Mrs. Steele arrived at St. Michael’s on a Tuesday just after breakfast, in my ninth week at the orphanage.
The previous Sunday had been like every other Sunday. The 147 boys of St. Michael’s walked to church. Smoking Boy watched me, like always. In the afternoon, a couple of boys, including Smoking Boy, had private confirmation classes with Father Matthew while the rest of us lolled around. The old gray caretaker, white pipe stuck between his thin red lips, dabbed white paint to cover the walls where the plaster had fallen off.
But the next day, on Monday, everyone rushed about. The Nigerian cleaner stayed all day, cleaning like crazy. Father Matthew and his two hookers buzzed about to make sure that we were clean and our clothes were properly torn. Then, early on Tuesday morning, we were sprayed with a bright green chemical that made my skin burn. It was obvious that something was up.
At breakfast, Father Matthew told us about a special guest who would soon be arriving. He said that if we were good we would get sweets. But if any boy stepped out of line, not only would we not get sweets but Sister Margaret would deal with him. Though he did not mention them, I guessed there might also be special confirmation classes with Father Matthew.
That day, the priest wore a clean black robe and a bright white collar. Blonde and big-breasted Plain Brunette had on dresses, and Plain Brunette, as always, wore no bra. Breakfast was a double ration of cement. An hour later, we were downstairs calling out our times tables. Just as we recited, “Seven times three is twenty-one,” the door knocker banged. “She’s here,” Father Matthew shouted.
When Mrs. Steele walked into St. Michael’s, we boys stood together in the entrance hall and sang, “Welcome, ma’am,” as Sister Margaret’s ruler had trained us to do. Father Matthew shut the heavy door behind her. The slam was strong enough to blow her fine gold hair and flutter her bright white dress with big black dots. Mrs. Steele was a good looker; with bigger breasts, she could have been in porn. She wore a white pearl necklace that was worth money. Her white face was quite old, but I liked the violent-red lipstick. But it was her eyes that made me stare; they were deep green, like a storm. When Senior Father saw that type of green in the sky, he smiled—it meant rain.
Father Matthew stared at the black shiny handbag she held under her arm. “Welcome, welcome, Mrs. Steele,” he said, “to our home.”
Mrs. Steele turned to us. She laughed in a stressed-out way. “Hello, everyone,” she said. She had a rich voice. “It is lovely to be here with you. I am so looking forward to meeting you all.” She turned to Father Matthew and smiled. “Every one of them is adorable.” Father Matthew smiled back, and Mrs. Steele’s grip tightened on her handbag. For the next half hour, as Father Matthew took Mrs. Steele through the orphanage, I watched her. Her walk was strong and she was used to hooker heels. She never stumbled. She wasn’t interested in the orphanage. When you go to buy a new T-shirt, who cares what the store looks like?
Father Matthew finished the downstairs tour, then turned to us. “Mrs. Steele is going upstairs now, where she wants to meet several of you. Beth will send you up, one by one.” Beth, big-breasted Plain Brunette, stepped forward to take charge of us. Blonde, in a blue dress, walked up the stairs behind Father Matthew and Mrs. Steele. Both Mrs. Steele and Blonde had excellent legs.
We crowded at the bottom of the stairs with Beth. After a few minutes, Blonde shouted down, “Send the first one up.” About every five minutes, one boy went up and one came down. I calculated that since there were 147 of us, if she called for us all it would take more than twelve hours. After the fourteenth boy returned, Plain Brunette called out, “Bingo.” I took a quick look into Beth’s Valley of Hope and went upstairs.