CHAPTER 26

James gone. His son. And in his place, a hole with sides that did not mold together in scar tissue but widened with each breath. And the hole dripped blood, soaked the footprints left by each of Father McIntyre’s steps.

Life moved slowly now in the blackness. Nothing the priest did was without great effort and he dragged from one useless moment to the next as a sleepwalker, existing now at a great distance. Noises and chatter from the children were hollow, echoing as if from a cave. Food had no taste, and if he ate he didn’t remember doing so.

The priest turned into the barn and closed the red door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. In looking for something familiar, he found only a cut wound. James was all around this place. The pitchfork leaned against the wall and waited for the boy’s hands to lift and work it. The hay piles were disorderly now, stale, since none of the boys were as thoughtful as James in their duties. The horses were quiet. They missed him, too. The void of the boy was everywhere and it choked the priest.

Shadows hovered above doorways, in corners. Cobwebs hung and joined the eaves with silk, and beside them all Father McIntyre sat fully aware of his own blackness. Sun filtered in particles through the cracks between the boards, forming white lines across the floor. Emptiness. His face twisted for tears, but none came. Tears needed feeling to push to the surface, and his insides were numb and cold as an empty well.

Father McIntyre turned his palms up, stared at the blue veins that connected his hand to his wrist. He touched the scars that lay healed and horizontal. The lines sickened and warmed him all at once. For a moment there was longing. For a moment there was a future where the pain would stop. Then, in a fury, he pulled his wrists into the sleeves and crossed his arms, tucking his fists in his armpits. He closed his eyes and rocked against the shadows.

 

 

April 9, 1902
Afternoon

 

No record would be written or kept of her departure.

The coach, six horses deep, must have been the finest Northampton had to offer. The driver’s suit and hat showed no signs of dust or grime. The Fairfields were not present. Only Mr. Newton, Esquire, awaited the party.

Mrs. Fanning, the new tutor, short and squat, not much taller than the girl at her side, lifted a hand for the lawyer’s support as she entered the open door of the carriage. Leonora waited at the wheel, both hands holding a small suitcase. She was dressed in a pale blue dress, white cashmere stockings and black patent-leather shoes that did not have a single crease. Her hair was pulled back in one long tail, tied at the top with matching blue ribbon.

“Good-bye, Father McIntyre.” He did not recognize the voice. Leonora’s Australian accent was washed away, the words American now, even and perfected. There was no whisper or shyness in her tone. She had learned well. She hadn’t had a choice.

Father McIntyre was the mute now. He did not reach to embrace her shoulders. He did not promise that all would be all right. He did not ask her to trust him. He wanted these reassurances from her, but she was already gone. The carriage left before he even knew it had pulled away.

With her departure, the darkness swelled thick and fat. The light left and followed the little girl like a sieve. It did not matter that no clouds dotted the blue sky; it did not matter that the sun’s smile was wide and open—it was a round rip in the blue that scalded his vision.

The shadows crept from the ground, carried numbness to his toes, through skin, across his chest, stalled his brain. No thoughts told him to turn from the drive; no intention moved his shoes over pebbles. He didn’t hear the crushed sticks underfoot.

Flashes, memories, replaced sight. Old sounds played in his ears. A shot of gunfire hatched, its dull rhythm reverberating. It came again, bounced his joints.

Blown to bits. Bit by bit. The carnage of his world unmasked in one full sweep. His mother’s body shattered. His father’s holed and gaping. His brothers ripped, their chasms manifesting into real wounds, then death. And here he hid, like a whole, selfish fool. Hiding behind walls too thick to crush, yet it all gets in. It comes digging underground or seeps through the rafters. It enters, and just when you feel secure it blows you to bits.

His legs moved in long strides up the winding path, the salted air pungent and thick in his nostrils that breathed in air with quick, tight spurts. Father McIntyre passed the invisible line that had always stopped him before—the line that said the sea, the never-ending cliffs, would be in view. He came closer and his stomach sickened.

His face was damp with salted water—from tears or from the sea, it did not matter. The memories were around him, poking with dead fingers. He closed his eyes against the wind, pushed forward, felt the warmth of a future without pain, and he moved faster.

Father McIntyre did not heed the wind, did not stop to mull regret or ponder excuses. He stood at the edge of the world where the earth hovered with the sea and the air. He stretched his arms above his head, the wings of his cassock flapping violently, begging his body to soar. And he stepped upon the sky. . . .