Embracing Darkness (62 page)

Twenty-Four
Things That Fall Apart Stay Broken
 

Father Poole had a lot of time on his hands. Although it had been a week since Sue Ellen’s attack, and all had been quiet, Phineas was feeling increasingly uneasy. It wasn’t just what had happened to the Hartley girl but how lately everything was collapsing around him like a house of cards next to an open window during a hurricane.

It greatly pained the priest to think that all his sacrifices might end up in vain, as matters on the hill appeared to be worsening by the day. It was becoming painfully clear to Father Poole that he might not be able to continue to pull off the charade of the existence of the Benson Home or keep the church and rectory financially afloat.

Church attendance was again drastically down. Sunday’s collection tally had thus dwindled to almost nothing. Moreover, Billy Norwin had been forced to leave the hill for God only knew where. Father Poole checked the south side of the maple every day for a message from Billy, but as yet there was none. Meanwhile there was the pressure of Captain Ransom’s ongoing investigation. When Ransom came up to the Hartley residence for two follow-up interviews, he carefully investigated St. Andrew’s and its rectory in hopes of finding something that might lead him to the truth about Sue Ellen’s attack. Even after a week she was still not cooperating. She had only offered a lie to the policeman, accusing Billy Norwin of assaulting her. Ransom still found this to be farfetched.

The worst development for Father Poole, however, was that the love of his life was apparently dying, and he couldn’t be with her as often as he wanted. Given recent events, too much time away from the hill was just not feasible, and there was no one whom he could fully trust to watch over the church
and
the children in his absence. Mrs. Keats was too feeble to be trusted for more than an hour or so, and Jack White had his own duties around the grounds that occupied him constantly. So Phineas was resigned to telephoning Sister Ignatius as often as he could, but many times he was told that she was asleep.

In his office Father Poole leaned back in his chair, put his right foot up on the desk, and crossed it with the left. He removed a rubber band from the bundle of papers sent by the archdiocese that he had to peruse before his sermon the following Sunday. He had just begun reading when a reference to Bishop John Ramsey caught his eye. He reflected on the man so named, partly because his heart was not into sermon-writing today.

Of the three bishops during Father Poole’s tenure at St. Andrew’s, two were pleasant and affable, showing an abundance of personality. The first, Archibald Kanter, had been highly congenial to Father Phineas, who at the time had just been appointed to the parish of St. Andrew’s. Bishop Kanter was especially fond of performing card tricks and taught several to the young priest. When this mentor suffered a massive stroke in 1927, he was replaced by an equally friendly sort, Ronald Rivers. The new Bishop had tried, albeit without success, to teach the mechanically challenged Father Poole how to drive an automobile. Both of these men were what Phineas thought of as “the right kind to lead.” Unfortunately, however, Bishop Rivers didn’t last long either. In 1933 he was accused of gambling away money from the diocese on horse-racing.

The successor was the antithesis of his two predecessors in terms of congeniality. Bishop John Ramsey was a hard, austere, dull man not given to long conversations or small talk. Generally speaking, he was insipid, pompous, mean-spirited, and envious. An even worse trait in Father Poole’s eyes, however, was Bishop Ramsey’s indifference to those in need.

Phineas discovered this quite early in Ramsey’s tenure when he visited the new bishop on a matter of great importance.

“Congratulations on your new appointment, Excellency,” said Father Poole, kissing Ramsey’s ring.

“Do be seated, Father,” replied Ramsey, who was carefully scrutinizing the priest in an attempt to find something wrong with him. The Bishop sat back in his chair and paid scant attention to Phineas’s first fifty or so words, still trying to detect the slightest imperfection in his subordinate’s person or conduct.

“And I believe,” Father Poole was saying, “that these children can benefit greatly from shelter in my church. I ask only… .”

“Father,” Ramsey interrupted.

“Yes, Excellency?”

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of a name is Poole? It certainly is an uncommon name for a Catholic.”

