Death of the Body (Crossing Death) (15 page)

I blinked away from my computer screen, and stared at him. “What?”

“You’re zoning.”

“Sorry,” I lied.

“So what is it this time? Fire, flood, or little crickets eating the wheat destined to be shipped off to the children of Cambodia?”

When I didn’t laugh, Nicholas became more somber.

I didn’t know exactly what to tell him. It had been nine years since that day in the orphanage. We never spoke about it, but now I was staring at an online version of an article in a Grand Junction, Colorado newspaper that I knew I couldn’t
not
talk about with him.

“It’s Ruth,” I started.

The name only caused him to flinch a little.

“She died last week.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. This was a subject Nicholas wanted nothing to do with. Not only did he doubt his own memories of the events leading up to our last day in Saint Vincent’s Orphanage, but also he hadn’t been in contact with anyone from the orphanage until he and I happened to bump into each other at a Starbucks near the UCSD campus. We were both in our senior year of high school at the time, had been accepted into UCSD, and were there for a campus tour and scholarship interviews.

“How?” he finally asked, though I could see in his expression he only wanted an answer to his question, not a dissertation on the past.

I debated telling him something about how she was devoured by man eating crickets that grew abnormally large after eating flour on a boat headed to Cambodia—my morbid sense of humor still perfectly intact—but decided that this subject was one that required a bit more sensitivity.

“Suicide,” I answered. “It says she hung herself in her dorm room, but the details are sketchy.”

“Is there an obituary?”

“Yeah,” I pulled it up with a few mouse clicks.

Nicholas stepped forward and peered at the screen where the black-and-white thumbnail of a beautiful young woman with easily recognizable facial features peered back at us. “Yup, you should have boned her,” he jeered, taking a small Nerf ball off my desk and tossing it into the air.

Obviously I had overestimated his sensitivity to the issue. “We were twelve!”

A greedy grin exposed his white teeth, which contrasted with his tan skin. “Never too early, right?”

I just rolled my eyes.

“Edmund, Edmund, Edmund,” he sighed. “You need to get out more. What is it about these newspaper articles that interest you so much anyway?”

“You really want to know?” I already knew his answer.

“Not really.”

So I made something up as I got up from my desk and turned to face him, “I just like to keep informed.” I stole the ball as it fell from his most recent toss.

Nicholas may have been stronger, darker, taller, and better looking than I was, but I was faster. Over the years his Native American blood had asserted itself, turning his brown hair and grey eyes into almost equal shades of black. He had grown proportionately up and out and obviously took great pride in maintaining his muscular physique.

I hadn’t gotten any wider at all, just taller. My black hair was still unruly, but I had become rather fond of my honey colored eyes and the strength and determination with which they sparked. Sure, Nicholas could win a physical fight with me, but it would never come to that; he would have to get past my eyes first.

We had never really argued, but I always got my way. I got the bed I wanted and the desk I wanted, all because of how determined I looked when I wanted something badly enough. This was a tool I often used to my advantage.

“I’m bored. I want to go surfing,” Nicholas said, but I knew that he was thinking about Ruth, about his time in the orphanage. He often changed the subject rapidly when the conversation was drifting toward a place he didn’t want it to go.

I didn’t push it. I never did. Instead, I just pointed toward the window. “It’s raining.”

“I’m going to get wet anyway!”

“It rains maybe two or three days a year and you can’t think of
anything
better to do?” I jested.

“Well, it
is
the perfect kind of day to cuddle with someone in bed. What are you and Quon doing tonight?”

He didn’t mean to run the two sentences together, and didn’t realize how funny his question sounded. I laughed anyway.

Quon was our other roommate; a student from Japan.

“I was just planning on registering for next semester tonight. Nothing exciting. I don’t know what Quon’s plans are.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Your big plan on a rainy
Saturday
night is to register for next semester?”

I grinned.

“Fine. I’ll bite. At least tell me what classes you are going to sign up for.”

“Probably another literature class,” I hesitated before adding, “and a few theology courses. Strangely enough, there is a class on the history and meaning of color in the interior design department I think might be kind of interesting.”

“And what, exactly, are you majoring in again? I mean, come on Edmund, history of color?”

Nicholas had gotten used to my rather odd taste in… well… everything, but he still enjoyed giving me a hard time about it. Currently my desk was littered with as many translations of the Bible as I could get my hands on, as well as a few scattered newspaper clippings and a couple of journals—not exactly your average college student’s reading materials.

“Color,” Nicholas scoffed when I didn’t answer. “Whatever. I’m going to the gym.”

I made a few more mouse clicks while he gathered his gym bag and headed toward the door. He paused just before pulling the handle closed behind him.

“Hey Edmund, how did you hear about Ruth’s death anyway?”

The fact that Nicholas had returned to this subject was nothing short of shocking. “I was looking for her.” I said carefully.

“Hmm,” he responded, and closed the door behind him.

***

I lied to Nicholas; I did have plans that evening. I had called the Catholic Community Center and had set an appointment with Father Paul. I had never met this man, and, in fact, had not stepped into a Catholic church since my foster parents grew tired of the weekly struggle to get me to attend mass. Father Paul seemed soft spoken on the phone and I found comfort in the fact that the Catholic Community Center of UCSD actually met in a rented space in a nearby
Episcopal
church.

