Embracing Darkness (41 page)

“He likes playing with himself,” Molly Kelly said bluntly, not believing her own ears because she had been more candid than she wished.

“I beg your pardon?” Sister Ignatius gasped. “YOU MEAN TO SAY THAT HE ENJOYS WAGGING HIMSELF OFF?”

“SISTER!” scolded Father Poole.

Everyone at the table shifted uneasily in their chairs at the Sister’s outburst. Father Poole was aghast at her choice of words in front of company. For a split second he feared that she’d gone back on the glue again after having been clean for several months now. Since he didn’t smell it on her, however, he dismissed his suspicions.

“Yes, Sister. That is correct, if you have a mind to put it that way,” Molly snapped back, as conscious of the nun’s disdain for her as ever. “His own mamma told me she’d catch him doing it every time she’d turn around. He’d do it on his bed, in the bathtub, on the toilet, at the table, whether doing his homework or eating dinner.”

Molly seemed to feel more at ease talking about it now, since all she was doing was to enumerate the locations of the sin in question and not so much repeat the nature of the vulgar idea.

“Oh, his mother said he’d do it any place in the house. Why, it got so bad that she was finding stains on her sofa, on her rugs, on his bedclothes. She said that she had first caught him doing it when he was an infant. Just reached down into his nappy, he did, and left his hands there. She said he even preferred keeping his hands down there to holding his bottle. Mrs. Foster thought she’d try not feeding him until he’d take his hands away from that business to hold his formula, but he didn’t. She didn’t want him dying or anything. I mean, what kind of mother would starve her own offspring to death? So she accommodated him all his days and held the bottle while he left his hands down below. As he got older, she’d feed him from his highchair. He’d still keep his hands down there, doing his business, while she’d feed him his broccoli and cauliflower.”

A few of the assembled group chuckled in spite of themselves. Father Poole frowned disapprovingly, as did Sister Ignatius. It quickly ceased.

“Mr. Foster would have none of it,” Mrs. Kelly went on. “He told his son that anytime he saw him touching his business, he’d kick it.”

Mr. Wilson interrupted by inhaling loudly and flailing his arms in the air. After this display he exclaimed, “He kicked his son in the balls so hard once that he sent him flying five feet in the air! It was during the Founder’s Day Picnic at Slater’s Quarry. I know! I saw it with my own eyes!”

Molly ignored Albert Wilson and his coarse language. “His mother,” she continued, “that is to say Joey’s mother, told me that the last time the boy—well, you know—it came out kind of pinkish, like blood was mixed in with it. She feared for her son’s safety as well as her chances to have grandchildren. I told her that we Catholics—not including her, since she’s an Episcopalian—look out for those in need.”

Father Poole sighed and said, “And so we add another to our happy home.” His mood was grim.

“We know what you’re thinking, Father Phineas,” said Mr. Wickham in his falsetto voice, “but you have us to supplement your income. We’ll dig deeper into our pockets than ever before.”

At this everyone around the table except Charlotte Wickham reacted subtly at the promise of increased financial aid offered by tight-fisted Mr. Wickham.

“We’ll also start convincing others to come to church. Hell, times being what they are, folks can’t afford to drop ten dollars at the bar, but they can spare a single dollar once a week. Can’t they?”

Miles Wickham searched for a show of anonymous agreement at the table, yet everyone bowed their heads—all, that is, except Father Poole and Sister Ignatius. Mr. Wickham’s comment sounded naïve to the others present, and they voiced their opinion not with their lips but by their silence.

The priest was a practical man, but Phineas wasn’t going to voice his opposition either to his congregants or to Sister Ignatius. He then thought of how his relationship with her was possibly damning him for eternity. And perhaps it isn’t stealing from the collection plate when that money
was
going toward church matters and not lining his own pocket. He also thought that perhaps taking in more children was the answer to making up for the sins he was committing with Ellen.

“And what about the other one?” Father Poole asked confidently, now with a sense of optimism.