Father Poole chuckled nervously, trying to find a humorous response. “Yes, it is actually. It’s British, I believe. My Father was a Congregationalist turned atheist. My mother, born in Ireland, raised me as a Catholic, much to the chagrin of my father’s side of the family.”

“Because those on your father’s side were WASPS,” Ramsey said bluntly.

“Yes, you can say that.”

“I
did
say that, Father.”

Phineas bowed his head for a second to recompose himself. This interview wasn’t going as planned. He knew that he needed to get the Bishop’s consent for the Benson Home for Abused and Abandoned Boys if it were going to happen legitimately.

“Irish,” Ramsey said in a louder voice than earlier. “
My
family’s roots are in Scotland.”

“Well now!” rejoined Father Poole, attempting a jovial tone. “The land of St. Andrew, just like my church.”

“My ancestors, before coming to this country, fought your people!” announced Ramsey.

“I’m not sure I follow you, Excellency.”

“I mean your Protestant ancestry,” replied Ramsey. “I’m one hundred percent Scottish stock on my father’s side as well as my mother’s. And
both
sides were Catholic. My people fought off those Presbyterian bastards and didn’t give in to their Calvinist heresy!”

“I believe,” said Phineas, “that my father’s ancestors belonged to the Church of England. They were, in other words, Anglicans.”

“I’m aware of what the Church of England is, Father, and what its followers call themselves. I’m simply referring to all those Protestant bastards.”

Father Poole leaned forward in his chair, galvanized by a sudden burst of courage. “That’s all well and good, Excellency, but I don’t see what it has to do with my reason for being he… .”

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME, IMPUDENT PRIEST!” exploded the Bishop.

This time Father Poole didn’t say a word.

“Now, as I was saying,” continued Ramsey. “My people didn’t sell out. They didn’t flee to Ireland, though that would have been the easiest thing for them to do. No! They stayed and fought to keep the true faith of their forefathers, to remain steadfast and true to their Catholicism. They faced adversity and dealt with it. They didn’t run. I am only glad that your Irish mother had sense enough to raise you as a Catholic.”

Father Poole waited a few moments so as not to appear to be interrupting the Bishop. “Unfortunately,” he ventured, “my mother passed away some time ago.”

Phineas expected that the man would offer a word or two of condolence. Not surprisingly, however, he did not. Father Poole thus took it upon himself to revert to the topic that he’d come to discuss in the first place.

“I don’t know whether you heard me before, Excellency, but I am here on business of a most important nature. You see, there are these chil… .”

“I’m a Scot
and
a Catholic,” nattered Ramsey. “Now just think how few of us there are, Father. My grandparents on my mother’s side came to this country and gave birth to her in this very city. My father came here as a child. Marrying a Scottish Catholic was paramount to them both. Had I married instead of joining the Church, I’d have chosen the same as my parents.”

Father Poole thought,
What
the
hell
am
I
doing
here?
Clearly
this
man
is
on
another
planet,
and
he
obviously
doesn’t
like
me
or
anything
not
Scottish
Catholic
for
that
matter
.

Phineas took a deep breath and made one last attempt to bring up the matter of the abused boys currently residing at St. Andrew’s. “Excellency, there are these boys. They are fine boys, but they come from horrendous backgrounds. They’ve been severely mistreated and abused. I would like to open up a home for them within the confines of my church. There’s ample room in the rectory, which to the casual observer could pass for a hotel.”

Ramsey brought his fingertips together and inhaled deeply. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.

“I-I beg your… .”

“Don’t you know that this country is in a deep depression?”

“Y-Yes, Excellency, I… .”

“And don’t you realize the project you’re talking about would require money?”

“Yes, Excellency, but I wouldn’t simply look at it like… .”

“And are you aware that this diocese does not have abundant funds like other archdioceses such as Boston and New York?”

“I understand, Excellency.”

Father Poole once again bowed his head and began twisting a ring on his finger. It was one he’d had made and it closely resembled the ring his mother had given him when he’d entered the seminary; the same ring with which Zachary Black had absconded.

Remembering the original ring’s inscription, he thought of his mother again.
She
had
her
faults
, he thought to himself,
but
how
I
loved
her
.

