cancer, Paul.”

  I gasped. “That’s terrible.”

  “He’s starting chemotherapy next week. He hadn’t even told that friend of his. Buck was his name, I think, wasn’t it?”


  I nodded.

  “I really can’t imagine why I was the first person he chose to tell.” Peter paused briefly, letting our thoughts fill the silence. “He went on a little more about the girl he helps out, but I just sat there with a scowl on my face. I didn’t even tell him about the girl I had met in Costa Rica, and how seeing her situation was what brought back all my bitterness. I’ve been thinking about her constantly over these last few weeks, but I suppose I resented him for trying to lecture me; that’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  We moved through the garden gate on the side of the church. Peter walked before me on the narrow path between the flowers, but altered our normal walk when he turned right on the path and approached a bench stationed on the east side of the garden. He sat down and I did the same.

  “When we got back to the motel that night,” Peter went on, “I thought about everything that happened in Rhode Island and Edisto and decided Walt mentioning that little girl was too much. After that, I had to admit something strange was happening, like I did that day in the car, on our way back to the church in Edisto. But when we went back in that church and the statue wasn’t giving off heat anymore, it felt like a slap in the face. Do you know what I mean?”

  I did, but I didn’t want to admit it. In some ways, my faith had been challenged by this whole episode as well.

  “So you didn’t say anything to Walt about that girl you met in Costa Rica? Even after he talked about the girl he knew?”

  “Nope, not a word. But it’s strange, isn’t it? Of all the things he could have said right then, and all the countries he could have sponsored a child in. What do you make of that?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe …” I paused. “Maybe you should think about that while you’re gone.”

  He stood up from the bench and threw his duffle bag over his shoulder. I stood up with him.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more to help you, Peter. I know I can’t change your past, but I wish I could’ve helped you make sense of why it all happened.”

  He shook his head. “No, Paul. Please don’t say that. None of this was your fault. No one could’ve helped me make sense of my life. All the pain started with something I’ll never know the answer to.” He stopped and looked toward the sky, squinting in the sunlight. “I’ll never know why my family didn’t want me after I was born. I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, never felt like I found a home. That was the starting point of all the confusion in my life. I feel like they must’ve thought I’d have a better life somewhere else, but I wish they wouldn’t have thought that.”

  “Well, I wish I could agree, but then I might not have met you.”

  He smiled and held out his hand. “I want to thank you for your friendship, Paul, over the last five years, but mainly over the course of these last few days. You’ve shown what kind of man you are.”

  I shook his hand and nodded, but couldn’t offer anything in return. My emotions wouldn’t let me.

  He walked away down the rock path of the garden, but before he had taken five strides, he turned back.

  “Paul?” He looked me directly in the eyes. “Pray for me.”

  “Of course, Peter.”

  He moved down the path and out of sight. I glanced to my right and saw a statue of Mary resting on a concrete base in the garden. Without taking my eyes off her, I walked over and knelt before the statue.

  25

  SIX MONTHS after that strange night, I stood on the beach late in the afternoon, facing the waters and the boundless sky. My favorite pair of overalls hung on my bare shoulders as the sand blew at my feet in the coastal gusts. In my right hand I held Walt’s violin, and in the other, I held a faded photograph. It was my favorite picture, a snapshot taken the day Walt and I went out fishing on my friend’s boat, the day Walt almost caught a shark, and the day he told me how Olivia had died and how he had abandoned his son.

  I looked out over the drifting tides as I had done so many times before. But the sea was different today. It was calm, with no waves gliding across the surface. The water seemed like thick jelly that had no notion of acting like itself. I suppose I always knew the ocean would be somber in the last days of Walter Henderson’s life.

  I could put this off no longer, knowing I had made a promise to my friend and it was time to follow through. I moved forward into the first of the waves, the kind that trickle over your feet in a soft and pleasant way. The water was chilled by the winter air that had just begun to fade into spring, but I ignored the cold. I kept my focus straight ahead, not stopping until I was waist deep in the sea.

