The boys and girls look like figures in a faded lithograph. Their skin is almost translucent from lack of sunshine. Their gums, ruptured by rotten teeth, bleed as they chew for comfort on arms through which the bones are clearly visible and that are patterned with the scabs left by the hypodermics that puncture their parchment flesh.
Were he still the boy from Queens, Jimmy Whelan would find the nearest nurse and slam his head into the nearest wall. He wants to burn this place down, to watch the flames rise high over the treetops in this dark corner of Staten Island and start an inferno visible from every window in Manhattan.
But Jimmy Whelan is no longer a boy from Queens. He is a priest. He is a servant of God. He knows temper to be the pathway to hate and he knows hate, alongside temptation, to be the fuel of all true sin. He tries hard to be Father James Whelan. But right now he truly wants to be Jimmy.
“I told you,” says Dr. Piechowiak under his breath. He has his hand to his nose.
“No,” says Jimmy. “No, you said it was bad. This is evil.”
The two men stand in the shadows of the dormitory and look upon a scene of biblical suffering. Boys and girls, their ages impossible to gauge, are scattered like stones around the square room with its drawn drapes, lit by a single bulb. Their heads have been shaved to prevent infection. Their fingers and chins are covered with oatmeal and drool. Some are little more than corpses, withered arms and atrophied legs, cuddling themselves in puddles of urine and coated in their own filth.
“And they know?” asks Jimmy, refusing to make any attempt to protect himself from the smell. If these poor boys and girls can endure it, so can he. “The people in charge? The authorities?”
“The authorities have been told time and again,” hisses Dr. Piechowiak. He has a mouthful of strong mints and they clatter off his teeth as he talks. With his flat features and his sharp teeth and mop of uncombed hair, the doctor looks like a frightened cat.
“And?” asks Jimmy, casting anxious glances around.
“Senator Kennedy even demanded answers and nothing changed,” says the doctor. “I had no choice. I’m bringing the TV reporter, the guy with the big mustache. Something has to change. I can’t be a part of this anymore.”
Jimmy wants to shout. He wants to bellow and bang his hands on the metal cots and their threadbare mattresses. He knows he cannot. He and Dr. Piechowiak are trespassers. The doctor handed in his notice weeks ago, appalled at being part of such a regime, and he needs the help of the earnest young priest if he is to raise awareness of this place and have it shut down. Jimmy wants to do some good. He’s young but already has a reputation for getting things done. He is still unsure whether to accept the offer of a transfer out of his Hell’s Kitchen parish and into the splendor of St. Colman’s on the Lower East Side. He’s good with the neighborhood kids. He organizes the basketball leagues and referees the boxing matches and is not above banging on the door of a neighborhood punk who has been knocking his wife and kids about and promising to show him what hell looks like if he doesn’t mend his ways. He doesn’t want to be tempted by the splendidness of St. Colman’s. He knows there to be many ways to praise the Lord and does not want to be the kind of Catholic who believes that God is all about the gold brocade and stained glass.
“Almost every patient has hepatitis,” says Dr. Piechowiak in Jimmy’s ear. “One member on staff for every eighty patients. They put on a good show when the parents come but any parent who makes too much of a fuss gets told that this is what is best for their children. Some of them aren’t even retarded. They just have problems, or they’re a little slow. Some can’t express themselves the way they want, or move as good as other kids . . .”
Dr. Piechowiak stops talking as one of the figures detaches himself from a space by the wall. He’s perhaps in his mid-teens. He wears a nightshirt. His skin is pale as milk and his eyes have the pinkish tinge of a cornered rat.
“Come on,” says Piechowiak, tugging at Jimmy’s sleeve. “We have to go.”
Jimmy ignores the doctor. He waits for the boy to come close. He squints into his face. There is a sudden moment of recognition. He cannot place the boy but he knows he has seen him before.
“Hello, my son. What’s your name?”
The boy cocks his head. He opens his mouth but all that emerges is an ugly, rasping gulp. He has no teeth and his gums are black.
“He can’t speak,” says Dr. Piechowiak. “Physically he’s fine but he can’t make a sound. He saw bad things when he was younger. His guardian placed him here three years ago.”
Jimmy considers him. “Tony,” he says at length, and something flickers in the young man’s eyes. Jimmy puts his hand to his chest and tries not to let his thoughts show in his expression. “Your godfather,” he says. “I know you. Your family. Why are you here, my son?”
“He’s strong,” interrupts Dr. Piechowiak. “Half strangled one of the orderlies who found him playing with a dead mouse. Be careful.”
“Are you strong?” asks Jimmy, and he puts a hand on the boy’s bare arm. Tony flinches, as though brushing up against hot iron.
“We have to go,” hisses the doctor, desperate.
Jimmy looks at the boy’s arms. They carry scars and bruises; yellow and blue discolorations in the shape of forefingers and thumbs. Jimmy grinds his teeth. He knows this kid. They used to call him the Dummy, back in the neighborhood. Tony, whose guardian wouldn’t let the poor bastard even take the family surname. ‘Leave it blank,’ said Paulie Pugliesca, when asked to fill in the name for the baptism. That had stuck. Tony Blank. Sal Pugliesca’s little brother. Didn’t speak. Strong. Crazy, if you pushed the right buttons . . .
“Do you want to leave this place?” asks Jimmy without looking away. “I can help you. I can talk to Paulie . . .”
The boy stands immobile for a moment, then gives a quick nod.
“Trust in the Lord,” says Jimmy, and blesses the boy. “I’ll talk to your guardian. Get you out. Get you somewhere else. Close this whole thing down . . .”
“Father Whelan!” protests the doctor urgently. “We must go.”
“Believe in me. I’ll believe in you.”
Dr. Piechowiak pulls the priest by the arm and they disappear into the darkness, hurrying to the open window in the doctor’s old study where they had gained entry.
The boy stares at the space where the men had stood for a long time after they have gone.
Then he blesses himself and sits down cross-legged on the floor.
He whispers to the dying mouse that he holds, like rotten fruit, in the palm of his hand.
“Believe in me, I’ll believe in you. Amen.”