Novel Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE

Ominous thunderheads bumped overhead. Sister Helena was determined to let nothing interfere with her day of days. New England weather was unpredictable, but no rainwear would be worn during the first visit of the new archbishop.

The absence of her girth when she bent to whisper an order to another nun, uncovered the sign, a large, smoked glass rectangle with four-inch-blocked gold leaf letters, hammered onto a squared, cement pillar:

HOME FOR DESTITUTE
CATHOLIC CHILDREN
Founded — 1862

She began mothering the assembly of girls, flattening blouse collars, straightening skirt lines and patting curls into place. Her subordinates, in blue-and-white-checkered aprons, bustled about the rows of boys standing on the opposite side of the granite stairway, mimicking her with fits of last minute preening.

A grizzled old nun hobbled to the fat Superior’s side from her place as lookout near the curbing. The first dollops of an autumn rain splattered their dove-like coronets.

"He’s coming!" she panted. "He’s coming!" darting a finger in the direction of two black limousines.

The superior resisted a quick temptation to move indoors, nodded with a smile, then gave into an unconscious mannerism well known to her subordinates, of sticking her finger in between her shorn scalp and wimple, to scratch her ear. She shook her head as though ridding herself of a pesky insect. Her cheeks and jowls slapped each other. A little girl giggled spontaneously and promptly received a threatening glare from a nun, turning the gleeful moment into an uncontagious pout.

Helena was notified of the impending visit only days before. Considering the time constraints, they had done quite well, she thought contentedly, and turned to address the group with a final admonition.

"We’re truly blessed to have Archbishop McElroy visit us today. It means a great deal to our community and to our home. We want him to feel most welcome. The sisters have instructed all of you on what to say and do. Be sure you are on your best behavior."

The twin Buicks rolled to a stop in front of the eighty-five year old edifice. A young priest jumped from the first car and ran to the rear of the second while snapping open an umbrella to protect the hatless, white-haired prelate. The clergyman’s black, worn by the seven-man entourage, did little to distinguish their offices. It was obvious to each child, which of them was the Archbishop -- not because of the attention he received, but by his stature and facial features.

He stood severely erect. His gait was secure and purposeful. His eyes were wide and smiling. His ruddy face gave the appearance of a wise and thoughtful man. He could have been anyone’s young grandfather or favorite uncle. His voice, when refusing the hat offered by his aide, was firm and decisive, complimenting the thunder above them.

The sisters and children stood awaiting a pre-arranged signal to voice their collective welcome. The churchman didn’t allow their obviously piqued anxiety to interfere with his study. He stopped to scan the building, noting the cement scrolls pasted against the common, red brick, interspersed with rows of large, eighteen-paned windows. It looked like either the first or last effort of an architect bewildered as to design and attributable to no classic form known to the art. Here, in this three-tiered, hodgepodge of masonry, brick and glass, the Daughters of Charity had housed and cared for thousands of orphans, neglected and abandoned children, since the days of the Civil War.

"Could anyone else have managed a mess like this for that long?" he muttered to no one in particular, then walked toward the chorus of "Good morning, Your Excellency. Welcome to our home."

Enduring the mechanical and seemingly endless procession of sisters and children paired by size to kiss his indulgenced ring, his eyes fixed on the sign. His face grimaced noticeably, and although continuing with the ceremony, he glanced from side-to-side to gain the attention of one of his priest companions. A thin graying monsignor came forward to receive a whispered message.

Ending the formalities prematurely, the prelate announced, with no effort to modify his New England twang, "Thank you children and sisters for your generous welcome. It looks as though the elements are not cooperating, so I suggest we go inside to continue our visit. Sisters, if you will, take the children in. The good fathers and I will follow."

Sister Helena, distressed more by His Excellency’s display of individuality than the sprinkles, again reached beneath her bonnet, scratched her ear, shook her head, then motioned the sisters to file their charges inside. She thought it her duty to remain with her guests and attempted to join them in their umbrella huddle, only to be escorted inside by a handsome, young priest who introduced himself as Father McGinn.

Minutes passed to the quarter hour and many private thoughts went unshared in the quiet, adequately furnished Visitors’ Hall, smelling of freshly applied carnuba wax. The nuns’ eyes focused on the large, oak, double-doors, while the feet of the boys shuffled impatiently and the girls primped their spit curls, all waiting for the entrance of the diocesan delegation.

Chris was four days into a week of scullery duty, earned by questioning the importance of The Visit loud enough for Sister Leon to overhear. That verbal accident was the source of his ambivalence. He would much prefer the singsong recitations and hard-starched shirt to sweat and chafed hands irritated by the brown, Borax soap. Yet being assigned this punishment embellished his image. He was almost fourteen. If things went well, he would soon be promoted into "Big Boys’ Row," the ultimate status on the boys’ side of the home. "Big Boys’ Row" was a group the other kids either respected or feared: the sisters, except for Leon, almost never bothered them and the girls…

The clicking of rosary beads bouncing off thighs under the layered skirts of sisters racing down the corridor alerted Chris to a non-productive assault on a dented pot in the soapstone sink. He heard several high-pitched voices talking at once. Sensing something important had happened or was about to, he listened intently as they passed.

