The Brotherhood of the Rose Read online

  At the most exciting moment of the hunt, as he perched fighting for balance on an end table, aiming his rubber band toward a clever fly that always took off a moment before he shot at it, he sensed an unfamiliar movement in the street and glanced out the window toward a large ominous black car parked in front of his house. At the age of five, he prided himself on knowing the difference between Hudson Hornets and Wasps, Studebakers and Willys and Kaiser-Frazers. This was a 1949 Packard, and its bulk took up most of the width of the street. From the driver’s seat, a heavy man in a military uniform with a body like a punching bag seemed almost to roll from the car to the road. He straightened and, while surveying the cluttered neighborhood, smoothed the rear of his pants. With his shoulders hunched and his body stooped slightly forward, he rounded the back fenders of the Packard and opened the front passenger door. A tall slim gray-faced man in a badly wrinkled trench coat slowly got out. The man had slender cheeks, thin lips, a downward bend in his nose.

  Chris didn’t hear what they said to each other, but the way they stared at this house made him nervous. He crept from the table near the window. As the men left the car, walking up the crumbly sidewalk, he turned in panic, running. He dodged past a tea table and the kitchen table toward the listing door to the cellar. It creaked when he closed it, leaving a finger-wide gap that allowed him to see through the kitchen to the parlor. In the dark, on the cellar steps that smelled like rotten potatoes, he felt afraid that the strangers would know where to catch him because they could hear the drumming of his heart.

  The front door rattled as they knocked. He held his breath and reached for the rope that stretched from the parlor through the kitchen to these stairs. There hadn’t been time for him to lock the front door, but he had other ways to protect himself. He clutched the rope. The front door scraped open. A man’s deep voice asked, “Anybody home?” Heavy footsteps rumbled, coming down the hall. “I saw the boy at the window.” Their shadows entered the parlor. “What’s with all these tables? My God, the flies.”

  Chris hunched on the stairs, peering through the crack in the door across the dirty linoleum toward the net on the parlor floor. When not killing flies, he’d been making the net since his mother had left, taking kite string from Kensington Park, cord from vacant lots, rope and shoelaces from trash cans, wool and thread from neighbors’ bureau drawers, twine from the mill down the street, and clotheslines from nearby yards. He’d tied them all together—long pieces, short pieces, thick and thin—to form a huge intersecting pattern. His mother had promised to come back. She’d said she’d bring saltwater taffy and seashells and photographs, lots of photographs. And the day she did come back, he’d capture her in the net and keep her trapped till she promised never to go away again. His eyes stung as he watched the two men enter the parlor, standing on the net. If it could trap his mother…

  “And what’s with all this twine and stuff on the floor?”

  Chris yanked the rope. He’d attached it to chairs perched on tables in the parlor. When they fell, they pulled twine through the chain in the ceiling light and raised the corners of the net.

  As the chairs clattered, the two men shouted. “What the—? Jesus!”

  Chris puffed his chest, wanting to cheer, then suddenly scowled. The men were laughing, doubled over. Through the crack in the door, he saw the one in the uniform grab the net and rip the knots apart, breaking the string, stepping out of the twine.

  Tears burned his cheeks. Furious, he scrambled down the cellar steps, swallowed by darkness. His hands shook from rage. He’d make them sorry. He’d get even with them for laughing.

  The cellar door creaked open. Light struggled to reach the bottom of the stairs. Through a knothole in the wall of the coal bin, he watched their shadows come down. Their laughter continued. Someone must have told them everything about him, he thought—how he’d stolen the clothesline, the thread, and the twine; even where he’d hide. The cellar’s light switch didn’t work, but they seemed to know that also, for they had a flashlight, aiming it around the musty basement, stalking him.

  He crept back toward the deepest corner of the coal bin. It was empty in summer. Even so, grit scraped beneath his sneakers. The flashlight swung his way. Dodging it, he stepped on a chunk of coal. His ankle twisted. Losing balance, he banged against a wall.

