The Paper Shepherd

by Olivia Landis

  Copyright © 2018 by Olivia Landis.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2018

  ISBN 978-1-54394-529-4 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-5439-453-00 (ebook)

  Book Baby Publishing

  7905 N. Crescent Blvd.

  Pennsauken, NJ 08110

  www.bookbaby.com

  To my grandparents, whose love survived everything

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Prologue

  Father Maxwell Franklin stood atop the cement stairs to St. Jude’s Catholic Elementary School, stalwart against the early autumn wind. A storm was rolling in darkening the skies above the small city of Hectortown, NY. The whole scene-- the clouds, the wind, the little girl sitting on the stairs in her gray and burgundy uniform, reminded him of a day many years ago when he himself was a student here. The little girl couldn’t be much more than seven-years-old by now, her elbows planted firmly on her knees and her mouth fixed in a determined pout. Her bright, emerald eyes stared off into the distance determined not to cry. They alone betrayed her identity. She would have melted into any second-grade class without much notice from anyone but himself. He alone knew those eyes.

  The wind picked up, blowing the little girl’s curly black hair away from her cheeks and over her wool clad shoulders as easily as it blew the dried, orange leaves across the street. The leaves swirled in circles and then followed each other through the alley between the church and the brick school building to the play ground where their story began. It was there, on the black top inside the chain linked fence next to the parking lot of the Freezy King that Father Maxwell, or Max, as he was known then, had first seen those eyes. It was there that he had made the decision that would determine his destiny. He could not, on that September afternoon in 1987, have had any appreciation that it would lead him inevitably to this moment.

  It had been an unseasonably warm and humid afternoon for September in New York State’s Southern Tier. A cold front had just begun to move in, kicking up wind and darkening the skies. Max had spent the afternoon in the library researching a history paper which was why he was running through the alley a full hour after the elementary school was released home to cartoons and after school snacks. That was when he saw her. She was tiny, and he half expected that the wind would carry her away. Six boys, between ten and twelve-years-old circled around her, taunting her. They branded her a Libyan terrorist, echoing the latest bigoted fears rippling through 1987 America. They mixed in images and crumbs from the nightly news broadcasts their parents watched after dinner, calling her “Moron Qadhafi” and “towel head”. The largest of the boys held her backpack out. The girl didn’t react. She just stood there like a statue and stared off at the approaching black storm clouds, trying to outlast them. Perhaps she, too, hoped the wind would lift her away from here.

  The bullies spiraled in for the final attack and Max, terrified himself, knew it was up to him to help her. Fairly tall for an11-year-old, he still knew he couldn’t physically fend off all of them. Seeing the black clouds rushing in fast, casting a shadow over the down town area, a plan began to take shape in his head like a scene from a movie he never thought he would get to act out. He approached the boys and in his firmest voice said, “Leave her alone.” The boys ignored him. He crossed into the circle, standing directly behind the little girl. He was a whole head taller. “I said give her books back and leave her alone.” Max was disappointed but not at all surprised this did not work. Time for plan B, he thought.

  As Max stalled, the wind became furious. The storm clouds were right over them now. Max, locking his knees together to keep them from shaking, closed his eyes and raised his hands above his head. He muttered incomprehensibly to himself, his voice growing gradually more forceful. The bullies stopped circling and stared at him curiously. The girl’s hair was flying unbridled around her head in the gale. Max opened his eyes, his voice now booming. A jagged light ripped through the sky. Now was the opportunity he had been waiting for. “By the power of Almighty God, I command you!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The boys dropped the book bag and ran. Max stood motionless, his hands still in the air, until they boys disappeared around the corner.

  “Are you okay?” he asked the little girl, still a little out of breath from fear and exertion. He picked up her bag and handed it to her. Her eyes were wide in amazement. She couldn’t utter a sound. Max felt a drop of rain hit the top of his head with a chilling splash. There was no time to reflect on his victory now. Within minutes the serendipitous storm would drench them. The little girl remained motionless.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the hand. They ran out of the schoolyard, down a hill toward the main street of town. The skies opened into a deluge. Their legs pumped hard as they hopped over gutters and puddles. The girl could barely keep her eyes open with the rain that was pouring down her face. She had no idea where she was going, following the stomping of Max’s feet. They raced past a barbershop with a tall blue and red pole, an ice cream store, a bookstore, and a post office. They ran until the little girl’s legs felt like they were shaking, until her hair was soaked and matted to her head. Water fell in sheets from the awnings of buildings and thunder grumbled and crashed around them.

  Finally, they turned up a residential street that stretched gently upward toward the mountains surrounding the town. Max turned toward a blue clapboard house, bounding up the porch stairs, the little girl closely in tow. Opening the front door, he led her inside.

  “Max, dear is that you?” a sweet voice floated down from upstairs. A thin, redheaded woman in a green dress looked down at them from the upstairs landing. “My goodness, child, you’re soaked to the bone.” She disappeared for a moment returning with two large towels and glided gracefully down the stairs.

