The Whipping Club (22 page)

             
Father Brennan stood. “I didn’t realize that their games were dangerous, Marian. I didn’t know I had to watch them that carefully.”

             
“Well, of course not! Not while the telly’s on.”

             
Father Brennan made a grimace. “I suppose I should have been more attentive.”

             
“Well, I guess that’s it then,” she said. “That’s quite unequivocal, don’t you think? Certainly, don’t feel you need to apologize more profusely, Father.”

             
Father put on his overcoat and hat and went toward the door.

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

             
“Thank you, Father Brennan. It certainly was not your fault, and we appreciate your coming over,” Ben said, looking at Marian. Ben was grateful that Marian stood as well to see him out.

             
“You know, Ben,” she said, coming back to sit with him. “I don’t think you ever wanted Adrian.”

             
“Ah, go on outta that one already. He’s my son, too,” he whispered. “You’ve always a major bee in your bonnet, and you can’t keep bringing up the past and your–”

             
“Don’t bullshit me,” she said. “I’m not living in the past. You are. And your apron strings. I know what you’re really thinking when you’re not up to your eyeballs with yourself and your poor old ma. You think Adrian’s too much for me to handle.”

             
“Marian, think for yourself.”

             
“And what would you have me to think?”

             
“Something terrible could have happened, you know that.

Or don’t you? I don’t know if he’s right in the mind, and you’re acting as if nothing’s wrong. I want him here but he’s been damaged.

I don’t want Johanna damaged along with him.”

             
Ben heard something and got up to look out the bay window.

In the dreary light from a battered street lamp, some of the neighbors stood near Mrs. O’Rourke’s gate, talking in hushed tones. A group of hags in their housecoats. Curlers in their hair, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. He could plainly see Mrs. O’Rourke shaking her head at her twin girls, and the young girls, mimicking their mother, shook their heads, too.

             
He didn’t notice Marian behind him until she jerked open the front door.

             
Leaning against the doorway, Marian gaped at the cluster of women, all looking in haphazard directions, none directly at her. “Well, ladies of the night!” she shouted and watched them all gasp. “’Tis better to be the cause of all your concerns than to be subjected—thank God—to even one nighttime’s dose of your insipid company.”

             
She curtsied at them before she slammed the front door.

             
She walked back to the dining room table and sat down, her head in her hands.

             
“Marian.” Ben sat next to her. “You’re losing your mind.” He suddenly thought of Tatte and was ashamed about how his father would feel with the way their lives had turned out.

             
Marian took a sip of whiskey. She was overwhelmed, fighting to believe that everything was going to be all right.

             
“Bringing Adrian back, draining our finances. The whole burden on Jo, the memories dragging around. I don’t know if it’s right.”

             
“Is Father Brennan the influence?”

             
“He’s talked with me, but no. I’m trying to start over with you. I’m not saying no. I’m saying I’m worried that bringing Adrian into our home won’t make our family better. Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Just because someone comes back into your life doesn’t

automatically change everything into roses.”

             
“You sound like Father Brennan.”

             
“No, Marian. I sound like me. Let’s work on this together, okay? I want things to work out. But only, and I mean only, if it’s right.”

             
“I need some sleep,” she said and went up to bed.

             
Ben put away the liquor and washed out the tumblers. Sitting up sipping whiskey with his wife used to be romantic, now it was a headache coming on. Though she
was right about needing sleep.
He felt his temples squeezing in the sides of his head. He shut out all the lights, peeked out the window at the neighbor’s house, and saw their kitchen light still on. Mrs. O’Rourke’s head was resting on the kitchen table, a small cup of steaming milk in her hand. Then he noticed Johanna standing at their front door with an empty picture frame she made in art class, tapping lightly on the O’Rourke’s knocker. “I made this for you,” he heard her say as Mrs. O’Rourke,

in her tattered blue bathrobe, wiped her cheeks.

             
“I’d ask you in for cocoa but it’s late. You should be home in bed.”

             
“Just wanted to let you know,” Johanna said, glancing over at their house, “that even though Ma says you don’t give a rat’s ass about us and that you don’t like Adrian in particular, I know Adrian would give his eye teeth to be adopted and live with you any day.”

             
Ben opened the front door and called Johanna inside. He waved to Mrs. O’Rourke, and she waved back as his
maidelah
ran into his arms.

“I’d like to say Mass regularly, Sister Agnes,” Father Brennan said after his disturbing babysitting day.

             
“That would give Father Neely a break,” Sister told him. “He’d love someone filling his shoes now and again. I’ll tell him. You’ll do Sunday noon, then?”

             
“I’d like to do the Mass for the children,” Father Brennan said.

             
“They attend every day at seven.”

             
Every day at seven, he thought. Before they’ve had their breakfast? (One didn’t eat an hour before Mass.) No wonder he had seen a poor little girl strapped into the pew. Not a morsel in her, she must have nearly fainted.