  The flashlight came closer. Footsteps scurried. No! He slipped from a hand, but as he scrambled from the bin, another caught his shoulder. No! Weeping, he kicked, but he touched only air, flailing as the hands spun and lifted him.

  “Let’s get you up in the light.”

  He struggled frantically, but the hands pinned his arms and legs, allowing him only to squirm and bang his head against a chest as the men took him up the cellar stairs. After the dark, he blinked from the sunlight through the kitchen window, crying.

  “Take it easy,” the heavy man in the uniform said, puffing from his exertion.

  The one in the trench coat frowned at Chris’s tar-coated sneakers, filthy pants, and grimy hair. He took out a handkerchief, wiping the tears and coal dust from Chris’s face.

  Chris pushed the arm away, trying to seem as tall and strong as his tiny frame would allow. “Not funny!”

  “What?”

  Chris glared at the net in the parlor.

  “Oh, I see,” the civilian said. Despite his cold eyes and sickly face, his voice sounded friendly. “You heard us laughing.”

  “Not funny!” Chris said louder.

  “No, of course not,” the man in the uniform said. “You’ve got us all wrong. We weren’t laughing at you. Why, the net seemed a good idea. ’Course you could’ve used some better material and a few lessons in design and camouflage. But the idea… Well, that’s why we laughed. Not at you but with you. Sort of in admiration. You’ve got spunk, boy. Even if you didn’t look like him, I could tell from the way you handle yourself—you’re Gerry’s son.”

  Chris didn’t understand a lot of the words. He frowned as if the man in uniform was trying to trick him. A long time ago, he vaguely recalled, someone had told him he’d once had a father, but he’d never heard of anybody named Gerry.

  “I can tell you don’t trust me,” the man said. Spreading his legs, he put his hands on his hips, like a cop. “I’d better introduce myself. I’m Maxwell Lepage.”

  Like “Gerry,” this name meant nothing. Chris stared suspiciously.

  The man seemed puzzled. “General Maxwell Lepage. You know. Your dad’s best friend.”

  Chris stared even harder.

  “You mean you never heard of me?” The man was astonished. He turned to the tall gray-faced civilian. “I’m no good at this. Maybe you can get him to—” He gestured helplessly.

  The civilian nodded. Stepping ahead, he smiled. “Son, I’m Ted Eliot. But you can call me just Eliot. All my friends do.”

  Chris glared with mistrust.

  The man called Eliot pulled something from his trench coat. “I figure every boy likes chocolate. Especially Baby Ruths. I want to be your friend.” Eliot put his hand out.

  Fidgeting, Chris pretended not to care, refusing to look at the candy bars.

  “Go on,” the man said. “I ate one already. They’re good.”

  Chris didn’t know what to do. The only advice his mother had ever given him was not to take candy from strangers. He didn’t trust these men. But he’d eaten nothing except stale crackers all week. His head felt light. The growling in his stomach persisted. Before he knew it, he grabbed the candy bars.

  The man called Eliot smiled.

  “We’ve come to help,” Lepage said. “We know your mother left.”

  “She’s coming back!”

  “We’re here to take care of you.” Lepage glanced at the flies in disgust.

  Chris didn’t understand why Eliot closed the windows. Was it going to rain? As Lepage gripped Chris’s arm, he realized he’d dropped his weapon, the slimy rubber band. They took him to the porch, Lepage holding him while Eliot locked the door. He notice
d Mrs. Kelly squinting from her window next door, then suddenly ducking away. She’d never done that before, he realized—and suddenly felt afraid.

  3

  He sat in the front seat of the car between the two men and stared first at Lepage’s heavy shoes, next at Eliot’s gray-striped tie, and finally at the door handle. The thought of escape passed quickly once the car began to move and he became fascinated watching Lepage shift gears. He’d never ridden in a car before. The indicators on the dashboard, the movement of people and vehicles outside held him enthralled till, before he could anticipate their arrival anywhere, Lepage parked in front of a huge building with pillars that reminded Chris of the post office. Directed by Lepage’s firm grip on his shoulders, Chris walked between the two men through marble halls lined with benches. Men and women dressed as if to go to church went by, carrying stacks of paper and what looked like small suitcases.

