Daughter of Australia

Father McIntyre slept through the first bell, then through the second. When the mid-morning toll hollered from the church eaves, he buried his head into the pillow before using every will to rise. He was already late for his meeting with Deacon Johnson.

His pants were wrinkled from sleep, but he did not change them and lifted his soutane from the floor, slid his arms through the sleeves, the fabric thin and coarse. Sluggishly, he buttoned the long row until his fingers fell to open loops. Two buttons were missing. He rubbed the gaps and wondered how long they had been absent, wondered if they had ever been there.

In the office, Deacon Johnson sat behind the desk, situated his glasses upon his nose. He didn’t look at the priest and his face contracted. “You met with Mrs. Fairfield.”

“How’s the new tutor working out?”

“She’s not drawing blood from the child,” he said. “That’s all I care about.”

“You understand the terms of the contract?”

The man leafed through the pages, thick as a book, fanning them through his fingers. “The Fairfields have generously donated thirty thousand dollars to the church.”

Father McIntyre shook his head in disgust.

Deacon Johnson grew quiet, his neck splotching pink. He pushed the contract to the priest. The Bishop’s signature slanted low and sleek, the Deacon’s squat and illegible. Father McIntyre dipped the pen in ink. He scribbled on the empty line and slid the papers back.

“Where are her files?”

“First drawer.” Father McIntyre offered no more assistance, watched indolently as the Deacon rifled through his personal files.

Deacon Johnson played his fingers over the tabs and pulled out the gray folder, flipped through the few pages within its cover, closed it, then dropped it into the metal wastebasket. He lit a match from a small cardboard box, placed it to the papers like a kiss. Flames wrapped the corners, curling and blackening. The name Leonora twisted for an instant before engulfing in blue fire, reducing her small history to smoldering ashes.

Father McIntyre’s body stiffened, his mouth hard. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

White smoke clouded, but neither man pushed it away, just let it linger and spread until diffused. Only the burnt smell remained. Father McIntyre remembered Eleanor Fairfield’s words: Like she never existed at all. Poof!

The Deacon turned his gaze from the ashes to his hands without moving a muscle in his face. “There are to be changes, Colin. The need in this country continues to burden our resources. If we are to have any impact, real spiritual impact, we need missions and priests to run them. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that the Bishop envisions this site as a seminary.” The Deacon rubbed his temples. “The Fairfield money will be used for that purpose. Two new buildings will be constructed, the rectory expanded. The road will be widened from Geraldton.”

The room was stale, moistureless. Father McIntyre’s throat parched. “And the children?”

“Some will stay; the rest will be placed elsewhere.”

The words were hanging, their meaning indigestible, simply lodged somewhere between his head and chest. “Why keep any of the children here?” he asked bitterly. “Why not move them all, send them to work the fishing lines, send them to tuck dynamite in the mine shafts?”

“It was one of Mrs. Fairfield’s conditions.” The Deacon sighed, his face crimson. “As long as Leonora’s anonymity is maintained, the orphanage remains in some capacity.”

Father McIntyre laughed then. Sick, choked laughter that erupted and teared his eyes.

“She’s brilliant. Simply brilliant.”

Deacon Johnson shrank from the priest’s gaiety as one avoids the ill of mind.

“She twists the knife, then makes me grateful she hasn’t pushed it through my heart. Brilliant.” He saw her mind clicking and he was awed by his opponent. He laughed absurdly. “You see,” he spouted, “she had no guarantee that I would keep my silence about Leonora. She knew I could sign a contract—knew we could burn any physical trace of her, but there were too many gaps for a loose tongue. So, she cut it off, you see? Ah, her brilliance shines like a hot pitchfork, doesn’t it? If she dangles the children, just enough, it alone guarantees my silence.”

“You’re overanalyzing, Colin. She just wants what’s best for the church and her new daughter.”

“Her niece,” he corrected sourly. “Her long-lost, dear niece.”

Deacon Johnson’s cheeks sagged, the skin flaccid. “You don’t look well, Colin.”

“I’m not.” He stood to go, spent. “I’m not well at all.”

“Colin.” The Deacon’s voice rose. “Sit down. There’s more.”

Father McIntyre crushed his nose against the door, turned and sank back into the chair. “Of course, there’s more!” he cheered.

The Deacon’s face was soft now, tired as his own, and his heavy cheeks drooped farther next to his receding chin. “Do you know Father Brennan?” he asked quietly.

“No. Should I?”

“He’s a Roman Catholic. One of the priests at Saint Rose. He does a lot of work with the poor, immigrants. He’s a good man.”

Father McIntyre waited, distracted, not understanding the Deacon’s point.

“A couple came to see him,” the Deacon went on. “Newly arrived from Ireland. They had your name with them.” He paused for a moment. “Said they had written you but never heard back . . . about James.”

His body grew brittle as glass, and had there been a breeze, he might have shattered.

The Deacon continued cautiously, “Name was O’Reilly. The wife’s maiden name is O’Connell. Like James’s.” The man raised his eyebrows, joined his hands together on the desk and swirled his thumbs atop and under each other. “I know how you feel about the boy.”

It was all breaking now. Shards ripped across his chest. His mouth opened and closed like a fish in open air, but not a word leaked out.

“It’s his family, Colin.” Pity hung in every crease of the Deacon’s face. “It’s where he belongs.”

“You don’t understand.” Father McIntyre’s voice cracked. “James is not like the others. He’s kind. He’s smart. He’s . . .” His eyes searched wildly to say something sensible. “He’s better.” Father McIntyre beseeched his friend for understanding. “James could be a doctor, a lawyer. This isn’t his destiny, Robert. Please. He’s better than that, better than those people.”

“They’re blood.” The Deacon reached out as he would in a sermon. “Colin, you’ve given everything to these children, saved nothing for yourself. You’re only a man. Do you understand? Only a man. You can’t change what’s out of your hands.”

Father McIntyre blinked, his eyes dry. It was done. The decision had already been made.

Deacon Johnson rose slowly from behind the desk, leaned his spread fingers on the edge. “I’ll be taking James to them myself, if that helps any. They’re setting up the home now, not far from the Southern Cross. I’ve been called to do a funeral out that way, so the timing works.” He tapped a knuckle on the wood. “We leave in two days.”

Father McIntyre lowered his head into his hands, let the world go black. He listened to the Deacon’s footsteps, felt the hand pat him lightly on the shoulder, heard the creak of the door.

“Do you want me to tell the boy?” the man asked before he left.

“No.” Father McIntyre’s voice was hollow and dead. “I’ll tell him.”