  “Well,” I began, “I suppose I’ve had him for as long as I’m entitled to, and it’s time for him to be back with you. He asked me to give you his violin, so that you’d have it when he got up there. I suppose I’m doing the right thing by coming out into these waters.” I paused in speaking to Walt’s wife as I looked up at the clouds. “I think the seagulls and pelicans will miss Walt’s music in the morning, just as much as me, maybe. I thought about learning how to play, but I don’t have a musical bone in my body, Olivia, so I wouldn’t be doin’ anyone any favors.” I laughed, but only to help contain my emotions. “My mama always said you don’t get appreciated until ya’ die, and I think that’s true. I’m sure I won’t realize all the things Walt’s done for me until he’s gone, and I’m sorry for that. But assure him that I got everything in order. I went to the bank and saw his lawyer. All his assets are being put together and a check will be sent to that children’s home in Aiken, like he wanted. It wasn’t much, God bless him, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. And of course I’ll take care of his most prized asset.” I turned around and glanced at the back porch. Although he was only a yellow dot from so far away, I saw Walt’s sidekick lying down on the steps. I knew in the back of my mind that he was also in the winter of his life, but I couldn’t bear to think about that. “I’ll take care of Sam. I’ll take him on walks, give him his favorite foods and let him sleep in the bed with me. He’s been noticeably sad, but he’ll be okay. He’s strong, like Walt.”

  I looked down at the picture of Walt and me fishing. It’s strange, but I always felt different when I gazed at a picture of someone who had passed on, like they were staring back at me somehow. Although the doctors had said Walt still had a day or two left, he was already gone. The cancer had consumed him so much at this point he hadn’t spoken a word in nearly a week.

  I folded up the picture and stuffed it down through the hole in Walt’s violin. “Anyway,” I continued, “I’m sorry I never met you in person, Olivia, but I know we’ll have that chance if I ever make it over to the other side. I’m sad Walt’s leaving me, but I’m glad you two will get the chance to be together again. He’ll be there pretty soon, and I know he’ll play this for you as soon as he arrives.”

  I laid the violin down on the surface of the water and gave it a nudge. It floated delicately out to sea, letting me watch it as I recalled the many mornings I had listened to Walt’s music.

  Suddenly, in a moment that defied the laws of the earth, a slight wave moved away from the land. It came from behind me, rippling up like a speed bump and taking the violin away. Eventually, the wave fell back into the sea, joining the rest of its brothers. It left the violin on the surface, now fifty yards separated from me.

  A few minutes later, I arrived back on the beach. I looked down at my wet overalls suffocating my skin and chilling my bones. I laughed at myself, thinking how big a fool I must have looked like. When I approached Walt’s back porch, Sam began to wag his tail, just as he always did, but slower than normal. I sat down and rubbed his head.

  Just then, I heard the slam of a car door. I walked to the side of the house along with Sam and saw a man with a ragged beard running up into his disheveled hair. He stood in Walt’s driveway in jeans and a flannel shirt, looking around like he was lost. “May I help you?” I yelled to him.

  He leaned around the corner of the house and awkwardly waved to me. His steps toward me w
ere slow, as if he were unsure of how to answer my question. I could tell he wondered what I was doing in soaking wet clothes, but he didn’t ask about my attire. “Buck Washington, right?”

  “That’s right. Do I know you?”

  “I met you months ago, but you may not remember me.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I do.”

  “That’s okay. Is Walt home? Walter Henderson was his full name. I’d like to speak with him if I could.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Walt’s been in the hospital for over a month now. The doctors say he ain’t got but a day or so left.”

  I tried to recall the few people who had visited Walt over the years, wondering if this was an old friend of his. But despite the familiarity of his eyes, I felt I had never seen this man.

  “Oh,” he finally said. “I’m sorry. I knew he had cancer, but I didn’t know it had progressed so quickly.”

  I nodded. “Now, how did we meet? And how’d you know Walt?”

  “Do you think we can go and sit somewhere for a minute?”

  I looked him up and down. “Sure.”

  I led him over to Walt’s back porch where we found a seat on the rocking chairs. He took in his surroundings like his life depended on doing so. “I bet you two played checkers all the time,” he finally said.

  I looked behind us at the checkerboard leaning up against Walt’s rusty lantern. “We did. Got a row of tally marks etched in the porch over yonder that kept track of our record against each other. There’s probably a thousand marks carved by my pocket knife in that beat-up, old wood.” I fell silent as a sad thought suddenly hit me. “I guess I won’t be playin’ much anymore.”

  “I used to love to play that game as a child,” he said. “I grew up around a bunch of other children, so I always had someone to play with. I guess I was lucky for that.”

  I decided I was through with small talk. “Do you mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  He sat up and rubbed his pant legs. “Sure, sorry. My name is Peter Davis. I met you when I came—”