  Behind a frosted glass door, a young woman sat at a desk. She spoke to a box beside a phone, then opened another door where Chris and the two men went through. In the inner office, an old man with white hair and a pencil-thin mustache sat at another desk, but this one was larger, before an American flag and a wall lined with thick leather-covered books.

  As Chris stopped before the desk, the man looked up. He searched through some papers. “Let’s see now. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Christopher Patrick Kilmoonie.”

  Afraid, Chris didn’t answer. Lepage and Eliot both said, “Yes.” Chris frowned in confusion.

  The man studied Chris, then spoke to Lepage and Eliot. “His mother abandoned him…” He ran his finger down a sheet, his voice astonished, disapproving. “Fifty-one days ago?”

  “That’s right,” Eliot said. “His mother went away with a male companion for the Fourth of July weekend. She hasn’t been back.”

  Chris kept turning his head from one man to another, waiting for what they’d say next.

  The man glanced at a calendar, scratching his cheek. “Soon be Labor Day. Has he got any older brothers or sisters, any relatives who’d take care of him?”

  “No,” Eliot said.

  “For the whole summer? How’d he survive?”

  “He ate sardines and bologna and killed flies.”

  The man looked stunned. “Killed…? His mother? Is she employed?”

  “She’s a prostitute, Your Honor.”

  It was yet another word Chris didn’t understand. Curiosity overcame him. For the first time in the office, he spoke. “What’s a prostitute?”

  They turned away and didn’t answer.

  “What about his father?” the man said.

  “He died two years ago,” Lepage replied. “It’s all in his file. You can understand why the Welfare Department recommends he become a ward of the city.”

  The man tapped his fingers on his glass-topped desk. “But I’m the one who has to make the decision, and I don’t understand why the Welfare Department sent you to this hearing instead of its own representative. What’s the government’s interest in this matter?”

  Lepage answered, “His father was a major in the Air Force. He died in the line of duty. He was my friend. Mr. Eliot and myself, we’ve sort of—well, we’ve unofficially adopted the boy, you might say. Discounting his mother, we’re the nearest thing to a family he’s got. Since our work prevents us from raising him ourselves, we want to make sure someone else does it properly.”

  The man nodded. “You know where he’ll be sent.”

  “We do,” Eliot said, “And we approve.”

  The man studied Chris and sighed. “Very well.” He signed a piece of paper, put it in a folder with a lot of other papers, and handed the folder to Lepage. “Chris…” The man struggled, unable to choose his words.

  “I’ll explain it to him,” Eliot said. “When we get there.”

  “Explain what?” Chris began to tremble.

  “Thank you,” Lepage told the man.

  Before Chris knew what was happening, Lepage turned him to the door. Confused, Chris was taken out again into the hall past the green glass doors that reminded him of the bank and the telegraph office around the corner from the five-and-dime. But where was that now? he thought. And where was he going?

  4

  The metal gate was high and wide and black. Its bars looked as thick as Chris’s wrist, the space between them so narrow he knew he could never squeeze through. To the left, a large iron plaque said,

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SCHOOL FOR BOYS

  To the right, another plaque said,

  TEACH THEM POLITICS AND WAR

  SO THEIR SONS MAY STUDY MEDICINE AND MATHEMATICS —JOHN ADAMS

  Beneath this plaque, built into the high stone wall that seemed to stretch forever in both directions, a heavy door led to a sentrylike room filled with stacks of newspapers, mail sacks, and packages. A man in a sweater vest tipped a conductor’s cap, smiled, and continued sorting the packages. Lepage and Eliot didn’t say a word but, with Chris in hand, went directly through the room, out into the sun, across a lawn toward a huge brick building.

  “That’ll be your high school some day,” Lepage told Chris. “But for now it’s only where we’ll sign you up.”

  Carved in stone, above the entrance to the building, were the words:

  WISDOM THROUGH OBEDIENCE,

  PERFECTION THROUGH HUMILITY.

