“Padre Pewter? Oh, thank you for seeing us, Padre!
Thank you!” Rosanna could see pious strength in the father’s calm demeanor. She
desperately needed it to be there. She saw the same strength that was embodied
by the icons, on the face of Jesus and in the hands of the priest.
“Is there something that I can do for you? We are
here to help each other.” He had heard that the woman was not the child’s real
mother. The man’s first wife died at childbirth.
“Thank you, Padre, thank you! We need the church.”
She wanted to tell him everything and to do whatever he bid her to do. She felt
everything was fighting to come out at once. She tried to bite her tongue, to
hold it all in, because if she spoke any further, it would come out
incomprehensibly. She needed to be able to relate it all perfectly, so that he
would know what he needed to do.
He would know what to do. He would know.
“What is it? What is troubling you both?” There was
something very important he was forgetting about these two. He had heard some
whispers, which most educated men, priest or not, dismissed as superstition.
What was it? Witchcraft or some kind of possession?
“Padre, I am Jose Savourez and this is my wife,
Rosanna. We have come to you because we are afraid that our son is cursed.”
Jose had spoken for the first time. If this priest could convince the rest of
the town to start treating them like normal people, then he would do anything.
“He was born to Jose’s first wife, who died during
the delivery, Padre. This boy is not natural. Everyone who has seen him says
so.” Rosanna wanted to distance herself from the original mother. She did not
want to be physically connected to that little spawn of hell.
She only wanted to help, or go through the motions of
helping. What would the neighbors think if she did anything less? It was
obvious that there was something peculiar about the child. No one but Paula
went so far as to say that they should get rid of the little monster. Even they
had a remaining measure of civility. It was this civility that Nino remembered
most. It kept them from spitting on him; instead, they turned away from him.
It is not easy to be treated with such civility
— it is merely the lesser of two evils.
Does it help to know that they could’ve done worse?
Is it possible to feel fortunate, if you are shunned, rather than reviled?
“How old is the child?” The story was coming back to
him. This was the supposed monster that Paula mentioned. He had not connected
what Jorge told him with what Paula was saying to anyone who would listen. It
was too easy to dismiss Paula. There were Paulas in every congregation —
someone whose shit didn’t stink, as his seminary brother was fond of saying. Of
course, her shit didn’t stink because she couldn’t smell it over the stench of
everyone else’s. Miss Holier than Practically Everybody, but God and Most
Priests.
“He is barely six months, Padre.” Jose began to feel
silly. Once he was away from the baby, he had difficulty believing the child
both he and Maria waited for, had become what it was. That thought was always
in tandem with his good, old Catholic guilt about sex before marriage.
Was God somehow punishing him for it? Some people
committed adultery, fornicating with other people’s wives and husbands. There
were those who never got married and nothing happened to them. When Joseph
Savourez had sex with his betrothed — not some back-alley whore, his
betrothed — she died at childbirth, to a freak.
Why had he been so unlucky? Why, why, why? It wasn’t
fair.
“And he convinced you, and as you say, everyone who
has seen him, that he is cursed? Why? What has he done?” The priest’s voice
brought Jose back out of his personal litany of woes.
This seemed to be just as Paula said. That crazy lady
convinced even the child’s parents to believe her. Pewter wouldn’t have been
surprised if he looked outside and found a pyre, ready for the child.
“It is the way he looks and his quiet, as much as
what he has done, Padre.” Rosanna saw that Jose was embarrassed to speak. She
saw him look away and hang his head. She would tell the father everything.
“Well what has he done?” Pewter was not sure, but he
remembered Paula telling him to be ready with his fire and brimstone when the
Savourezes came. His fire and brimstone would take weeks to arrive from Rome.
There were special requisitions and form after form, accounting for every flame
and bit of charcoal.
“He crawled at one week old and walked at three
months, as if he had been doing it for years.” Rosanna was on fire, finally
telling this to someone who could do something about it. Her eyes shone with
the indignation of having lived with this burden for so long.
She wanted to tell everything, but she also wanted to
be understood. She did not wish to be lumped together with Paula. She saw her
savior’s eyes become distrustful and wary. She wanted his help, not his
skepticism. She needed to be believed, because it was terrifyingly true.
“I’ll agree with you that he is very advanced, and
that this has never been heard of before. However, simply because a child is
able to do all of this so quickly doesn’t mean he’s cursed.”
He heard a lot of bottled up emotion in Rosanna’s
voice. She believed what she was saying with all her heart. Seeing this in a
Paula was one thing. Rosanna seemed to be a coherent, practical woman. This
was, indeed, strange.
“But, Padre, he is not even six months old and can
feed himself!” Rosanna could not believe that the priest was questioning them.
Her heart began to sink. He did not want to help. She
saw her chance, slipping away.
“He can? When?” Jose had snapped his head up and
stared at Rosanna in disbelief. What else could the little monster do? He
clutched at Rosanna’s hands like a lifeline. His child could not be normal.
There was nothing normal about an infant, eating as though it were an adult. He
wanted to run away from all of this. He wanted to turn and keep on running, but
all he did was close his hands around Rosanna’s.
“Oh, Jose, for a month now, I haven’t been able to go
near him without you there. He terrifies me!” She saw any chance they had
slipping out of their grasp. They held onto each other and listened to whatever
help Father Pewter could offer.
“Listen to me, Rosanna. From where I come, although,
indeed, this is extremely unusual, it is no reason to believe that he is
cursed.” Pewter could not understand how these people could believe, truly
believe, this.
They were illiterate, yes, but to believe this of
your own son? It rocked him to his foundation. It was a sweet little child, an
infant, not even one year old; how was this possible?