Albert Wilson cleared his throat loudly to get everyone’s attention, which worked surprisingly well given that no one paid much attention to him most of the time. He was a busy sort of fellow, running his own dress shop in town. In fact, he was so good at making dresses that women desired them more than sex with their husbands. Albert Wilson never married or was known to keep a lady’s company, and not once had he confided in his friends, family, or customers his fancy for any woman. Some townspeople thus said that he must be homosexual. That idea, coupled with his feminine mannerisms, made Albert Wilson the token homosexual in Holly, whether he knew it or not, and indeed whether he was homosexual or not. Retaliation for being a man who liked to sleep with other men was never a concern in Holly, as one homosexual was a novelty. Had there been others, they would most likely not have been regarded favorably.

This was the extent of how people thought of Albert Wilson. He was an inconsequential little man of about fifty and fairly soft-spoken most of the time, so much so that his nasal voice could be detected only when he spoke above his usual whisper, which generally didn’t happen unless he was outside the confines of his place of business. Albert Wilson never had a contrary thing to say about anyone, with the exception of Charlotte Wickham who had a habit of telling people what they
weren’t
instead of what they
were
. For example, she had told Edgar Wannamaker once that he wouldn’t understand what long-time residents of Holly would think of his fascination with cooking since he wasn’t a New Englander by birth, instead of telling him that his unique enjoyment of cooking could be attributed to his upbringing in New York City. Charlotte had also told Albert Wilson that she didn’t share the town’s view that he understood women well. She had added, “But how could you? You’re not a woman,” instead of telling him that he couldn’t understand them because he was a man
.

“Rex Gunther,” began Mr. Wilson, “is the son of Big Rex Gunther, ‘The Pride of Holly’ as he’s known.”

Father Poole and Sister Ignatius had no idea what this meant and gave Albert a puzzled look. He nodded as if to acknowledge their confusion and explained.

“He’s a boxer. Pretty good in Cambridge pugilism circles. Tough guy and very intimidating. The most intimidating man I’ve ever met in my life.”

Father Poole snorted to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear. He was thinking to himself,
You’ve
never
met
Ezra
Hodges.
Now
there’s
a
model
for
intimidation
. Had his parishioners not known Father Poole better, they’d have thought his grunt was a derisive reply to Albert Wilson, something to effect of
My
Aunt
Petula
would
scare
you,
little
man!

The dressmaker took no notice of Father Poole’s laugh. “The boy’s what you’d call a two-sexer.”

“I believe the scientific term is ‘hermaphroditic,’” said Charlotte Wickham, who was eager to discredit Albert Wilson whenever she could.

“Yes. He’s an her-ma-phro-dite,” Albert said carefully, so as not to make an error in pronouncing the word, and narrowed his eyes in Charlotte’s direction. “He’s even starting to develop breasts.”

He stopped as he realized that the ladies appeared to take considerable exception to that word’s coming from a man, even if it
was
Albert Wilson.

“And his father used him for punching practice every so often. While beating the child, his father would say that, if the boy was gonna grow tits, he might as well get rid of the penis.”

This time none of the ladies objected to Albert’s choice of words, perhaps because there simply was no other way of putting it without sounding vulgar. When it came to the sex organs, one needed to tell it as it is.

“Oh, dear God!” Sister Ignatius exclaimed. “What do we do for someone with that sort of debility? Surely he can’t hope to lead a normal life! Do we care for him for the rest of his days? I mean, the rest of
our
days, since we’ll be dead and buried long before he’ll ever be
.
”

Father Poole put his hand on the nun’s shoulder as if to quiet her. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said, patting it gently. “God will surely show us the way. We mustn’t turn these poor lambs away. We must remember, as our friends here are reminding us, the innkeeper who turned Joseph and Mary away.”

Miles Wickham slapped both of his hands on the table and arose quickly, proclaiming “Then it’s settled!”

So it came to pass that Father Poole, whether he liked it or not, now had his sanctuary for the abused and abandoned. He even had Argyle Hobbs erect a plaque, “THE BENSON HOME FOR ABUSED AND ABANDONED BOYS,” over the back door of the rectory. Its placement was arranged so that Captain Ransom wouldn’t see it when he came to collect his bribe every month.

