Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 2)

chapter 1

Boston, 1962

Patrick woke, startled, hearing a rustling noise. Reaching quickly to push back the heavy canvas, he found it zipped closed. Darkness swallowed him. In the airless, musty pup tent, he felt trapped. Sweat beaded on his forehead, when suddenly he heard another sound and felt the presence of someone.

“Shh.”

Then Patrick felt a body pressing against him and a clammy hand cover his mouth.

“Patrick, you’re a very special boy to me,” and breathing heavily, the whispering voice continued, “Turn this way and be very still,” nudging the youngster forward.

Trembling, Patrick recognized the voice of his priest. Why is he doing this? What is happening to me?

Patrick’s mind was reeling and he found it difficult to breathe as Father Michael slid a hand over his boyish, gangly frame, fondling him for what seemed an endless time. Nauseated, his stomach churning, Patrick lay lifeless when the priest moved away.

“Paddy, this makes a special bond between you and me. You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?”

His head was pounding as Patrick nodded although he knew it was too dark for the priest to see it move.

Without another word, Father Michael unzipped the tent and left as quietly as he had approached. Patrick lay in his sleeping bag, shaking and hurting, unable to comprehend why this had happened to him. A single salty teardrop fell on his upper lip, followed by a steady stream. He suddenly felt sick, like he was going to throw up. Pushing his head into his pillow, he sobbed until he fell asleep. When he woke he remembered the ugliness of the night. What if someone had seen Father Michael crawling into or out of his tent or heard him crying after the priest left? His priest–the man Patrick’s dad called their spiritual leader–who his dad described as a gentle spirit. There had been nothing gentle about him the night before and Patrick knew he would never see him again as anything close to spiritual. This man had christened him, blessed him and now done this to him. How could a priest be a man of God and Satan all in the same robe? It was so hard for him to think about.

Patrick lay in the tent for a few minutes, not wanting to dress for the day. Yet, desperate to escape the confinement, he pulled on his shorts and shirt and drug himself out. Looking around the camp ground, he saw lines of tents, along with old log tables, scattered with cooking utensils. Beyond that were stretches of nothing more than acres of green wilderness circling the camp. Through gaps in the tall trees and wild foliage, the orange glow from the sun was just appearing in the east, and he was grateful for the break in the darkness. He didn’t see the priest at first and was startled when he heard his voice.

“Good Morning, my lad,” Father Michael said, shifting to look at Patrick as he gave a cursory turn of the bacon just beginning to sizzle in the heavy iron skillet.

“Good Morning, Father,” Patrick murmured meekly, diverting his eyes.

“And how did you sleep, Paddy O’Brien?” the wan, small framed priest asked without emotion. His clerical collar was slightly askew and he looked tired and like he had not been awake long.

Patrick hated being called Paddy. His brothers, knowing how much he despised it, occasionally used it teasingly, but he knew the priest was taunting him, testing his reactions. He looked down again, but not before catching a glimpse of Father Michael’s beady gray eyes that always appeared weak behind his black square framed glasses. His scars from teenage acne had deepened over the years and this morning looked more pronounced than usual.

“Okay, I guess,” Patrick answered, struggling to be polite but wanting to escape. Other boys were beginning to gather and Patrick saw his chance to move away.

Noticing, the priest loosely grabbed Patrick’s arm, “Come, help me make the coffee, lad” he instructed, playfully tousling Patrick’s thick uncombed hair.

As much as Patrick had looked forward to this day, now he just wanted to go home.

He thought back about how excited he had been the day before waiting for the bus to take him and the other new altar boys to Camp Timbers in a small rural area west of Boston.

He had checked his packing list at least three times and recounted the items he was required to bring, carefully placing his clothes and supplies in a small duffle bag that had been his older brother Robert’s when he was Patrick’s age. Although he had wanted a new backpack he knew there wasn’t money so he marked through his brother’s name and with a black magic marker printed his.

But to his surprise his parents had bought him a Timex watch with a brown leather band. Although he had learned to tell time long before starting kindergarten by staring at the kitchen clock while he waited at the window, watching for his father to come home from the fire house, he had never had a watch of his own. Throughout the week before wilderness camp, his dad had cautioned him not to wear it in the lake. “Your mother and I saved for this, and we want you to take good care of it, okay?” They need not have worried because even at ten, Patrick was proud and responsible, and knew finances were tight at home.

