The Digger's Rest (12 page)

Mitch tried to make light of it as they came
to the notorious pub known as ‘The Ten Bells’ where Jack the Ripper
apparently hunted for his women, pulling Simon out of his 1880s
world by asking him if he wanted to go in and get a little bit of
the hair of the dog that bit him the night before. Mitch could tell
by his expression that Simon wasn’t ready to try it again so soon,
so they went next door instead and grabbed some fish and chips
wrapped in paper for a midnight snack before hailing a cab to go
back to the hotel. It was getting late, after all, and they did
have an early start in the morning with a very long train ride
ahead of them.

***

The next morning did, indeed, come early, and
when Simon came out of the shower at 5:00A.M., his big black curls
had returned and he dressed quickly. He knew that they had to be at
the train station by seven, so he couldn’t dawdle too long. They
hadn’t even had breakfast yet. When he got downstairs, Mitch was
already waiting for him in the entry hall with all the bags but
Simon’s and talking to Madame Duvalier. Just as he was approaching,
Madame was speaking to Mitch in English, “You are doing a very fine
thing with the boy,” she said, then switched to French when she saw
Simon coming close enough to hear.

Once Simon was with them, Mitch took his bags
and set them with the rest, then went to hail a cab. Madame
Duvalier took Simon by the hand and led him into a corner. “Did you
have a good time last night, my young blue eyes?” she asked him,
looking into his big blue eyes and raising her hand to lightly
touch his face.

Simon nodded, “Yes Madame. I had the most
wonderful time in my life. Thank you so much,” he said.

Madame put her arms around him and hugged him
tightly, her eyes misty. It seems the otherwise starched
businesswoman had gotten very attached to the young Mr. Blue Eyes
in a very short time.

“
You always have a place here with
Madame when you need it, just like he does, my young blue eyes,”
she whispered in his ear before letting him go.

Just as Mitch came back in to tell them he’d
gotten a cab, Madame Duvalier handed Simon two bags, one paper, the
other the leather bag he’d seen the night before with the brushes
and combs. “Breakfast for you to take with you. It’s not good to go
without breakfast when you are traveling,” she said and winked at
him. The next thing he knew, Mitch was ushering him out the door
followed by Robert carrying the heavier bags. Madame Duvalier
walked out behind them and hugged them both again. “Not so long
next time. Mais oui?” she said to Mitch, kissing him on both
cheeks.

“
Oui, Madame,” Mitch agreed, smiling
sincerely.

Then she shook her finger at Simon and said,
“You trust your Madame. Oui?” Simon nodded and hugged her again,
then got in the cab, waving to her as it pulled away.

The strain of keeping bags in order on the
train wore Simon out, so by the time they got to their coach car,
he was already exhausted and in another lag cycle. “Don’t sweat
it,” Mitch said to him when he saw that his eyes were drooping,
about to nod. “Jet lag always hits me hardest on the third day, so
go ahead and take a nap if you want. It won’t hurt you.”

Simon laid himself down on the seat using his
jacket as an extra pillow. Mitch took off his own jacket and
covered him. “Nighty night,” he said as the train pulled out of the
station, then set about battling his own lag.

After about a half an hour they were well
clear of London and just getting out into the suburbs. A half an
hour after that, they were in the country. No matter how many times
he’d seen it, he could never get over the sheer green beauty of the
English countryside, neatly squared off patches of farmland framed
by carefully trimmed hedgerows giving it a patchwork quilt effect
that never ceased to amaze him. Being in the country always brought
out the softer side of him, his city edge slowly slipping away.
Combined with his increasing struggle with the lag, he looked over
and saw Simon sleeping peacefully. A tide of sentimentality rushed
over him thinking about how much Simon had grown since he’d first
found him, and he let himself drift back.

He remembered those days so clearly. How
could he ever forget them? It was Christmas-time, and as happened
with him every holiday season, the clouds of his past drifted over
him, dampening his spirit and darkening his view of the
festivities.

