The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [96]
Declan let out a sigh and lay back on his bed. Finbar sat on the edge of his bed looking down at his trembling hands.
“I never knew.”
“And you don’t now. You say anything and I’ll beat the shite out of you. Do you hear me?”
Finbar nodded and then shook his head sadly. “Fuck sake,” he whispered.
“Yeah. So that’s why the tally stick set him off. But don’t say anything—not to him, not to Mam. Right?”
“All right.”
Finbar picked up his comic book and started flicking through it. He was not paying any attention to what was in front of him but he needed to do something that felt some way normal. Things like that could not have happened to his family. Destitute, Orphans, the words rang in Finbar’s ears. His father had been destitute. His father had been in an orphanage. His father had this and how many other stories that Finbar would never know?
“Promise you won’t say anything,” repeated Declan quietly.
“Promise,” whispered Finbar, and listened hard for some meaningful break in his mother’s heavy silence downstairs.
34
Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” Father Flynn hastily concluded the morning mass. By now he was used to saying mass in the refectory, but the oppressive air that hung over the school this morning was almost unbearable. During the mass the Brothers had barely responded, each one seemingly locked in his own cocoon of all-consuming trepidation. The air smelt of charred wood and dampness.
Father Flynn quietly closed his missal and left. The Brothers sat on as if unsure what was supposed to happen next. None of them had seen Brother Loughlin since the previous night and each to some extent now felt the same directionless fretful uncertainty. How could they just treat this day like any other? They had spent the night sleeping on gym mats on the refectory floor.
“Our Lady of Indefinite Duration …” called Brother Boland hollowly.
“Pray for us!” responded a few of the Brothers.
“Saint Loman of Perpetual Paucity …” called another reedy voice.
“Pray for us!” chorused the Brothers, this time with added voices.
“Saint Drommod of the Holy Undershirt …”
“Pray for us!”
“Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly …”
“Pray for us!”
“Blessed Vincent of Edenderry …”
“Pray for us!
“Blessed Conor of the Tattered Shroud …”
“Pray for us!”
“Blessed Imelda of Immoderate Mystery …”
“Pray for us!”
The Brothers slowly began to look at one another in the ensuing silence with dazed, puzzled expressions.
The fire inspector said there would have to be a safety inspection of the upper floors of the monastery before any of them would be allowed back to their cells.
How could this have happened? What did any of it mean? One by one they got up from their chairs and moved like sleepwalkers in search of someone who would gently wake them up and point them in the right direction of where the day should go.
Mrs. Broderick was surprised to find Brother Loughlin’s office unlocked, and even more so to find him behind his desk already on the telephone.
“Is everything all right, Brother?” she asked, her usual acid tone softened by the sense of something out of the ordinary taking place.
“Everything is fine, Mrs. Broderick. Just fine,” said Loughlin sternly. He stood up, gently ushered her back out of his office, and closed the door on her.
He sat down and picked up the phone again. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. DePaor. Yes, I understand the department’s point of view but I just thought … I see.” Brother Loughlin replaced the phone in its cradle. An inspection! That was all he needed. He got up