The Brotherhood of the Rose (22 page)

Fidgeting, Chris pretended not to care, refusing to look at the candy bars. "Go on," the man said. "I ate one already. They're good."

Chris didn't know what to do. The only advice his mother had ever given him was not to take candy from strangers. He didn't trust these men. But he'd eaten nothing except stale crackers all week. His head felt light. The growling in his stomach persisted. Before he knew it, he grabbed the candy bars.

The man called Eliot smiled. "We've come to help," Lepage said. "We know your mother left." "She's coming back!"

"We're here to take care of you." Lepage glanced at the flies in disgust.

Chris didn't understand why Eliot closed the windows. Was it going to rain? As Lepage gripped Chris's arm, he realized he'd dropped his weapon, the slimy rubber band. They took him to the porch, Lepage holding him while Eliot locked the door. He noticed Mrs. Kelly squinting from her window next door, then suddenly ducking away. She'd never done that before, he realized-and suddenly felt afraid.

He sat in the front seat of the car between the two men and stared first at Lepage's heavy shoes, next at Eliot's graystriped tie, and finally at the door handle. The thought of escape passed quickly once the car began to move and he became fascinated watching Lepage shift gears. He'd never ridden in a car before. The indicators on the dashboard, the movement of people and vehicles outside held him enthralled till, before he could anticipate their arrival anywhere, Lepage parked in front of a huge building with pillars that reminded Chris of the post office. Directed by Lepage's firm grip on his shoulders, Chris walked between the two men through marble halls lined with benches. Men and women dressed as if to go to church went by, carrying stacks of paper and what looked like small suitcases.

Behind a frosted glass door, a young woman sat at a desk. She spoke to a box beside a phone, then opened another door where Chris and the two men went through. In the inner office, an old man with white hair and a pencil-thin mustache sat at another desk, but this one was larger, before an American flag and a wall lined with thick leather-covered books.

As Chris stopped before the desk, the man looked up. He searched through some papers. "Let's see now. Yes." He cleared his throat. "Christopher Patrick Kilmoonie."

Afraid, Chris didn't answer. Lepage and Eliot both said, "Yes."

Chris frowned in confusion. The man studied Chris, then spoke to Lepage and Eliot. "His mother abandoned him..." He ran his finger down a sheet, his voice astonished, disapproving. "Fifty-one days ago?"

"That's right," Eliot said. "His mother went away with a male companion for the Fourth of July weekend. She hasn't been back."

Chris kept turning his head from one man to another, waiting for what they'd say next.

The man glanced at a calendar, scratching his cheek. "Soon be Labor Day. Has he got any older brothers or sisters, any relatives who'd take care of him?"

"No," Eliot said. "For the whole summer? How'd he survive?"

"He ate sardines and bologna and killed flies."

The man looked stunned. "Killed... ? His mother? Is she employed?"

"She's a prostitute, your honor."

It was yet another word Chris didn't understand. Curiosity overcame him. For the first time in the office, he spoke. "What's a prostitute?"

They turned away and didn't answer. "What about his father?" the man died. "He died two years ago," Lepage replied. "It's all in his file. You can understand why the Welfare Departmen( recommends he become a ward of the city."

The man tapped his fingers on his glass-topped desk. "But I'm the one who has to make the decision, and I don't understand why the Welfare Department sent you to this hearing instead of its own representative. What's the government's interest in this matter?"

Lepage answered, "His father was a major in the Air Force. He died in the line of duty. He was my friend. Mr. Eliot and myself, we've sort of well, we've unofficially adopted the boy, you might say. Discounting his mother, we're the nearest thing to a family he's got. Since our work prevents us from raising him ourselves, we want to make sure someone else does it properly."

The man nodded. "You know where he'll be sent."

"We do," Eliot said, "and we approve." The man studied Chris and sighed. "Very well." He signed a piece of paper, put it in a folder with a lot of other papers, and handed the folder to Lepage. "Chris..." The man struggled, unable to choose his words. "I'll explain it to him," Eliot said. "When we get there."

"Explain what?" Chris began to tremble. "Thank you," Lepage told the man.

