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sweat from his brow splashed onto Will's cheek.
Will tightened his mouth. He tried to pull away
from Pritchard.
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Pritchard's expression softened.  Don't you
understand? A book like that could set things right.
Pritchard looked down at his fists as if they
belonged to a stranger. He opened his hands and
stumbled back, scattering the bags like fallen leaves.
 Will, I m so sorry." He looked around the library.
 I have to fix this. I know you will do the right thing.
Prichard sunk to his knees in the middle of his brown
paper sea.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
VESPERS
Will ran out of Pritchard s apartment and took the
first train north. By the time he reached his stop, the sun
had set. His coat offered little protection from the cold
November evening and, even though the walk from the el
station to St. Ita had been only a few blocks, the chill
found its way to his bones. Will settled into the pew
under Ita's window and rubbed his hands together until he
could once again feel his fingers.
Will reached into his backpack, blindly hunting for
the book. He pulled it out, held it between his hands, and
prayed, mouthing the words, giving them physical form,
if only for an instant.
The church door slammed. An old man with
thinning hair at the crown of his head sat directly in front
of Will.
 Cold out there. Needs to snow, said the man.
Will inched away down the pew.
The man continued,  Yep. Snow. He crossed
himself and knelt, saying a quick prayer. He pushed
himself back on his seat.  Bad for my knees, all this
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cold. He twisted his body around and slung an elbow
over the back of the pew.
Will closed his eyes, hoping the man would give up
on a conversation.
 See you here every Wednesday. I across the way.
Felt like a little change tonight. So nice to see young
people at church.
Will opened his eyes. He offered an obliging smile.
The man turned forward.  Oh, looks like Deacon Barrett
is out. Poor man. Sometimes it gets to him, the cold.
That's when it happened, you know."
Will leaned forward. "When what happened?"
"So, you do speak. The man turned back around.
 Course, he doesn't like to talk about it. Thinks he failed
that little girl. Oh, it's been years now. The old man dug
out a white cotton handkerchief he'd stashed in his shirt
pocket. He covered his mouth and coughed hard like old
men do. "He nearly died, you know, trying to save her.
But, sometimes there's just nothing to be done. Some
things are meant to be. Told me he never wanted to see
that look her father had at the funeral ever again. I think
he honestly hates those people for pulling him out that
pond. Such a shame." At the front of the church, the
priest began to sing.
Barrett twisted the knob on the radiator to full open.
He curled up under the quilt on his bed, chin to his knees,
and he prayed to stay awake until his body would no
longer be denied. His dream swallowed him whole.
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Snow blanketed the quiet schoolyard in a pillowy
layer, undisturbed except for the footprints of one small
animal. The overnight storm had given way to a clear
morning, the sky saturated a blue only achieved in the
stark contrasts of winter. The cross atop the neighboring
church cast a sharp shadow. Around the playground, a
waist-high wrought-iron fence stood guard, black and
severe against the undulating snowdrifts piled against it.
A cardinal nibbled the last of the berries on a nearby
shrub. Down a low hill, a half-frozen creek chattered in
the cold air.
The nun ticked off her roster while her assistant, a
young seminarian, held open the side door of St. Anne's
Catholic School, releasing a torrent of chirping six-year-
olds, reveling in their long awaited freedom, kicking up
joyful clouds of snow.
The nun called after the children, "Remember, only
fifteen minutes, boys and girls. It's still very cold." The
children scattered.
At the end of recess, the seminarian counted heads.
Thirteen, fourteen . . . no fifteen. No Mary Catherine.
The young man called her name. He ran to the opposite
side of the jungle gym. "Mary Catherine," he called
again.
The other children lined up by the door to go inside.
A pair of tracks, rabbit and child, disappeared over the
snowdrift near the gate at the far side of the playground.
Beyond the low ridge, a pale pink hat with a white pom-
pom bobbed up and down. The seminarian ran, calling
the little girl s name.
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By the time he reached the creek, the rabbit was on
the opposite side digging for hidden bits of green.
Halfway across, on the edge of a stationary chunk of ice,
was the pale pink hat with a white pom-pom.
Barrett followed the edge of the creek downstream
to where it flowed into a pond. Mary Catherine clawed at
the ice, crying for her mother. Barrett screamed,  Don t
be afraid!
The girl disappeared into the water and drifted under [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]