"You mean he took it right off the wall?" one of the pair squealed.

"Yes, Sister," the other one responded, "and brought it into the Visitors’ Hall. He told Mother he would wait because he wanted us to hear what he had to say."

Chris’ mind raced with thoughts of what it might be, loyally wishing it meant trouble for the sisters. He wasn’t mean-spirited. He just knew instinctively that the more difficulty they experienced, the less attentive they were to the kids’ activities.

Chris decided to sneak close enough to the Visitors’ Hall to learn more. Silence draped the first floor hallways. He’d use the "Great Steps"— recalling how many times he had dusted and polished them — a second floor tier that provided a secluded view of the hall. The spontaneity and independence of the idea excited him. It was appropriate for him to test his abilities to formulate and execute forays into forbidden areas of the home, preparing him for inclusion in similar activities when he was part of "Big Boys’ Row".

Alert for indications of other stragglers, Chris darted from the scullery, down the hallway and through the dining room to the vestibule beneath the wide, dark wood staircase. Unsure if it was his need for stealth or compliance with the nuns’ demands for stockinged feet on the stairs except on Visiting Sundays, he kicked off his sneakers before ascending the gleaming cascade. With his body crouched low, he swiveled his head in order to better see or hear, beside the crack of an ill-fitting door.

A distinguished, giant of a man began addressing the children and nuns, while steadying what seemed to be a piece of black glass across the arms of a chair.

The acoustics in the high-ceilinged room caused the booming voice of Archbishop McElroy to reverberate so that one had to wait, collect all the words, put them together mentally, then react with laughter, applause or whatever seemed appropriate.

"My dear sisters and children", he began. "I am not accustomed to the use of dramatics, but while exchanging pleasant greetings upon the occasion of my first visit to your home, I noticed this." He pointed to the gold lettered pronouncement. "It disheartened me to think that such a display could exist in our great city of Boston in 1948." He read from the rain-spotted, glass sign: "Home for Destitute Catholic Children" and paused for effect.

"I instructed Monsignor Jacobs to find a suitable tool for the immediate removal of this stigma from the walls of this institution. With only a tire iron, and much huffing and puffing, we were successful." After a ripple of nervous laughter and a meager attempt to applaud their feat, he went on. "Now I am sure many of the sisters are distressed and confused by my actions. Let me say this. I have only been your archbishop for a short while, but as long as I have this office, there will be no destitute children in this diocese!" Louder, but still controlled, applause followed his edict.

Aware of the confusion behind the blank expressions on some of the faces before him, the church leader reached back to his experiences as a young curate teaching catechism to explain. "For the benefit of those who may not understand the word, "destitute", it is different from the word, "poor". The poor can be proud, have hope and find happiness. The destitute, to my way of thinking, have given up hope, and are without a future. You have a future," he bellowed. "You can be proud. I pray that each of you will enjoy much happiness in your lives."

Sensing that he had sufficiently explained, Archbishop McElroy returned to a softer, but business-like tone. "I know that this home has many needs. My secretary, Father Robert McGinn, will return and remain with you, temporarily, as my representative, to ascertain those needs. When I receive his analysis of the-situation, we at the Chancery will develop a plan for assistance. In return I ask only one thing. As of today, and for the immediate future, this home is to be known publicly as, ‘The Harris Avenue Home for Children.’ Thank you and God bless each of you as I offer the Apostolic Blessing."

All heads bowed. His murmured Latin prayer grew louder near the ending, "In nomini Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sanctus." The "Amen" was lost in sounds of chairs sliding across the floor and giddy chatter, as the audience stood to watch the pudgy mother superior escort the archbishop and his retinue toward her offices.

Chris jumped up from his hiding place to return to his purgatory, but was confronted by the massive countenance of Sister Victoria, plodding breathlessly up the stairwell.

Victoria was to be avoided. Chris had never encountered her before, but had heard tales of others who had faced the three-hundred-pound, masculine appearing nun. She rarely spoke directly to the kids, except to berate them on deportment, dress or a chore poorly done. Her comments were terse and usually coupled with some physical motion, which usually consisted of a swing at the head or an attempt to grab the child. Chris had developed a permanent image of a faceless boy writhing in her grasp, finally escaping, but leaving an empty shirt in her fat fist. She was one of the most feared of several strict nuns at the orphanage.

Chris froze and stared at her for a long moment. He inched down the stairs hugging the opposite banister, which he judged to be a safe distance away. Her upturned, pig-like nose was accented by a large, dark mole on the side of her right nostril. Chris focused on three black hairs protruding from it, nodding a fearful whisper, "S’ter," as he attempted to step by.

"What are you doing up here, Toland?" her unmoving lips questioned. "You’re out of bounds!"

Without responding, the boy squatted to leap down the remaining steps toward the landing below, but was clipped in midair by a hard backhand hastening an inelegant crash on his rump.

"A week with me will put you in your place." Her threat rang in his ears until he reached the safety of the boys’ toilets, forgetting his shoes near the dining room door.

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