Before Chris knew what was happening, Lepage turned him to the door. Confused, Chris was taken out again into the hall past the green glass doors that reminded him of the bank and the telegraph office around the corner from the five-and-dime. But where was that now? he thought. And where was he going?

The metal gate was high and wide and black. Its bars looked as thick as Chris's wrist, the space between them so narrow he knew he could never squeeze through. To the left, a large iron plaque said, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SCHOOL FOR BOYS To the right, another plaque said, TEACH THEM POLITICS AND WAR SO THEIR SONS MAY STUDY MEDICINE AND MATHEMATICS JOHN ADAMS Beneath this plaque, built into the high stone wall that seemed to stretch forever in both directions, a heavy door led to a sentrylike room filled with stacks of newspapers, mail sacks, and packages. A man in a sweater vest tipped a conductor's cap, smiled, and continued sorting the packages. Lepage and Eliot didn't say a word but, with Chris in hand, went directly through the room, out into the sun, across a lawn toward a huge brick building. "That'll be your high school some day," Lepage told Chris. "But for now it's only where we'll sign you up."

Carved in stone, above the entrance to the building, were the words: WISDOM THROUGH OBEDIENCE, PERFECTION THROUGH HUMILITY.

It was only half-past noon, so they waited on an old refectory bench, its oak thickly varnished and waxed. The bench felt hard, and the contour of its seat made Chris slide back while his feet dangled over the floor. Uneasy, he stared at the clock on the wall, tensing every time the second hand jerked forward. Its dull snick seemed to grow louder; it reminded him of the sound in a butcher shop.

A woman arrived at one. She wore low heels, a plain skirt and sweater. Unlike his mother, she didn't use lipstick, and her hair instead of being curly was combed straight back in a bun. She barely glanced at Chris before she went with Lepage to her office.

Eliot stayed on the bench with him. "I bet those two hamburgers we bought you didn't begin to fill you up." He smiled. "Eat those Baby Ruths I gave you."

Chris hunched his shoulders, staring stubbornly at the wall across from him. "I know," Eliot said. "You figure it's smarter to save them for when you get hungry again. But you'll be fed here-three times a day. And as for the candy bars, the next time I see you I'll bring you some more. Do you like any other kinds?"

Chris slowly turned, bewildered by this tall thin man with gray skin and sad-looking eyes. "I can't promise I'll visit you often," Eliot said. "But I want you to know I'm your friend. I want you to think of me... let's call me a substitute father, someone you can count on if you get in trouble, someone who wants what's best for you. Some things are hard to explain. Trust me. One day you'll understand."

Chris's eyes felt hot. "How long will I be here?"

"Quite a while."

"Till my mother comes to get me?"

"I don't think..." Eliot pursed his lips. "Your mother's decided to let the city take care of you."

Now Chris's eyes felt swollen. "Where is she?"

"We don't know."

"She's dead?" Chris was so desperate to hear the answer he took a moment to realize he was crying again.

Eliot put an arm around him. "No. But you won't be seeing her anymore. As far as we know, she's alive, but you'll have to get used to thinking of her as dead."

Chris wept harder, choking. "But you're not alone." Eliot hugged him. "I care for you. I'll always be Close to YOU. We'll see each other often. I'm the only family you've got."

Chris jerked from Eliot's arms as the door came open. Lepage stepped out of the office, shaking hands with the woman, who now wore glasses and held Chris's folder. "We appreciate your help.- He turned to Eliot. "Everything's taken care of." He looked at Chris. "We're going to leave you with Miss Halahan now. She's very nice, and I'm sure you'll like her." He shook Chris's hand. Chris winced from the pressure. "Obey your superiors. Make your dad proud of you."

Eliot bent down, touching Chris's shoulders. "More important, make me proud of you." His voice was soft.

As the two men walked down the hall, Chris blinked in confusion through his tears, feeling the security of the candy bars in his pocket.

Too much to sort out. The forty-eight acres of the school were divided by a solitary road. To get to the dormitory from the high school building, Miss Halahan told Chris they had to walk quite a way. He had trouble keeping up. The road was completely empty, as if a parade were about to begin, but there were no barricades along the route, no spectators, only the immense trees on either side, like umbrellas shielding Chris from the sun.