             
It was through his visits to Silverbridge that Father Brennan began to see the truth and error of his own ways. Here he stands—a priest talking in Latin with his back to the wee ones. He saw this as reprehensible now. He turns his back on those who are most in need. Be charitable. Suffer the little children come unto me—could the Bible reading he had done for over a decade finally have some real meaning? Could he find a way to make a difference? In
these
children’s lives? Seeing first-hand the conditions of the refectory: the chaos, the cold, the vacant stares… Adrian…

             
Last Sunday, the children stopped talking when he entered the dining hall. An unfamiliar teacher walked by and punched a girl on her head. The girl gazed into her bowl of spuds, a line of oleo, like a diluted yellow stroke from a thin paintbrush, dripped down one

of the gray potatoes.
You’re not one of the favorites, then?
He said this gently to her, wanting to smooth her short, unevenly cut hair. She looked at him. Empty eyes. Empty stomach. And then the blasted bell rang. Adrian hadn’t noticed him as he lined up to leave the refectory.

             
But here is an appropriate metaphor,
Father Brennan thought.
Their line and his are divided, and he is on the side of the nuns and teachers who thought of the orphans as lesser people.

             
He walked home, certain that he was more aware of his surroundings, of the poverty, of the people he passed. Was that not his calling? To take notice? To show compassion? Be a
comfort?
He knew he was no comfort. It was he who had been comforted by them, the lay people always showing their respect. He had allowed this, even enjoyed this, all these years. That was the great shame.

             
Jew, Greek, all one in God’s eyes. Father Brennan tried to see Ben through a different lens, and when he did, he thought highly of the man. Ben seemed open to their philosophical conversations and wanted to learn as much as he could. They had decided to begin reading Thomas Merton, and Father Brennan looked forward to discussing his ideas. Tonight he would go home, sit in his easy chair with his brandy, and finish
The Screwtape Letters
. A bit radical, Father Brennan thought, this C. S. Lewis fantasy. But Ben had urged him; he thought he might like it, so Father Brennan gave it a go.

“Where is everybody, Jo?” Adrian asked, as they mulled around the neighborhood. “It’s too quiet. No one hanging about. No street ball. Just you.”

             
“Ha,” she said.

             
“No girls, either. In groups, you know? Lots of girls in the orphanage.”

             
“I’ll take you to the Muckross playground. There’s always kids hanging around.”

             
They walked along and Adrian wondered why everything was so hidden. “Where are they hiding?”

             
“They’re not hiding, silly. They have their own big yards to play in.”

             
“Peter’s ma lives on the North side. Crowded and cramped, sure, but there’s lots of kids everywhere.”

             
“We should go one day,” Jo said, always game. “Why, the right bastard,” she whispered now.

             
Adrian looked over to the basketball court on the playground. There were two boys about his age taunting a third, smaller kid.

He suddenly missed Peter and hoped he was okay.

             
When the bullies saw them coming closer, they stopped but did not run. Adrian looked around and snapped a long branch off a chestnut tree.

             
As brother and sister reached about six feet away, all three kids stood stock-still. The older kids glared at Jo.

             
“That bully is Jeannie Jelly’s faggot brother,” Jo said. “Hiya Jack,” she said to him.

             
“I’d call him Jackie. Looks like he fights like a girl,” Adrian said. He hit the branch against his thigh. “Are you a sissy boy? You like to pick on younger kids?”

             
“Hump off, would ya,” Jack said. He leaned to his friend. “She’s off her nut. Completely dingle berries.”

             
“You should see his beast of a sister in the flesh. Looks like he’s going in the same direction. He’s no oil painting either,” Jo said.

             
“She is, is she?” Adrian said, moving closer. “Shite flies high when it’s hit with a stick.”

             
Jackie’s bully-friend looked at his mate, then bolted. The little boy looked relieved as Adrian nodded at him.

             
“Fuck off,” the Jelly kid said. “You sicken my pish. Your da’s nothing but a slime bucket. Him and all the slimy Jews who killed our Lord.”

             
“What did you say, you boiled shite?” Adrian approached him with his stick. Jackie froze. He had his prey. Adrian knew what the bully was feeling, unable to move from the shock of a sudden attack. No pain, just fear and disbelief that settled the kid right into his hands.

             
Adrian ran at him and got him in on the ground in a half nelson. He held him there, watching him squirm and sweat.

             
“You want up?” Adrian asked and shook him. The bully nodded.

             
Adrian let him up, told him to apologize to the young boy.

             
“I’m sorry,” Jackie mumbled.

             
“Now, in your scivvies,” Adrian said.

             
The bully didn’t move.

             
“Are you looking at me or chewing a brick? Why are you staring at me with your mouth wide open? Get ’em down, I said!” Adrian grabbed the lad and threw him against the school wall. “Face the wall.”

             
Jackie did as told.

             
“We’ll make an example of you.” He pulled down Jackie’s trousers.

No one dared move. Adrian hit him soft against the bottom with his stick, but the boy shouted out in pain. “Why, you little liar. Stop lying!” Adrian shouted.

             
He hit him harder.

             
“You shout when you feel something. You won’t be a faker anymore! Will you, boy?”

             
“No,” Jackie whimpered.