After Saturday collation the Brothers direct the children to clear the table and wash and dry their plates in the kitchen sink. There is the clatter of tin cups and plates and the thumping bilge pumping of children submerging hollow vessels in the basin. The children and Brothers move about in seeming bedlam, each driven by the instinct of the ritual and the night to come: the voiding of bowels and bladders, the washing of face and brushing of teeth, the farewell to friends until morning, and the hurdle into cold, dank beds; the preparation of the priests’ meals in the refectory, the first bell for the Hours of the Holy Office, and, at last, solitude for divine reading and prayer prior to Vigil in the deep leagues of the night that descend upon the plains. Pretending to be industrious—Duncan scrapes the remains of his apple crisp into a slop bucket to give to the local farmer’s sow and her piglets while Julie makes a show of collecting a handful of cutlery—they slowly make their way into the Brothers’ lounge, hide behind the couch, and wait for Brother Canice to arrive and turn the television to The Movie of the Week.
Julie is drawing in her pad and Duncan is rereading Father Toibin’s dog-eared copy of The Collected Works of Douglas Graham Purdy: Tales of Horror and the Macabre. Dishes are clattering in the dining hall and from the chapel comes the sound of kneelers banging against the gouged and scarred pew backs. There is sound of glass shattering and sandaled feet running on carpet. A Brother hollers and Duncan hears more breaking glass. Listening, Julie is suddenly breathless, her body rigid. She grasps Duncan’s hand, pulls him to his feet.
Quick, Duncan. It’s Billy.
In Father Toibin’s office chairs lie overturned, and a decapitated bust of Brother Dianmianco rests, as if placed there, against the baseboard. A hole in the wall reveals the plaster lathes, pale as exposed ribs. Burly Brother Brennan and two male nurses have surrounded Billy, who is brandishing a wickedly gleaming candelabra. The candlesticks are scattered across the floor. Above one of the nurses’ brows a cut bleeds profusely.
The room is cold. Through a smashed window the wind blows: white lace curtains flutter and flap loudly against the window frame.
Fuckshit, mother fuck you! Billy shouts. I’m not going to St. Paul. I’m not going to fucking St. Paul!
The Brother and the nurses circle Billy, and when they come too close, he swings the candelabra and hollers all the louder and Duncan imagines his voice echoing out into the night and carrying all the way to Stockholdt. Fuck you, Billy says and swings the candelabra at a nurse who steps toward him. Fuck you, Billy says, you ass-wipe. You pissing asswipe fuck SON OF A BITCH!
The nurse with the cut over his brow is intent on getting Billy now, and the others seem tired and eager to have this over with. Duncan knows they no longer see a small, sick boy before them, and it is just a matter of time before they rush him. If they grab him, they’ll disconnect his shoulder, they’ll snap his collarbone, they’ll fracture his arm, they’ll crack his ribs and shatter his spine; the bone shards will pierce his lungs and his heart: He’ll implode. They’ll break him.
Duncan imagines all the small, fragile, tender bones of which Billy’s body is made, shattering into a thousand crystalline pieces and, in the reverse of the glass window, exploding out into the night and scattering upon the snow.
Don’t touch him, Duncan screams. You’ll hurt him!
Father Toibin holds Duncan tightly as the Brother and two nurses rush Billy. It’s all right, Duncan, Father Toibin says. It’s all right. They know to be gentle.
Billy swings the candelabra and it slips from his hands and arcs, rotating through the air like a glittering guillotine, gleaming bronze, before striking the Brother, who utters a muffled grunt and wraps Billy up in his arms, and then all four tumble to the floor with such violence that the boards shudder with the impact.
Standing in the shadows beyond Billy’s bed, in the Home’s hospice, Duncan listens to the furtive noises of the night all around him, the creaks and groans and abrupt muffled cracks as stone and wood rises, settles, and rises once more, as if they are aboard some great galleon tossed upon the sea. The wind sings in the eaves and skitters upon the roof, hurling rain or hail. Trees scrape the glass and tap the leaded panes as if to gain admittance.
At times, Billy cries out in the night, and Duncan goes to his bedside and strokes his brow softly until he sinks into a deeper sleep, and then Duncan returns to a dark angle of the room, and waits and watches.
A young novitiate walks the hallways, and as he makes his rounds—dimming lights, attending to a whimpering boy or girl, scolding perhaps another who refuses to sleep and is disturbing the others—he always stops by Billy’s bed, which is the closest to the doors and so is always cast in a meager slant of light. And Duncan watches the silhouette of the novitiate as he stands over Billy, leans an ear to Billy’s face and then a hand tenderly upon his belly to make sure that Billy is breathing.
When the novitiate is gone, Duncan sinks against the wall, pulls his blanket about his waist, and watches through the night, counting the bells until dawn. In this way he makes sure that nothing can touch Billy. He does this for nights, then weeks, losing sleep, and gradually he understands the helplessness that parents must feel when they come to the unacceptable yet undeniable realization that they cannot protect their children despite their best efforts. And that in the end, everything is in God’s hands. Perhaps some parents realize this at the moment of their child’s birth and immediately flee. The overwhelming reality of heartbreak and loss is simply too much to consider yet alone bear.
Tonight Billy has been tossing in his sleep, calling out the names of people, doctors perhaps from St. Paul, or family and friends that he remembers. A nurse comes shortly after Vigil has begun and gives him a sedative. From his corner in the shadows, Duncan listens, and when Billy is calm and his breathing has deepened, Duncan makes his way to the bed. He must tell Billy something that he’s been putting off but that he’s known he would do ever since Father Toibin showed him his dead mother’s letters.
For a moment he sits on the edge of the mattress and looks at him. I’m leaving, he whispers to Billy, who is now snoring slightly. The dim lamp flickers and casts a soft, silvery light along the edge of his pajamas. Duncan touches Billy’s shoulder and stares at the back of his head, his small, wrinkled cauliflower ears.
I may be gone a while, but don’t worry, I’ll come back—I promise. Please tell Julie goodbye for me. And look after her until I get back.
Duncan pauses, trying to think of something else to say. A pleasant heat pulses from the pipes; children sigh and turn contently in their sleep. For a moment he considers crawling back into his bed. His head begins to nod and he closes his eyes, and then a hoarse, cotton-thick sobbing from beneath the blankets startles him awake.
Duncan, please can I come? Please?