day after day.
She got up stiffly. “Please...” Her voice unnatural, “Is there a bathroom?”
He pointed to a hall. She went there hurriedly. Inside she sat on the edge of a tub and wept, hard. She couldn’t stop. A hundred moments of tears withheld waiting to be wept.
Vincent followed her. He stood outside the door, helpless.
It finally eased. She got up and washed her face. She looked at the stranger in the mirror.
“What are you doing? What in God’s name are you doing!”
When she came out he stood near the door. She looked at his hand. It still bled and there was a large, red blot on the bandage.
She took a deep shaky breath and gave a small smile. “C’mon, you ruined all my good work.”
He followed her back to the kitchen. She rewrapped the bandage. “Please, don’t hit anything again.”
Vincent didn’t answer. Teresa looked at him, waiting for an answer. He nodded an acknowledgment.
“Good. Vincent,” she unknowingly used his first name, “I’m sorry I cried. I haven’t done that in a long time. Your hurt made me hurt, it was all there, waiting. Being a police officer isn’t easy. I see terrible things, almost every day and I have to shut them out, do my job.”
She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like a little girl.
“I work with men; those bastards are born knowing how to hide it.”
Vincent listened to her with complete attention.
“It wasn’t you, really. Punish yourself if you must, but not on my account. I’m tired, I feel better, but I’m worn out.”
Vincent spoke hesitantly. “Mrs. Peerson always feels better after she cries.”
“Mr. Vankelis, I came here certain about everything, sure about what I should do, now I’m not. I’m tired and I’m hungry, and I’m not sure at all. I’m going home, make some spaghetti and go to bed.”
She got up and walked to the door. She turned to Vincent. “Vincent, no more Peersons, please. You can’t do that any more.”
She walked to her car. Vincent followed hesitantly, trying to say something. As she got in her car and drove away, he whispered.
“I’m a good cook, Officer Keely.”
Chapter 10
Vincent sat on the sofa. He stared at the pile of broken glass that used to be the coffee table. His thoughts were miles and years in the past.
In a very real waking dream, he was being pulled through space like a chip of wood in a torrent.
The Orphanage. His feet barely touched the polished hardwood floor. Father Eustace towered over the five year old boy, his long, fish belly-white fingers clutched Vincent’s arm painfully.
Horse-faced with large stained teeth, Father Eustace hissed a litany of instructions in Vincent’s face.
On this day orphans were shown to prospective parents. Most of the boys didn’t care or think about having parents. Never having known real affection, they couldn’t conceive of a mother’s care, or the safety of a father, someone who would stand between them and the hurts of life.
What they understood was freedom, escape. To the last boy they would have done anything to get away from the rigid cruelty of the orphanage.
Father Eustace’s fingers would leave dark bruises on Vincent’s arm. The orders never let up down the length of the hall.
“Don’t spit. Don’t scratch. Don’t pick your nose. Smile. If you aren’t selected, you’ll be sorry. It costs a lot of money to look after the bastard sons of lust. Tell them you’re well cared for.”
It didn’t matter that Vincent didn’t answer.
On the sofa in the atrium, Vincent rocked and swayed, jerked and twisted as a fighter avoiding a hail of blows, but the pictures came too fast. Memories too powerful to suppress were loose in his world. Officer Keely had opened the Pandora’s Box of his life.
On and on... Don’t lie, God will punish you. Tell them you’re happy. Jesus loves you. Terrible, vile, disgusting lies.
He beat his fists on his knees and felt nothing. How can you hurt yourself more than you hurt.
We are all instruments of God. You are nothing, the result of animal lust, fornication.
How could he smile? Worse than dirt.
The boy, Vincent Vankelis, sat in the corner of a room filled with small, tragic cynics. Men and women moved about through the room. Some sat and tried to communicate with the boys. What could they say? The environment was overwhelmingly melancholic, uniquely unreal, silently desperate. The process had all the emptiness given to the selection of abandoned kittens at the animal shelter. Don’t be real, be cute, adorable, cuddly. The children knew the drill.
A middle-aged man in a loud plaid jacket and uncomfortable tie followed by a thin woman with a frozen smile were led by father Eustace to where Vincent sat in the corner.
Vincent’s chest ached. His hands were sweaty and he trembled. The fever was fear. The woman sat next to him and smiled, a good smile. Father Eustace stood in the background and glared.
She asked his name. Vincent’s answers were whispers. Maybe God wouldn’t hear. She asked him how old he was. He said, five. The woman asked him if he was happy.
In that instant he felt insane. Was he happy? Madness!
He forgot every warning and cried. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. He was only five. Without thinking, he turned to the woman and asked the only thing he could think to say.
“Is this Hell?”
The woman sat back as if she’d been struck. His simple question punched through the total self absorption of the adopting parent. The husband frowned in confusion. Father Eustace sensing wrong stepped in. Vincent, beyond caring, not seeing his eternal enemy through the veil of his tears, asked again.
“Please, is this hell?”
Father Eustace struck like a snake taking a rabbit and jerked Vincent from the chair. The woman wept.
“Child of Satan, you’ll never have a family, never! You don’t deserve a mother and father.” As he dragged Vincent away the woman wept aloud.
“See what you’ve done? You’ve made the good woman cry.”
All the way down the long hall with the polished wood floor, Father Eustace, slapped, pinched and shoved the small boy, and in the room where good boys were chosen, where good boys got families and escaped...hell, the woman cried.
In the tower of his prison, safe from the world, Vincent hunched over, head nearly touching his knees, hands clutched to stone-hard