Father Poole lifted his head and smiled as best as he could. “Thank you for your time, Excellency.” He then rose, but Ramsey remained seated. The priest offered the Bishop his hand. Ramsey reciprocated by offering Phineas his ring, which the priest kissed.

Father Poole, still in a daze in his office, played with the rubber band and recalled what happened after the disastrous meeting with Bishop Ramsey. During the thirty-mile return bus ride to Holly, Phineas had begun stroking the replica of the ring given him by his mother and thought back to his childhood, something he didn’t like to do. Before the bus made its first stop in Derry, Father Poole was fast asleep.

He dreamed that he was in his office at St. Andrew’s. The year was 1926. He had just come back from a trip into town to get the mail, first delivering Ben Benson’s letters. As usual there was no correspondence for Sister Ignatius or Mrs. Keats. Among the rest was the usual weekly missive from Father Brian Leonard, a good friend of Phineas’s at St. Luke’s; a card from Mrs. Hillard, most likely thanking St. Andrew’s for her husband’s recent funeral; a letter from Dolores Pennywhistle, probably a reminder about the Fourteenth Annual Holly Orphanage Picnic; and an envelope whose return address read R. Poole, M.D., 35 Faulkner Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. A chill came over Father Poole when he saw the last item. He slid his finger underneath the seal and scanned the letter.

April 23, 1926

Dear Phineas,

My boy, it’s been far too long. I know we have this thing standing between us, and we have much to sort out and talk about, but I think it’s terrible for a son not to want to speak to his own father. I remember seeing you at your mother’s funeral. Have you forgiven
her
and not me? During all that time you kept in contact with her, despite how she treated us both.

Please don’t think this letter is an attempt to destroy your memory of your mother. If you do answer, even if it is just to tell me to leave you alone, can you at least tell me why you have shut me out all these years while you and your mother remained close? I know you blame me for doing what we did in the shed, you and I. My only regret is that now you resent me for it. Why, Phineas, is there no room for forgiveness in your heart? Doesn’t the Church teach forgiveness no matter what the transgression?

I hope you will respond. I would try calling, but I suppose it’s easier for me to air my feelings on paper. Just know that what we did was not meant to hurt or scar you. I’d like to think it was to teach you something about this world in which we live. Remember that you are my son and that anything I have done with you and for you I’ve done out of love.

Your father who loves and misses you dearly

P.S. Happy belated birthday

Father Poole’s first impulse was to throw out the letter. He started to crumple it up but stopped short of rolling it into a tight ball and tossing it across the room into the wastepaper basket. After smoothing out the creases, he walked over to his desk and put the letter in his bottom drawer under three different versions of the Bible. He wasn’t exactly ready to say farewell to the man he’d once called Daddy, even though to Phineas, there was good reason for doing so.

The bus that took Father Poole back to Holly from Manchester made its second stop in Hampstead. As the passenger sitting next to Phineas climbed over him to exit, the priest shifted in his seat and began dreaming of his childhood. At the same time, in a modest house on Faulkner Street in Portsmouth, a retired doctor dreamt about one of the most difficult times in his life.

It was 1899. Seven-year-old Phineas ran into the living room, loudly imitating the sounds of a locomotive. His mother, sitting on the couch as a queen sits on her throne, smiled at her son’s mimicry. “CHOO CHOO CHOO CHOO,” first slowly and then faster and faster until the CHOO’s gradually blended into one another.

Dr. Robert Poole emerged from the kitchen, where he’d been reading the paper. It was his first day off in the last six, and he was looking forward to twenty-four hours of doing absolutely nothing.

“Phineas!” he called to his son. “Can you keep it down, please? Daddy’s trying to relax.”

His wife gave Robert a disapproving look, not agreeing with his attempt to stifle young Phineas’s creativity, something that she was sure would benefit her son in the future. “You go on, sweetheart,” said Mary Margaret Brennan-Poole to her son. “You go right on playing choochoo train.” She kept her eyes on Robert as she said this. “Your father is out of sorts as always.”