Despite her explanations, he felt disoriented. Across from the high school was a cluster of buildings that made up the 11 residence halls and refectory," she said. To the left was the immense stone "chapel," and across the road from it, the "infirmary." The wind had been light, broken by the mass of buildings, but as he followed Miss Halahan past the "gymnasium" at the center of campus, he was suddenly struck by a fierce hot gust that surged across playgrounds on either side of the road. He saw goalposts and track hurdles and baseball backstops, but what surprised him was the lack of earth. Everything around him was a huge expanse of concrete.

The sun now blazed as Chris passed the "armory" and the "energy plant" with its smokestacks and hills of coal. His leg-_ ached when he finally reached the end of the road. Staring at the bleak gray building she called the "dormitory," he became apprehensive. She had to tug his resisting hand, leading him, down an echoing stairwell, taking him to a large basement auditorium that smelled of wax, where he peered uneasily at a dozen other boys, some older, some younger, all wearing dingy clothes as he was. "You arrived just in time," Miss Halahan said. "For the weekly initiation. Otherwise we'd have had to do it all over again just for you."

Chris didn't understand. "Initiation" was yet another word he'd never come across. He didn't like its sound. Nervous, he sat in a creaky seat and realized that all the other boys had followed his instincts, staying apart from each other. The auditorium was unnaturally quiet.

An old man dressed in khaki pants and shirt with an olive drab tie marched to the center of the stage. He stood before a podium, and again Chris noticed an American flag. The old man held a baton beneath one arm and introduced himself as Colonel Douglas Dotty, director of admissions and headmaster of the dormitory. He began his speech with animal and sports jokes. A few boys laughed. The colonel ventured to guess that many heroes of the sports world knew about the school and on occasion would visit the boys. Though anxious, Chris was surprised to find himself interested. His cheeks felt tight from his now-dried tears. The colonel told a story (incomprehensible to Chris) about a place called ancient Greece and three hundred soldiers called Spartans who died heroically trying to hold off an army of Persians at a pass called Thermopylae. "Gentlemen," he concluded, "I'm going to show you what this school is all about."

He formed the boys in two lines and led them outside, down the road to the vocational arts building. There, the newbies, as they learned they were called, were shown the foundry, where boys filled cast-iron molds. In the print shop, other boys were setting type for the next issue of the school's paper. Chris saw the carpentry and machine and auto mechanics shops. He went to the tailor shop, the shoe shop, and the laundry. Even there, his group was impressed by the noise and activity and the importance of children like themselves doing the work. They wanted to try out the machines.

But the colonel saved the best for last. With a smile of pride, he took them to the armory, showing Chris and the others the, 1917 Enfield rifles, polished to a gleam, that they soon would carry, as well as the sabers, the dress uniforms of gunmetal gray, and the snap-on white collars they would wear in their student platoons. Here especially Chris was awe struck. No boy spoke up or clowned around. Chris inhaled the sharp sweet smell of gun oil, Brasso, and bore cleaner. The respect he and the other boys gave this old man was the same respect they would show him on the day in their senior year when they signed up for Army Airborne or the Second Marine Division. Respect indeed would turn to love. Nurtured in a male system, in the Spartan atmosphere of Franklin, love would turn to patriotism and pride. Fear, through prolonged punishment, would soon become commonplace and would finally be unknown. The glitter of saber scabbards, the charisma of rifles, insignias, and chevrons would create excitement, fusing all the needed alloys of heroism and loyalty to produce the men Franklin passed on to the outside world. "We can't have you looking the way you do now, can we?" the colonel said. Continuing to reassure them with his smile, he took them to another building where he gave each boy two pair of lace-up high-cut black shoes, similar to combat boots. He handed each a white dress shirt and three plain shirts of various colors, four pair of pants, socks and underwear, four handkerchiefs-all wrapped in a tight bundle by a long bilious cotton nightshirt. With their. shoes tied around their neck and their bundle of clothes clutched to their chests, they looked like miniature airborne troops as they ventured out into the dry hot wind again and trotted at double time back along the road to the dormitory.