This Magnificent Desolation by Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley Page B

black hairs. There is also a red velvet sofa badly in need of new upholstery and above this is a painting of the San Damiano Crucifix, from which, the Franciscans believe, God spoke to St. Francis of Assisi almost eight hundred years ago. From dark wooden tables small lamps with aged, stained yellow paper shades cast their soft glow into the corners of the room.
    Duncan closes his eyes to the warmth and to the sound of Elvis’s voice and the Brothers’ footsteps in the distant stairwells—a rhythm like gently falling rain—reminding him of the first time he opened his eyes after his sleep. The record is spinning on the turntable. The stylus lifts, the tone arm swings out and back, and then the stylus drops once more into the groove and the record begins from its first track. The haunting notes of “Blue Moon” tremble from the aged speakers.
    Blue Moon
, he whispers and Father Toibin hears him as he emerges from the kitchen carrying a tea tray of clattering crockery.
    You like it? This is one of the finest recordings of this song. Bill Black on bass and Scotty Moore on guitar. With the edge of the tray he pushes issues of
National Geographic
,
Time
magazine, and a dogeared copy of
The Collected Works of Douglas Graham Purdy: Tales of Horror and the Macabre
off a table and onto the floor, and then lays the tray down.
    This is what I heard when I first woke up, Duncan says and points to the turntable. I heard this music in the sick room.
    Father Toibin nods absently, gestures toward the sofa—Sit, Duncan, please sit—and takes a chair beside the cat. Oh, yes. Will you listen to that, such crooning would put a chanter to shame. He smiles, cocks his head to the side, and scratches idly at his bristles.
    It’s quite truly a divinely inspired piece of music, he says. And I don’t think Elvis would have been afraid to admit that he was singing to God when he sang this.
    On the far wall,
The Sacred Heart
with Christ baring his thorn-gouged heart imploringly, and beneath this, lining the baseboard, stacks of old, yellowed newspapers. Father Toibin follows Duncan’s eyes and laughs. There you will find every
Minnesota Tribune
and
St. Paul Gazette
for the last twenty years, which is almost as long as I have been here. I really must put them in the compost.
    I have trouble letting anything go, he says. It is one of my failings as a Capuchin, I believe, one among many. I ask God’s forgiveness all the time, and—he raises a quizzical eyebrow—I think he understands.
    From an ornate china teapot, Father Toibin pours steaming brown water into two large mugs and nods to himself. The Brothers that attend to the boys’ sleeping quarters tell me of how terribly difficult it has been for you at times, he says. Have you talked to Dr. Mathias? You know that is what he is there for.
    There are some things I’d rather not tell him, Duncan says. Is that okay?
    Of course, Duncan. Of course.
    Can I ask you something?
    Yes, yes, yes, Father Toibin says, waving him on as he works to clear the table and his chair of papers, and then sits.
    It’s about the children who have died here. Do you suppose they all go to God when they die?
    Father Toibin harrumphs, clutches at his teacup as brown water sloshes from its tilting rim. He takes a sip and grimaces, as if the liquid has burned his lips. From the campanile comes the sudden discordant ringing of bells and, frowning, Father Toibin glances at his watch. Brother Canice, he says softly, sighs and shakes his head, rubs violently at a point above his eyebrow as if it were causing him sudden and intense pain. For a moment he stares imploringly at Duncan,wide-eyed and helpless, shakes his head in disbelief, and Duncan tries not to smile. Tonight in the kitchen he will tell Brother Canice that Father Toibin is very much taken with his bell ringing.
    Well, Duncan, he says, as if trying to think about things other than the bells, children have died