The ringing of the giant bell, announcing breakfast, brought Patrick back to the present. Father Robert, the white haired senior priest whose mild manner radiated calm confidence and reminded Patrick of his grandfather, called “Come and get it!” Dispirited, Patrick looked down at the bacon, scrambled eggs and fried toast that filled the oversized pans. Gingerly, he put a piece of the crisp buttery bread on his plate and then a spoonful of eggs as he eyed a vacant seat at the long table. He had to admit that the food smelled good, but he wasn’t hungry and wished he were home in the small, cramped kitchen, dotted with a collection of pictures of fruit in oversized vases hanging strategically over the peeling wallpaper. He knew his mother would have on her old worn yellow checkered apron smudged with flour, bent over the dented stainless steel counter, making Irish soda bread. He could see his dad at the round pock marked wooden table reading the sports section of the daily paper, complaining about missing another Red Sox game.

When the pots and pans and leftovers were put away, Father Andrew stood and announced, “This morning we are going to have a scavenger hunt. Each boy needs to choose a partner”.

Patrick looked around, searching for his best friend Stephen, but before he could say anything, Mikey Kennedy shouted, “Hey Patrick, let’s be hunting buddies.”

“No, come on Patrick, his friend Casey called.

Randy shouted louder, “We’ll make the best team, Patrick.”

Patrick paused, eyeing all three boys, wishing Mikey hadn’t asked first and still looking for his best friend Stephen. “I guess I had better help Mikey,” his voice trailing off. Then in his typical competitive spirit, he added, “And we’re going to beat your butts,” trying to sound more confident than he was feeling.

“Yeah,” Mikey gloated, unable to hide his excitement that Patrick had agreed to team up.

Father Andrew handed each set of boys a list of items to find: a maple leaf, one edible item, a piece of birch bark, three shades of granite rock, an arrowhead, proof of wildlife, a pine cone, a twig of blue spruce, a bouquet of wild flowers and a sign of previous campers. “You have an hour and a half to search. If you’re late, you’ll be disqualified. When you’ve found everything on the list, bring it all back for checking. The winning team will be released from chores for the day and each boy will receive a prize.”

Feeling doomed, Patrick looked at Mikey, who was chubby, all milky white and soft as a marshmallow. On top of that, Mikey usually acted like a big baby. Yet Patrick could understand why. Mikey’s mother hovered over him, some days even bringing his lunch to school and eating with him in the cafeteria. Patrick thought how much he loved his mother, but admitted he would have wanted to die if she had ever brought his lunch and sat down with him and his friends.

After blowing his whistle, Father Andrew shouted, “Take off!”

The boys ran into the woods in all directions. Mikey found a feather and beaming proudly shouted to Patrick, “I got something” holding up a beautifully formed crimson feather.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all Patrick thought. Next, Patrick found berries and then the biggest maple leaf he had ever seen. “Look for rocks, Mikey, over there. There are some by that little stream.”

“I just found a can,” Mikey responded.

Almost 45 minutes had passed when Patrick looked at his list. They still needed birch bark, some blue spruce and a pine cone, which seemed easy enough and there were plenty of wild flowers scattered among the tall grasses, but finding an arrowhead seemed like a stretch.

“I’ve got the tree stuff, Patrick” Mikey yelled.

“Good, now start looking for a mound or heaps of dirt. We’re probably going to have to dig if we’re going to find an arrowhead.”

“Do you really think there were Indians here, Patrick?”

“Well, the Pilgrims were here so there must have been Indians,” Patrick said with confidence.

“Don’t you think all the arrowheads are gone by now, if there ever were any?”

“Who knows, but if it’s on the list there must be some or they are just trying to trick us.”

“I don’t think a priest would do that, do you, Patrick?”

Patrick didn’t respond, “Just keep digging Mikey; we only have about thirty minutes and I’m not hopeful.”

There were four large mounds of dirt and the boys probed with their bare hands, but found nothing. Just as they were about to give up Mikey cried, “Ouch! That hurt; something stuck me.”

Patrick thought he’s whining again, but joined Mikey and quickly began scooping the soft soil. There, jutting out was a grayish arrowhead with one jagged edge.

“All right, we may win!” Patrick exclaimed, but wondering what would happen if another team found one in better shape.

“Hurry, let’s go. We don’t want to be late.” Running ahead, Patrick almost forgot the wild flowers.

“Grab that purple stuff, Mikey,” Patrick yelled as he caught hold of two yellow flowers.

Panting, the two boys ran into camp where several of the older boys stood, looking disgusted, their mouths formed into smirks. From a distance, Patrick heard one say, “There weren’t any damn Indians here.”