The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(34)

“I am president of the parish board,” Mrs. Bateman shrieked.

“Not any longer, woman. As of this moment, you are relieved of your duties. And as of this moment, David Bateman, you are expelled from Our Lady of Mercy Grammar School.”

The words struck like a dagger. Mrs. Bateman placed her hand over her heart, and Mr. Bateman nearly jumped in his seat. David, however, did not so much as flinch.

“Expelled?” Mrs. Bateman said. She pointed her finger across the table at me, the flab of her arm shaking. “But he said he fell off his bike, that my David had nothing to do with this.”

“He is not your son’s accuser. I received telephone calls earlier this evening from Mrs. O’Reilly and from Mrs. Leftkowitz. It seems their sons participated in the beating of this poor child, holding him while your son punched with such ferocity they feared that maybe he had killed Samuel. And, unlike your son, they had enough of a conscience to tell their parents.”

“They’re lying,” Mrs. Bateman said.

Father Brogan put his hands flat on the table and stood up. “I spoke to the two children myself in this very room not two hours ago.” He held up two sheets of paper. “They both gave me a descriptive account of the beating your son administered and signed their names to it. I can assure you, the only liar in this room is the one sitting between the two of you.”

This got Mr. Bateman out of his chair, and it was a scary sight. He towered over Father Brogan and was as big around as a barrel. Father Brogan did not back down an inch. “Your son is expelled, and all I can say is that you should thank your lucky stars that is all that may happen to him. If Samuel were my son, I’d be reporting this to the authorities, and David might very well not find himself at the local public school come Monday, but at juvenile hall.”

Mrs. Bateman gathered a large handbag. “I am not going to sit here and allow you to insult my son.”

David got up from his chair to follow his mother, but he got just one step before his father grabbed him by the back of the collar with a hand as big as a baseball mitt. “Is this true?” He shook David like a rag doll. “I want to know. Did you lie to your mother and me? Did you beat up this boy?”

Tears poured down Bateman’s reddened cheeks. “No,” he cried. “No. Dad. I swear. Don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me. He’s lying. He’s a liar.”

But Mr. Bateman hit David anyway, a slap across the face that sounded like the crack of a whip. “Don’t you lie to me,” he said, shaking David, finger in his face.

Bateman bawled. “You’re hurting me, Dad. You’re hurting me again.”

His father lifted David by the collar so that his toes barely touched the carpet. He looked like a man carrying a wild animal by the scruff of the neck. “You wait till I get you home. You’ll get the belt for this. You’ve embarrassed your mother and me.”

I heard David Bateman’s fearful wails from down the rectory hall and then even after the front door had slammed shut. When I looked back to those seated around the table, my mother had her head down, crying. That’s when it hit me. I would never have to see David Bateman at school again, never have to live in fear that he lurked around every corner, that the next ball to come my way would smack me in the side of the head. I should have been leaping for joy, shouting to the heavens in grateful thanks for my newfound freedom. Instead I felt sad—a little, anyway. David Bateman’s father would give him the whipping of a lifetime, though I had no doubt it would do little to change David’s ways. I’d just watched him sit and lie to a priest’s face not once, but twice. If that hadn’t scared him to tell the truth, a whipping surely wasn’t going to.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hill,” Father Brogan said after the wailing had dissipated. His face remained flushed. “I want to apologize to you, and especially to you, Samuel. We failed you. Mr. O’Reilly and Mr. Leftkowitz advised me not just of the beating but of the bullying you have been forced to endure each and every day. It is an environment no child should have to accept, especially not here at a Catholic school. I can assure you that it will not happen again, not while I’m pastor.” He turned to Sister Beatrice, and I thought for a moment he might actually expel her. She sat mute, looking pale, and I got the impression Father Brogan had already administered a different type of lashing.

When we stood to leave, Father Brogan reached into the pocket of his robe—the kangaroo pouch, we called it. He pulled out a card with a picture of a man dressed in green, wearing a tall white hat. He turned it over and showed me the back. “I’m going to give you this Irish blessing now, Samuel, man-to-man. You keep it with you, and it will bring you strength.” He put the palm of his hand atop my head and said the words written on the back of the card as I read them.

“Dearest father in heaven, bless this child and bless this day of new beginnings. Smile upon this child and surround this child, Lord, with the soft mantle of your love. Teach this child to follow in your footsteps, and to live life in the ways of love, faith, hope, and charity.”

I felt his fingers make the sign of the cross through my hair.

I would slide the card with the Irish blessing into the frame of the mirror above my dresser, and there it would remain until I moved out for good. I took it with me and slid it between the frame and the mirror in the bedroom of my home.

As we departed the room in the rectory that evening, my father draped an arm around my shoulder. I stopped and looked up at my parents. “I have to ask Father Brogan something,” I said.