The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(32)

I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said.

“And I used to box in college; did you know that?”

I shook my head. My father and I watched the Friday-night fights together, but he had never mentioned being a boxer. I was impressed. “Were you any good?”

“I held my own,” he said. “I could show you a few things, like how to block a punch and how to throw one.”

Taking a punch was the last thing I wanted to try, but I could sense the answer my father wanted to hear. “Okay, sure.”

The telephone rang. My mother yelled up the stairs, “I’m getting the lasagna out of the oven. Can you answer that?”

My spirits soared. My mother’s lasagna was her specialty, a rare treat on the weekends. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth to determine whether I might be able to chew without too much pain. My father patted my leg beneath the covers and left to answer the extension in the hallway.

“Hello,” he said, then listened for a moment. “Thank you for calling, Father Brogan.”

I sat up. OLM’s pastor.

“Yes, that’s accurate.” My father paused. “He’s doing better now. Thank you for asking. How did you find out, Father?” Another pause. “I see. Tonight? Yes, we can be there. Samuel?” My father looked from the hall into my bedroom. “Yes, I think he’s up to it, and I think it would be good if Samuel was present.”

And just like that, I lost my appetite, even for my mother’s lasagna.





14

My mother mostly pushed the lasagna around her plate with bored detachment. She didn’t correct my posture or tell me to get my elbows off the table, nor did she tell me not to chew with my mouth open, which I had to do because my lip was swollen. We did not discuss my day or my father’s day. The silence was unnerving, and I almost asked why we were going to talk to Father Brogan, but I decided against it. When it was apparent that none of us was going to eat much, my mother silently gathered our plates and left them in the sink, not bothering to rinse them.

“Do you want to get Sam dressed?” my mother asked. My father stared at me. “Max?” she asked, turning from the sink.

“No,” he said. “I think Sam looks fine just the way he is.”

Fine? I looked like that guy from the American Revolution carrying the flag and limping along with a bandage on my head. This was not how one presented himself to the parish pastor. But I sensed when my mother did not argue that I should not, either.

We parked the Falcon in front of the rectory, and I shuffled up the brick walk in my blue scrub top with my too-long pajama bottoms dragging on the ground over my slippers. A woman invited us in and led us down a hall with stained-glass windows and burgundy carpet that smelled like our basement and had the same dim lighting. Halfway down the hall, she pivoted and directed us to enter an open door.

I froze.

On the far side of a long table sat David Bateman. He was dressed like a choirboy in a white collared shirt and red sweater-vest. Bateman’s eyes narrowed in what I took to be a warning. Beside him sat his mother, the plump woman with the arm flab I had had the unpleasant experience of meeting in Sister Beatrice’s office. On the other side of Bateman sat a man with the biggest, squarest head I’d ever seen. It looked like a block of cement with bristles of hair and thick, black-framed glasses. His eyes widened at the sight of me. Father Brogan sat at the head of the table. To his left, looking ghostly pale, sat Sister Beatrice.

Father Brogan stood and greeted us in his Franciscan robe, the knotted white rope and rosary beads dangling from his waist. His eyebrows, silver and black, looked like inverted Vs. He thanked my parents for coming and turned his attention to me.

“And Samuel,” he said. “Thank you, Samuel, for being here. You’re feeling up to it, are you?” he asked, his Irish brogue thick as syrup. I said I was, and he touched the top of my head. “Good man.”

Returning to his place at the head of the table, Father Brogan invited us to sit. My mother looked to Sister Beatrice. “Good evening, Sister.”

Sister Beatrice looked startled to be addressed, her eyes glassy. “Good evening,” she said softly.

My father didn’t bother greeting Sister Beatrice, and taking that as a cue, I pulled out one of the high-back chairs.

“Samuel,” my mother said. “Please be a gentleman and greet Sister Beatrice.”

What I wanted to say was, “Dad didn’t.” Instead I walked behind Father Brogan’s chair and extended my hand. I smelled something pungent and thought Father Brogan was wearing an awful lot of cologne, though I hadn’t smelled it when he first greeted me.

“Hello, Sister Beatrice.”

Sister Beatrice took my hand and gave me a curt nod. “Good evening, Samuel.”

The instant Father Brogan sat, Mrs. Bateman squawked, “I’m not sure what lies this boy has spread about my David, but I can assure you he is not responsible for that boy’s injuries. I’ve spoken to my David, and he has no idea what this is about.”

Father Brogan stroked a soot-colored patch of hair on his chin and waited for me to take my seat. The big chair dwarfed me.

“Samuel, do you know why I asked you to come down here tonight?”

“No, Father.”

“Your parents have said nothing to you?”