“What else can he do by himself?” Jose’s face was
turning white. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his face onto their
cradled hands.
“He can put himself to sleep,” she whispered and
watched his reaction. It was as though he had been slapped.
“He can crawl up to his crib by himself?” Jose felt
sick to his stomach and his mouth hung open. He could not even look at Father
Pewter now. His shame was interlocked with his growing, desperate fear.
“Yes, I haven’t put him to sleep for three, four
months now.” Rosanna could not understand that the church did not believe them.
What did they need — for him to grow horns and a tail?
“Oh, Madre mia! Padre, please help us! Haven’t you
been listening?” Jose squeezed the words out through a contorted face. His eyes
were squeezed into slits; his mouth was shaped in a grimace, his teeth clenched.
“Easy, Jose, please calm down now. Listen, this is
your son. I’m sure this is nothing, please believe me.” The man and the woman
were quickly losing their composure. Whatever the truth was about the child,
they actually believed what they were telling him.
“Nino is not a normal boy, Padre! He took his own
mother’s life when he came into this world!” All was lost; nobody could help
them. Finally, Rosanna buried her head in her hands.
“You are both over-reacting now. Listen to me, Jose,
Rosanna, you called him Nino. The boy has not yet been baptized?” He had to
find a plausible explanation in which they could put their faith.
“No! No, we cannot!” Jose was growing impatient with
this priest’s reluctance to believe them. They lived with this damnation. The
priest could not see the truth; he did not want to see it.
“Have you considered that, perhaps, all of this is
due to the fact that he has not yet been dedicated to God? Don’t you believe
that in order to be saved, he must be brought under the church’s wing?” Surely
this argument would work, he thought. They had to be given an avenue that they
could follow. During this desperate situation, they had looked to the church
for help. The solution had to be in the church’s practices — in its
traditions and in its ceremonies. He had to direct their beliefs to the
church’s foundations.
“I’m sorry, Padre. We had not thought of that. Thank
you for your patience. Thank you. As soon as you are able to take him, we will
bring him to you for baptism.” He had provided them with a slim possibility of
hope. What if everything was a result of him living outside the state of grace?
What if the baptism purged the little boy’s soul?
“I’m glad I could help.” Both Jose and Rosanna, now
somewhat more at ease, were hanging on Pewter’s every word.
“When should we bring him for baptism, Padre?”
Finally, Jose could hope that he and Rosanna were not alone. Father Pewter
found a way. He had not tried to dismiss them, instead, he reasoned through the
fear and paranoia, which everyone else had spread. People, who had never even
seen the boy, related stories about him belching fire and speaking in tongues.
If anything, the child hardly even cried.
Jose hoped that the father could persuade the
storytellers to stop. He hoped that, with the priest’s help, they could put all
of this behind them. He hoped that all the pointing, the whispering, the cold,
frightened stares, would just go away.
“I think that you must consider more than the boy’s
baptism. There is also the problem that you believe that he is cursed —
your own son.” Now that he gave them some hope, Pewter had to remind them of
their true situation. He needed to direct their minds away from what they
believed. They had to find a more plausible explanation for their son’s advanced
development. He might be a genius. He might be a savant. Father Pewter only
knew that he couldn’t be cursed, or possessed.
“Padre, we do not have your schooling, but we know we
are very afraid.” Jose decided to place their faith in Father Pewter’s hands.
They would do whatever he asked. The alternative was unthinkable. They could
not go back and face life with an increasingly terrifying child and
increasingly distant and hostile neighbors. At some point, they might not be
content to look away. Perhaps, they would take matters into their own hands,
getting rid, not only of the cursed child, but also his parents.
“You are afraid of a six-month-old child? Come now,
Jose, do not be afraid.” Their resolve seemed unshakable. They still believed
that their son was cursed, and Pewter realized that they could believe nothing
else. They refused. Their faces showed that they would do whatever he asked of
them, not because they believed that he was right, but because they had nowhere
else to turn. This was their only hope. Through the church was the only way to
deal with this situation.
“My husband is right, Padre. If he, a man, is afraid
of his own son, then I am terrified.”
“Listen to me, Rosanna, and you, Jose. This boy is
your son. You can both count on me; I will help you.” No amount of explanation
would change that in which they believed. It would only serve to substantiate
it. It wouldn’t matter if Father Pewter spoke about child psychology, or told
them there hadn’t been a true possession, or demonic occurrence, for years.
Their beliefs were firm.
“Thank you, Padre! Thank you!” Rosanna was relieved.
She could only go on with the knowledge Father Pewter was with them. The church
would help them. The church would save them.
“Oh, bless you, Padre.” He dropped to his knees and
pressed his face to Pewter’s open palm.
“I want you to come here and worship with my parish.”
He knew they could not be left to their own devices. In order to determine why
they held onto their beliefs, he had to keep them close. He would keep a careful
eye on them, to ensure they did not do anything drastic to the child. Their
fervor could turn to a zeal.
“When can we bring Nino, Padre?” Jose wanted to know
what he should do next. How was he going to reclaim the regular life before the
baby? Before Maria died? Before the fear and anxiety, which he now breathed,
had taken over his life.
“First, we have to help you understand why you are
afraid of your infant son.” He hoped to get to the bottom of this after the
child was baptized. After the baptism, he would prove to them that their son
was just a normal baby. First, however, he had to give them something that
would be ceremonial — a spectacle, which through its significance would
erase their fears.
“Yes, please help us, Padre. Please tell us what to
do.” Rosanna hung on Pewter’s every word and followed every gesture of his
hands and face.