  “You poor things,” she said, handing one towel to Max while draping the other one around the little girl’s shoulders. She rubbed the waif’s thin arms, trying to warm her up. The girl’s blue lips were quivering. Max had draped his towel over his head and was rubbing his hair and face dry.

  “What’s your little friend’s name, Max?”

  “Tiar. Tiar Alfred,” a little voice said. It was the first time Max heard her speak. He had the sudden realization there was a person inside her with its own mind, watching him.

  “Well, Tiar Alfred, would you like some tea and cookies?” the woman asked. Tiar nodded vigorously but still
looked scared. The redheaded woman, Eleanor Franklin, lead the two children into the kitchen. Max pulled a chair out for Tiar which the little girl eyed suspiciously until she realized he meant for her to sit on it. He sat across from her. The two children stared at one another across the table while Mrs. Franklin boiled water for tea. “I should call your parents,” Eleanor said pragmatically as she took homemade cookies out of a tin and put them onto two small plates. “They are probably worried sick about you.”

  “Mama and papa aren’t here,” Tiar said unhelpfully.

  “Well, who is responsible for you?” Mrs. Franklin inquired. The little girl looked at her blankly. “Where do you live, Tiar?”

  “Across town in Ravenwood with my uncle,” the little girl responded. Her English, when she spoke, was slow and flawless with an accent Eleanor could not identify. It sounded like French mixed with something unknown.

  “And what does he do?” Eleanor asked, taking the tea kettle off the stove and pouring steaming hot water into their cups.

  “He’s a doctor, Ma’am.” Mrs. Franklin stopped mid-pour.

  “Not doctor Henry Alfred?” she asked. Tiar nodded. Mrs. Franklin tried not to show her revulsion at the name. As a medical transcriptionist, she knew the name and voice of every doctor in town. Even if her husband, a sheriff’s deputy, did not come home at least once a month with another story about a reckless driving incident or drunken disorderly episode Dr. Alfred’s unscrupulous lawyer would inevitably get him acquitted for; even if the public image Dr. Alfred conveyed was not one of lechery and exploitation; Eleanor could tell from that arrogant, raspy voice, from the laughter he emitted at the expense of his vulnerable, unconscious patients, that this was a man incapable of caring for a child. Mrs. Franklin’s first instinct was to grab Tiar and never let her return to that gigantic house, the cold, empty mausoleum Dr. Alfred purchased ten years earlier as a monument to his own greatness when the bed and breakfast that had been run out of the 8-bed room, 6 bath mansion filed for bankruptcy. Eleanor felt her hand tighten around the handle of the tea kettle as if she were preparing to fight Dr. Alfred off with it right there in her kitchen. You can’t, she reminded herself with a shudder. She’s not your child. Mrs. Franklin looked at the children sitting at her kitchen table oblivious to the overly long pause left by her rumination.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” she offered Tiar kindly. The little girl thought about the dinners she had with her uncle. They usually came from the freezer and were served in divided trays with plastic wrapping over the top. She nodded her head vigorously once again. “Let me call your uncle and make sure it’s alright. Do you know his phone number?” The child reached into her pocket and pulled out a laminated index card. It listed the home and work phone numbers for Dr. Alfred. Eleanor examined the elegant handwriting.

  “Max,” she said, abandoning the tea. “Why don’t you show Tiar your room while I get dinner ready?”

  Max stood up from the table and Tiar followed as he walked back down the hallway and ran, two at a time, up the stairs. Tiar made it up to the top landing just soon enough to see him disappearing into one of the rooms. She stood motionless on the top of the stairs. After a moment, Max popped his head out.

  “Are you coming, silly?” he asked indelicately.

  Tiar proceeded hesitantly, not knowing what spectacle awaited her. But, when she got to the doorway, she saw that it was just an ordinary bedroom. Max was sitting at his desk, an open comic book in front of him. “You can sit on my bed if you like,” he invited. Tiar backed up to the bed and sat down. She didn’t dare take her eyes off him. “Do you like Spiderman?” he asked. She looked at him blankly.

  “How long have you been in town?” Max asked.

  “Three months,” she replied simply.

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” he volunteered, nervously spouting out meaningless small talk. He hated small talk. Yet, the pressure of her silence seemed to squeeze it out of him. He searched his memory for more facts to add to the conversation. “Except for the first two years when we lived in Syracuse. Mom used to teach at the university there.” The green eyes stared back, piercingly.

  “You know Syracuse, right?” She remained silent. “Do you know any cities?”

  “Buffalo,” she said.

  “Buffalo?”

  “Mama and Papa got married in Buffalo.”

  “Are they from there?”

  “No.”

  “Are they from the United States?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you come from?” Max finally asked.

  “Jordan,” she answered. She didn’t elaborate. Max could not tell if she was just shy or if she was having difficulty understanding English. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the rain falling hard against the windows and roof.

  “How did you make them go away?” Tiar asked pointedly after several minutes.