***

It always began the day after Thanksgiving
because it was always on that day that the radio stations started
playing Christmas music in the hopes of spurring on retail sales.
He couldn’t go anywhere in New York City without hearing his
mother’s voice singing Poor in New York at Christmas. It came out
of apartment windows, was playing in all the shops, blared out of
car windows, five, ten, fifteen times a day or more. It was
everywhere and the more he heard it as Christmas Eve approached the
darker… emptier and lonelier he got.

The holiday season seemed to get worse with
each passing year because it signaled another year of distance from
the memories he tried so desperately to hold on to, and the time he
didn’t make it to Jack’s Christmas party. It always made him feel
lost, adrift, and…hopeless.

Adding to that, he was physically drained
from just having finished his lecture tour of the twelve poorest
high schools in New York City, a program he’d fought for against
the judgment of the Museum’s board of directors, but with his
passion for the project, and Jack’s politics, they let him do it.
Then, of course, The New York Times got hold of it, thanks again to
Jack’s politics, and he was a hero.

It was December twenty-third and he was a
wreck, his body ached and his spirit was ebbing rapidly when he got
home from the Museum. He’d poured himself a large vodka on the
rocks and sat at his desk staring at the stack of mail he hadn’t
looked at in at least ten days. Well, no time like the present, he
thought as he tipped his glass, the last of the cold vodka running
down his throat, and poured himself another before reaching for the
scattered stack of mail on his desk and starting to sort. “Crap,
crap, crap,” he said as he pitched flyers in the waste basket next
to him. “Bill, bill, crap, more crap, bill, still more crap,” he
said to himself when he came to a crumpled white envelope addressed
neatly by hand with small handwriting, definitely personal. He
never got personal mail— other than for Jack and a few of the
people at the Museum, he didn’t know enough ‘personal’ people who
would write to him. He looked for a return address, “S. Holly, Holy
Family, Grand Street, New York, New York. Curious, he opened it and
began reading.

Dear Dr. Bramson,

My name is Simon Holly and I was one of the
students at Holy Family who attended your lecture. I know you are a
very busy man, and I don’t mean to take up your time. I just wanted
you to thank you for coming to see us and to tell you how much I
learned from you and enjoyed everything you had to show us and tell
us about your life in the field and at the Museum. It was a special
treat for me because I’ve always loved stories about castles and
knights, ancient cultures and art, and other than for your visit
and seeing the beautiful things you brought with you, the only time
I’ve ever seen them was on the TV in our common room when I can
watch The History Channel or The Learning Channel, and I would like
you to know how much your visit meant to me and how your coming to
see us made it real for me. Thank you for taking the time out of
your busy life to come see us. I will never forget you.

Very truly yours,

Simon Holly

Mitch took a deep breath, poured himself
another drink and read it again. It was the only personal letter
he’d received from a student on the tour. He’d gotten many letters
at the Museum from the teachers and signed by all the students, but
this one was different. This kid clearly had written it all by
himself, and had found out where to mail it. There was nothing pro
forma about it. It was personal, apologetic in its tone and those
words, “Holy Family…common room…never forget you.” Something…
some-thing about it tugged at him, something…sad, lonely.

Mitch didn’t sleep well that night. The next
day was Christmas Eve and he was already starting to crumble from
the inside. He got up every few hours to have a drink and reread
the letter. By the next morning, his eyes were bloodshot, his head
ached, and he was ready to go out on his usual Christmas Eve tear
which always ended up with him passed out on Jack’s couch, not
really remembering how he got there.

He started out that morning by taking the
subway downtown to Thirty-fourth Street and walking south,
revisiting his memories of his mother every time he passed a
homeless shelter or soup kitchen that they’d worked in, now long
closed, hearing her song come out of an opening or closing shop
door.

He went back to their old apartment on First
Avenue and stood outside staring; trying desperately to recall what
little things he could from his childhood there. Then he just
wandered aimlessly for what seemed like hours, and when he looked
up, he saw the sign, Holy Family Catholic School, and went
inside.