I was ushered into a small office by a kindly woman with fiery red hair and an abnormally large mouth. When she spoke to me it was always with her lips pulled far over her teeth. A few days ago, on campus, I was witness to an event where the participating students were required to see how many Twinkies they could shove in their mouth without chewing. The winner fit nine. I was suddenly filled with the desire to start stuffing the little cream filled cakes into this woman.

“I’m Kathy, if you need anything,” she said after seating me in front of a large, but underused desk. “I’ll be just outside in the administrative office. Father Paul will be with you shortly.”

I idly twisted the ruby ring on my finger while I waited. This office, though much more plain than Father Michaels’ back at Saint Vincent’s, was all too familiar… and creepy. A large picture of Christ hung behind the desk and it seemed to me that every artist who decided to paint Jesus focused too much on making me feel like I was being watched. I supposed it made some people feel comfortable, believing that a great God was watching over them. It probably made some people feel guilty; I was sure that helped a great deal when it came to terrifying people into avoiding sin. I just found it spooky: all the idols, the candles, the images of a man’s torture and death on a cross, the holy saints portrayed in various positions of judgment; the whole idea of religion seemed to me to be based more on a fear of (rather than a love of) an omnipotent, caring creator. But I sort of assumed I felt that way because of the few days that had been seared into my memory at Saint Vincent’s orphanage. If people wanted to worship out of love, I had no issue with that, but when they did it out of fear—fear of death, fear of punishment—that was something I just refused to understand.

“You must be Edmund.”

The voice behind me was stronger than the one on the phone. I jumped.

“Sorry if I startled you. I’m Father Paul,” he said, walking around me and taking a seat at his desk. “I have to admit, I’m really rather excited to talk to you. You told Kathy you were at Saint Vincent’s as a child?”

I nodded my head, “For about twelve years.”

“Were you there during the…” he hesitated, “… incident?”

I nodded again, not mentioning that I
was
the incident.

“Well that is just fascinating. I have to admit though, when we got your call and you mentioned to Kathy that Saint Vincent’s was your last parish, I tried to look you up…”

I interrupted. “I changed my name and asked that those records be sealed.”

“So you never attended a Catholic parish under your current name?”

“No.”

The priest pursed his lips. “It’s been a long time since your last confession then.”

I grinned, “Indeed.”

Based on his scowl, that wasn’t the response he was expecting. “Well, if you came for a confession, this isn’t the usual way to go about it, but we have the confessional open…”

“I didn’t come for a confession.”

“So you do not intend to return to the faith?”

“Sorry, Father, but no.”

He crossed his arms and I saw his eyes turn defensive. “Then what can I do for you today?”

“I was hoping you could provide me a list of the names of the children, workers, nuns, and priests that survived at Saint Vincent’s, and, if it is possible, where those children were sent, and where the workers and staff were reassigned.”

His jaw dropped. “For what purpose?”

“My reasons, ” I paused, “are personal.”

“I’m sorry, Edmund, but you are going to have to do better than that. Church records are private, probably not even available to a member of the church, and certainly not to a heathen.”

This was going to be harder than I thought. “Well, then, perhaps you could inquire as to the whereabouts of Father Michaels’ journals?”

Father Paul sighed. “Actually, Edmund, after your call I became a bit fascinated by the Saint Vincent massacre. I called the diocese and told them I might have one of the children from that incident in my congregation. They sent me a copy of the journals.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Can you tell me if there was anything in them that stood out to you?”

Father Paul chuckled. “Just a part about a boy named Alexander claiming to actually be named Edmund, but I’m certain you already know all about that.”

My stomach muscles tightened reflexively, just like someone had punched me.

“Are you that boy? If you answer truthfully we may be able to have a more honest discussion.”

Father Paul emphasized the word
honest
in such a way as to make me believe he wasn’t being honest at all.

But still, I considered, and then nodded.

“More interesting than the journals of Father Michaels, whose entries obviously end just a few days after he makes reference to the ‘Edmund conundrum,’ are the journals of a Sister Mary Elizabeth. I was only able to read a few months past the time of the death of Father Michaels, Sister Mary Chantale, and Sister Mary Rafaela, but Sister Mary Elizabeth has been kind enough to agree to send me the remainder of her writings on the subject.”

“Sister Mary Elizabeth is still alive?” I asked in amazement before thinking of the consequences of my question.

“She is.”

“Where?”

“I’d rather not say. She didn’t trust you much, at least not after your communion. Before that she thought you were very special. She blames you for the deaths in the orphanage. Her formal report to the Vatican was that Father Michaels was performing an exorcism on you at the time of his death. I must admit I find that rather shocking. Are her report of the events true?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read them.”

“Would you like to?”

I knew there had to be a catch to this question, but I narrowed my eyes and nodded.

Father Paul pulled open a lower drawer on his desk, and took out a file folder. “Here is a copy of Sister Mary Elizabeth’s statement to the Vatican,” he tossed the folder toward me. “As I said, I find this story fascinating, and since I am the first church representative to have contact with you since your… disappearance, I must admit I am looking forward to our future conversations.”

“So your intentions, then, are to help me as long as I answer your questions?” I asked, feeling like Father Paul was more interested in the story inside of my head than in me as a person, as a human, or as a Catholic.

He smiled. “Perhaps you could start by telling me about what happened after you left the orphanage. How did you escape the massacre when everyone else in the room was killed? You were placed with a foster family, were you not? Tell me about them.”