  “I just scared them, that’s all,” Max answered casually. In retrospect, he was fairly sure the boys had retreated from the storm and not from him. He felt silly and embarrassed for his display and hoped to just forget about it. It did not seem like this little girl was going to let him do that. “Bullies are easy to scare,” he parroted back one of his father’s lectures. “If you can convince yourself that you are stronger than them, you can make them believe it too.” Max did not believe this, or any of his father’s axioms. They all appeared to be predicated on the assumption that he had the confidence to bluff, an over-willingness to fight, and absolute moral certitude regarding right and wrong. Max neither presumed nor aspired to have any of these. In this particular instance, his narrow escape using his father’s blue print was a surprise to him. He had expected both he and Tiar to be beaten up. But, he was not going to admit that to her now.

  “You didn’t make the storm come?” she asked, her eyes not diverting from his face for a second. Max laughed, his own eyes darting around the room to avoid hers.

  “No, silly. I was just taking advantage of it for effect. I knew it would scare them. It all seemed like a horror movie. You know…like in the movie The Exorcist.” She stared at him blankly. “Haven’t you ever seen the movie The Exorcist?” he asked, shocked.

  “Mama and Papa don’t let us watch movies,” she reported.

  “Hummm,” Max responded. There was another pause.

  “What were those magic words you were saying?” she asked.

  “That was just nonsense,” Max said. “Well, Latin. But those boys don’t know Latin, so it sounded spooky. It’s not spooky,” he explained. Silence passed.

  “Why?” The little girl asked.

  “Because they’re just words,” Max answered.

  “Why did you help me?” she asked, her brow furrowing in frustration. Max thought for a moment of what might have happened if he hadn’t interceded. His stomach sank again. He could see her standing out on the play ground, soaked through from the rain, alone, her book bag in a dumpster.

  “Because you needed help,” he said finally.

  Tiar looked down at the floor. Her whole body seemed to deflate. Max walked over to the bed and sat down next to her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked brusquely. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor. Her shoulders shook with sobs. “Stop crying,” Max said nervously. “Why are you crying?”

  “I thought you were the angel,” Tiar answered, her voice nearly incomprehensible between sobs. “The angel grandma sent to take care of me. I thought you were going to take me to live with Aunt Josephine, so she could take care of me. But you’re not an angel. And Papa was right. She does hate me for killing grandpapa and never wants to see me again. And so, I’m just alone again. No one is coming for me. I’m just alone.” Max felt a burning in his chest. He reached over and took one of Tiar’s hands in his. He stared this mysterious little girl squarely in the eyes.

  “You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “Not anymore. Not anymore. I promise you. But please, stop crying. You don’t need to cry if I’m here.” Tia
r’s sobs resolved gradually into sniffles. “Are you going to be okay, Tiar?” Max said more softly. He had tried to say her name with the same subtle “R” she had used. It was at once detectable, and yet almost inaudible. The little girl continued to pout. “I didn’t get it right, did I?” Tiar shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” he insisted. “I’m your friend. I don’t want to spend the next ten years mispronouncing your name.”

  “I don’t care,” Tiar said dismissively.

  “I do,” Max insisted. “What does your name mean in Arabic?”

  “Bird,” she answered.

  “Okay, then little bird. That’s something I can pronounce.”

  1

  The gentle swish of a basketball falling in a graceful arc through its net was followed by the stunned silence and then the emphatic, if not loud, cheering of two dozen on lookers. Varsity girls’ sports were never particularly well supported at St. Jude’s Regional Catholic High School. Their junior varsity basketball team was lucky if the few moms who were on car pool duty looked up from their crosswords or knitting to shout an occasional encouraging slogan toward their daughters. These diversions were now abandoned in favor of a freshman who, though seeming content to pass to a team mate at every opportunity, could hit the basket from anywhere on the court. A few serendipitous three pointers, including this one in the final thirty seconds of this preseason scrimmage, grabbed the small crowd’s attention.

  The unusually skilled freshman was Tiar Alfred. Five years had passed since her unexplained arrival in Hectortown, in which time she had grown to be a typical American teenager in many ways. Max Franklin, who was now waiting for her in the stands, had kept his promise to watch over her. Month after month passed and no one sent for her. The months stretched into years and not only did Tiar remain with her uncle in New York, there were no letters or phone calls to indicate what her family’s intentions might be. There was no explanation for why this little girl was sent half way across the world without her parents or brothers to live with her uninterested and ill-tempered relative. For the first few months they knew her, the Franklin family operated under the auspices of “not interfering” and limited themselves to giving Tiar an occasional meal. Eventually they saw there was nothing to interfere with and all but took Tiar in as their own. By now, she was a nearly daily fixture at the Franklin household, usually in the back-yard shooting hoops. Max was acutely aware that his skill on a basketball court was the only reason that his male peers were friendly to him in season and civil to him the rest of the year. He thought that getting Tiar interested in basketball, too, may aid her assimilation into the tight social network that existed in this private school where most of the other students had been together since kindergarten. It was increasingly obvious that she didn’t need his help to be accepted.