It had only been a few weeks since he’d been
there, so he knew where to go. In the office, he saw one of the
same habited nuns who’d greeted him on his first visit, a stout
woman in her fifties with a freshly scrubbed look to her round
cheeks and chin. “Dr. Bramson,” she said, surprised to see him
again.

“
How are you Sister? Merry Christmas,”
he said quietly.

“
Merry Christmas to you, too. What can
I do for you? You’re not giving another lecture here so soon are
you?”

“
No, Sister. I was just in the
neighborhood and was wondering if Father Perez might have a few
minutes for me,” he asked her, the sound of his own words echoing
in his ears.

“
Well, let me check,” she said politely
and went to look at a calendar book on her desk. Just then a door
to the right opened and a tall, slim man of about thirty-four or
-five with dark blonde hair and pale green eyes came out wearing
clerical blacks and a white collar. He went to speak to the Sister
but saw Mitch instead. “Dr. Bramson! I didn’t think I’d be seeing
you again so soon. Did you forget and leave something when you were
here?” Father Javier Perez asked.

“
No, Father, I just stopped by to see
if maybe you had a few minutes to talk to me.”

“
Why, yes, of course, please come in,”
he said kindly to Mitch, then spoke to the secretary nun. “When
would my next appointment be, Sister?”

“
Twenty minutes, Father,” she said
dutifully.

“
Please come in, Doctor,” the priest
said to him politely. Mitch went in and waited for Father Perez to
close the door behind them.

“
Please make yourself comfortable,” the
priest said, motion-ing with his hand for Mitch to take a seat
before going around his desk and taking his own.

“
Now what can I do for you, Dr.
Bramson?” Father Perez asked, his eyes brimming with a mixture of
curiosity and concern. It was no effort for the priest to see that
the man sitting before him was struggling with something intense.
Mitch stumbled for an answer, then not able to find the words, took
the letter out of his pocket and handed it to the
priest.

Father Perez just smiled and shook his
head as he read. “Yes, that’s our Simon,” he said fondly, then
looked at Mitch, searching his eyes for why such a man had bothered
to come down there in person, and in such a state of…what?
Torment? Grief? Confusion? He
couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“
Can you tell me about him?” Mitch
asked humbly, shifting nervously in his chair.

“
Why, yes, of course. Simon’s our very
best student, head and shoulders above any of the others
academically. He’ll be our valedictorian when he graduates in the
summer,” Father Perez answered, still searching Mitch with his
intense pale green eyes from behind his high Castilian
cheekbones.

“
Can I ask how he got here,
Father?”

“
Well, Simon has been with the Holy
Family Foster Home since he was a young child. I’ve only been here
for five years but I can tell you that, although he is one of our
success stories, how he came to us is one of our…well…saddest,” the
priest said hesitantly while coming to the conclusion, at least in
his own mind, that Mitchell Bramson’s presence there that day was
more than just a casual call. “But I’ll tell you what, Sister Mary
Immaculata was here when Simon came into our care. Let me see if
she’s available to speak to you,” and he got up and went to the
door, calling out to the secretary nun, “Sister Helene, can you
please see if Sister Mary Immaculata is available to come
in?”

“
Yes, Father.”

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the
door. “Come in, please,” the priest called out and the door opened.
Another habited nun entered and went over to stand beside Father
Perez. She was about forty or so and rather plain but with kind,
earnest blue eyes and a humble demeanor. “Please, Sister Mary, have
a seat. You remember Dr. Bramson, don’t you?”

“
Yes, of course. Good to see you again,
Doctor,” she greeted him, her eyes wary as to why he would be
there, or what it could possibly have to do with her. Father Perez
spoke.

“
May I?” he asked Mitch before handing
Sister Mary the letter.

“
Yes, please,” Mitch said nodding.
Sister Mary read the letter to much the same reaction as Father
Perez.