  It was only half-past noon, so they waited on an old refectory bench, its oak thickly varnished and waxed. The bench felt hard, and the contour of its seat made Chris slide back while his feet dangled over the floor. Uneasy, he stared at the clock on the wall, tensing every time the second hand jerked forward. Its dull snick seemed to grow louder; it reminded him of the sound in a butcher shop.

  A woman arrived at one. She wore low heels, a plain skirt and sweater. Unlike his mother, she didn’t use lipstick, and her hair instead of being curly was combed straight back in a bun. She barely glanced at Chris before she went with Lepage to her office.

  Eliot stayed on the bench with him. “I bet those two hamburgers we bought you didn’t begin to fill you up.” He smiled. “Eat those Baby Ruths I gave you.”

  Chris hunched his shoulders, staring stubbornly at the wall across from him.

  “I know,” Eliot said. “You figure it’s smarter to save them for when you get hungry again. But you’ll be fed here—three times a day. And as for the candy bars, the next time I see you I’ll bring you some more. Do you like any other kinds?”

  Chris slowly turned, bewildered by this tall thin man with gray skin and sad-looking eyes.

  “I can’t promise I’ll visit you often,” Eliot said. “But I want you to know I’m your friend. I want you to think of me as… Let’s call me a substitute father, someone you can count on if you get in trouble, someone who likes you and wants what’s best for you. Some things are hard to explain. Trust me. One day you’ll understand.”

  Chris’s eyes felt hot. “How long will I be here?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “Till my mother comes to get me?”

  “I don’t think…” Eliot pursed his lips. “Your mother’s decided to let the city take care of you.”

  Now Chris’s eyes felt swollen. “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “She’s dead?” Chris was so desperate to hear the answer he took a moment to realize he was crying again.

  Eliot put an arm around him. “No. But you won’t be seeing her anymore. As far as we know, she’s alive, but you’ll have to get used to thinking of her as dead.”

  Chris wept harder, choking.

  “But you’re not alone.” Eliot hugged him. “I care for you. I’ll always be close to you. We’ll see each other often. I’m the only family you’ve got.”

  Chris jerked from Eliot’s arms as the door came open. Lepage stepped out of the office, shaking hands with the woman, who now wore glasses and held Chris’s folder. “We appreciate your help.” He turned to Eliot. “Everything’s taken care of.” He looked at Chri
s. “We’re going to leave you with Miss Halahan now. She’s very nice, and I’m sure you’ll like her.” He shook Chris’s hand. Chris winced from the pressure. “Obey your superiors. Make your dad proud of you.”

  Eliot bent down, touching Chris’s shoulders. “More important, make me proud of you.” His voice was soft.

  As the two men walked down the hall, Chris blinked in confusion through his tears, feeling the security of the candy bars in his pocket.

  5

  Too much to sort out. The forty-eight acres of the school were divided by a solitary road. To get to the dormitory from the high school building, Miss Halahan told Chris they had to walk quite a way. He had trouble keeping up. The road was completely empty, as if a parade were about to begin, but there were no barricades along the route, no spectators, only the immense trees on either side, like umbrellas shielding Chris from the sun.

  Despite her explanations, he felt disoriented. Across from the high school was a cluster of buildings that made up the “residence halls and refectory,” she said. To the left was the immense stone “chapel,” and across the road from it, the “Infirmary.” The wind had been light, broken by the mass of buildings, but as he followed Miss Halahan past the “gymnasium” at the center of campus, he was suddenly struck by a fierce hot gust that surged across playgrounds on either side of the road. He saw goalposts and track hurdles and baseball backstops, but what surprised him was the lack of earth. Everything around him was a huge expanse of concrete.

  The sun now blazed as Chris passed the “Armory” and the “energy plant” with its smokestacks and hills of coal. His legs ached when he finally reached the end of the road. Staring at the bleak gray building she called the “dormitory,” he became apprehensive. She had to tug his resisting hand, leading him down an echoing stairwell, taking him to a large basement auditorium that smelled of wax, where he peered uneasily at a dozen other boys, some older, some younger, all wearing dingy clothes as he was.