Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 4)
Chapter 1 (continued)
Cindy Bradford
Around the campfire the boys ate, told ghost stories and listened to a short devotional led by Father Robert.
“Lights out,” Father Robert shouted, shortly before 10:00. He then began blowing out the lanterns and scattering the remaining ashes of the campfire. Sleepy and tired, Patrick crawled into his tent, careful to place his pillow in the opening. Falling onto his sleeping bag without undressing, he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
A noise woke him. When he looked at his watch in the dim light coming through the small opening in his tent, he noticed it was 1:00 a.m. Not seeing anyone, he sank back into his sleeping bag, and within a few minutes drifted back to sleep.
But, like the night before, Father Michael eased into Patrick’s tent, waking him.
“Move out of the sleeping bag” Father Michael commanded, tugging and pulling at him. Suddenly, the muffled sound of something outside the tent caught Father Michael’s attention and he froze, covering Patrick’s mouth with his hand, afraid the slightest sound might bring someone to the tent. Minutes seemed like hours. It was now dead quiet.
More time passed and Father Michael whispered “Open the tent, Paddy, and see if anyone is out there.”
Patrick edged forward and looking out saw only the glow of a full moon on the tranquil campground and a lone raccoon scampering off into the trees.
“There’s nobody,” he whimpered, wishing the priest would just go away. Father Michael started, and then stopped.
“Remember you are a special gift from God to me, Paddy, my lad.” Then he slithered out of the tent.
Patrick lay awake for the longest time, trying to swallow his tears. He could hear his heart beating, afraid the priest might return. Thinking about what had just happened, he felt dirty and lonely, trying in his ten year old mind to put reason to the unreasonable. Why had the priest come back? Why him? Was he the only one?
The next morning, Patrick stayed in his tent until the whistle announced the last wake-up call. Sitting, his head touched the top of the tent. It smelled like his first puppy Daisy when she played in the little lake behind his house and then ran in the cool wind until her short legs could run no more. His thoughts went back to home, where he would soon be away from this horrible place and this horrible man—at least until the next mass. Breaking the silence, Father Andrew called out to the boys, “Finish your breakfast, and get your tents broken down and your sleeping bags and gear ready for the vans.”
When Patrick finished putting his away, he noticed Mikey having trouble, “Hey, do you need some help?”
“I just can’t get this one stake.”
“Okay, move, I think I can get it,” Patrick told him as he wrestled the stubborn piece of metal pipe.
“Whew, that wasn’t easy was it?” But before, Patrick had time to answer, Mikey said, “Were you homesick last night?”
Patrick turned quickly and looked at him, surprised, “No, why?”
“Oh, I just wondered.”
Patrick turned away so Mikey couldn’t see the anguished look on his face and walked toward a group of boys gathering around Father Andrew who was just beginning to explain the morning schedule.
“This morning you have a choice of fishing or canoeing before reporting back to camp at 11:30 for a quick lunch and trip home.”
Quickly, Patrick yelled to Stephen, “Hey, you wanna fish?”
“Sure, but I hate putting those gross worms on the hook.”
“Oh, you big sissy, that’s what happens when you have a bunch of girls in your family! What if you catch a big fish? You want me to take it off your hook, too?”
Stephen shrugged and grinned, “Maybe.”
Gathering gear and an empty aluminum bucket, the two boys headed to the smallest of the three lakes where Patrick dug in the soft dirt until he found six long, wiggly earthworms. Slowly weaving the worms onto the hooks, Patrick handed a rod to Stephen. After tossing in their lines, they sat patiently waiting for a bite, but the cork never moved. When they reeled in their lines, they saw that something had nibbled part of the worms so Patrick carefully baited the hooks and each tossed their lines into the dark water. Almost immediately, Patrick watched his cork go under.
“I’ve got one, I’ve got a fish.” He jerked, and the fish jerked. The line went out whining, but Patrick kept the tip of his rod up and continued reeling like his dad had taught him. Finally the line was taut and it seemed that the fish had given up, but as Patrick relaxed, it took off again.
Jerking his line, Patrick heard a snap. His shoulders drooped as he realized the fish and his hook were gone. “I had a huge fish, my very own, Stephen. I’ll probably never have one like that again.” He was about to try again when he looked at his watch and decided they had better start back. Trudging along the narrow path carved through the thick underbrush Patrick kicked at a lone rock. He looked around at the campsite, now cleared of the boys’ belongings, void of purpose and spirit, much like he felt. The others were lining up to board the bus as Patrick lingered for a minute, glancing back at the lake, wishing he had been as lucky as the fish.
Standing near the altar in his white surplice, Patrick, with candle in hand, looked like a cherub, but inside he didn’t feel angelic. Feeling choked, he wanted to tear away the tight black satin bow that scratched and tickled his neck. The thigh length robe with wide, full sleeves reminded him of costumes he had worn as a younger kid when he pretended to be a character he wasn’t, almost like today. A month ago he thought this day would never come, his first mass as an altar boy. Now as Patrick watched his brother, John, carry the cross while walking in front of Father Michael, suddenly he felt sick. With the memories so fresh and raw, the sight of the priest terrified and disgusted him. Seeing his parents gaze admiringly at the clergyman, he felt abandoned and alone again. As Father Michael turned to face his followers, Patrick exhaled so hard his breath extinguished the candle’s flame.
After the service, the priest invited the new altar boys to the Parish House for lunch. Making excuses, Patrick hurried to the car, careful not to mention the invitation to his parents. He knew that if he did, they would make him go. They would never understand, never, and thus began a pattern of omission that was to define his life and that of those around him.
Over the next months, Patrick became withdrawn and irritable, sleeping fitfully and even wetting the bed on occasion. His mother’s face showed concern when she noticed the change in the son she always said was her most playful and full of pranks. She would pat his head and ask him where he hurt. He avoided her gaze because he could never explain his pain. His dad had less patience and threatened to take him to the family doctor if he didn’t straighten up. Patrick worked at forcing himself to put the events of the awful nights behind him, and began tricking his mind to think of other things. The basketball court became his escape. He was in control there and his mind was focused on that orange ball spinning between his hand and the ground, but at night the past has a way of creeping back.
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