Sister Ignatius didn’t agree with the name, claiming that it was inaccurate. “They’re
not
all boys, Phineas. And none of them was abandoned, unless of course you’re trying to be metaphorical about Jessica.”

Father Poole paid little attention to her occasional hounding about the new name for the rectory at St. Andrew’s. It served its purpose, and that was enough for him. When he did think about the name, or say it out loud, no sooner did the word “abandoned” leave his lips than he would think about Zachary Black. Although the boy had abandoned
them
, he thought that it was right to include Zachary in naming the rectory, since it was Zachary who had first made him realize that there were children in the Holly community who needed him.

All the five children got along very well together, becoming as close with each other and Father Fin, as he once again began to be called, and Sister Ignatius as any family could ever wish to be. The new boys learned how to climb the maple out back, as taught to them by Jonas. Jessica, no longer quite so little, also learned along with Joey, Rex, and Theo.

The children always kept close to the rectory, having been told time and time again by Father Poole and Sister Ignatius not to go into the town below. They were even scolded during their first winter together by Father Poole, who told them he was disappointed that they had used their makeshift sled to go sleigh-riding down “The Path to Salvation” not once but three times, almost killing themselves and also risking being seen by the wrong people.

The troop swore they’d never go down the hill again. That is, until one day in mid-July of 1936 when the five of them were sitting among the uppermost branches of the maple and gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. Just as it had been for Jonas several years before, it had become the favorite view of all the children. They spent hours upon hours in the tree. From there they could see the entire town of Holly and all its inhabitants going about their lives, the vast expanses of farmland around Holly, the surrounding towns, and of course that endlessly blue vista. And as they gazed with imaginative eyes, they wondered what the ocean must be like, what monsters lived in it, how many pirate ships had gone down there, what prevented the water from rushing into New Hampshire, how many drops of rain it must have taken to create such a vast amount of water, and when they would finally be free from the confines of their situation to see it all up close.

The day was hot and sticky down below, but the tree danced in the air as a constant breeze blew through its leaves, offering some much needed relief to the children, who had been promised lemonade by Mrs. Keats if they stayed outside while she made them lunch. Jonas and Joey sat next to each other, as they always did, on their own branch, while Jessica and Theo sat together on theirs. Rex sat by himself yet didn’t sense too much isolation because his branch was between the two limbs where the others sat.

Still, Rex always felt a bit out of the loop when it came to the other four. After all, Jessica and Theo were both nine, and Jonas and Joey would soon be turning eighteen. Rex was in the middle at age twelve. It was hard for him to relate to boys who were on the cusp of adulthood and almost impossible to pretend he was nine again. He also didn’t know yet whether he was more like Jessica or the boys. He liked playing baseball, climbing the tree, and tackling the others, but then so did Jessica.

As hard as it was for Rex to define his emerging identity, he found comfort in knowing that he, with his ever-growing breasts and changing voice, wasn’t the only one who was different among the pack. Each of the children was different in some way. Jessie, as she was now called, was the only girl among them, and Jonas was the only Negro. Joey seemed as though he were crippled, because no one ever saw his hands. And Theo, with his wrecked teeth, couldn’t eat what the rest of them could. This included sourballs, apples, licorice, gum, or Mrs. Keats’s giant chocolate-chip cookies.

“HEY, Y’ALL,” Jonas yelled from his and Joey’s branch. “Let’s go see the ocean!”

“We’re already seeing it,” Jessie said.

“What, now?” Joey replied, not believing that Jonas was serious.

“Now!” he said.

“No way,” Joey said, his hands deep in his pants, going for his fifth ejaculation of the day. “Sis’d castrate us. Sorry to tell you guys, but ain’t nobody gonna do that to me! I’m stayin’ put!”

Jonas laughed, knowing what castration was, but the comment went right over the heads of the other three, who lounged on their respective branches.

“I’m serious, y’all,” Jonas said. “C’mon! Les’ go!”