The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(11)

“He certainly is.”

“Then why draw more attention to him? Why make him stand out any more than he already does? Why not let him just . . .” My father did not finish.

“What? Blend in?”

“Yes, to whatever extent he can.”

“Because he can’t blend in, and the sooner Samuel learns that is the case, the sooner he can learn to deal with it.”

There was another silence. Then I heard my father say, “Devil Boy?”

Later, I lay in bed listening to the rhythmic flow of my mother’s prayers. The cadence of her Our Fathers and Hail Marys ordinarily helped me drift to sleep. Not this night. I contemplated breaking that piggy bank and using my stored prayers for a good case of the flu, but I knew the flu would not last, and, eventually, I would be forced to attend OLM and face the cruelty and the mistreatment, whatever that meant.

While lying in bed, I heard my mother’s footsteps ascending the stairs. Though I pretended to be asleep, I was a poor actor, and as she tucked me in, she asked, “Have you been crying?”

“Why am I different?” I asked.

She sat on the edge of my bed. “You’re not different.”

“No one else has red eyes. No one.”

“And who gave you those eyes?”

I swallowed hard. “God,” I said.

“God gave you extraordinary eyes, Samuel, because he intends for you to lead an extraordinary life.”

“What if I don’t want to? What if I just want to be like other kids?”

She brushed my hair from my forehead. Then she touched her finger to my chest. “You are every bit as normal as any other boy, in here, where it counts. Our skin, our hair, and our eyes are simply the shell that surrounds our soul, and our soul is who we are. What counts is on the inside.”

“People don’t make fun of what’s on the inside,” I said.

She sighed. “People make fun of things they don’t understand.”

“I don’t even know them. Why would they call me that?”

“They’ll like you when they get to know you.”

“She doesn’t. Sister Beatrice. She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She called me Devil Boy.”

“We don’t always know God’s will, Sam.”

“Is it his will for her to hate me?”

My mother seemed to give this further consideration. Her answer surprised me. “It might be,” she said. “No one knows.”

“Then how do you know?”

She stood. “Have faith, Samuel. Can you do that for me?”

I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t too happy with God at that moment. I’d spent prayers from my prayer bank, and that hadn’t worked out too well. “I guess so,” I said.

“Now close your beautiful eyes and go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.” She bent and kissed my forehead.

But I did not fall asleep, not right away. I lay awake wondering what kind of cruelty awaited me, the devil boy. I got an idea, closed my eyes, and in my mind I smashed the piggy bank and emptied out all my prayers.





13

That night I dreamed of a black crow with a sharp beak pecking at my eyes. It would be a recurring nightmare throughout my youth. When I awoke I was so tired, my stomach so upset, that for a brief moment I thought maybe God had answered my prayers and I did indeed have the flu. No such luck. Looking back, I now know that my mother had taken a stand. She’d drawn a line in the sand. Though I’m certain I didn’t completely understand it then, I sensed even at that tender young age that attending school that day was about far more than beginning my Catholic education. It was about what my mother had whispered in my ear when we had knelt before the Blessed Mother the prior morning.

Righteousness.

I’m not sure exactly what I expected, but when I looked in the bathroom mirror that morning, I saw the same two red orbs. Even though I’d used all my prayers, the Blessed Mother had not changed the color of my eyes. It was the first—but not the last—time I would empty my bank for that request and be disappointed.

My mother and father stood at the bottom of the stairs, my father documenting the occasion in black-and-white film with the camera. My worry and concern are etched in deep grooves on my forehead. And, watching the movie as an adult, it dawned on me that my mother had not recorded the prior morning—clear evidence she never expected OLM to accept me that day.

“First day. Big day,” my father said from behind the camera.

“Smile, Samuel,” my mother said. “This is the start of a new adventure.”

“I am smiling,” I recall saying. But in that film I do not look like a child about to embark on an exciting new adventure. I look like a child about to be sick.

My father lowered the camera. “What do you say we celebrate and have dinner at Santoro’s tonight?”

“I pulled out a pot roast from the freezer,” my mother said.

“We’ll eat it tomorrow night. Samuel, what do you say?”

Ordinarily the anticipation of eating Santoro’s pizza would have sent my spirits soaring, but this morning the thought of liquefied cheese and greasy pepperoni only made me queasier. “I don’t care,” I said, considering it the safest response.