Word Count: 590
St. Clotilde’s is tucked away in the hills of Laconia, up steep winding barely two-car-wide roads of stones and dirt. Difficult to get to sure enough; much harder to leave.
Jerome sat in the back seat, afraid to look out the windows where trees blocked the sunlight, their branches tapping the car windows saying, go back, go back now or never see home again.
He wanted to cry but could not. He’d nearly shot out both eyes with a BB gun. He could sense light, darkness, vague shadows but he’d lost the gift of color, the facial expressions, smiles. His parents had said that he’d meet other boys who’d done the same. Because they, like him, hadn’t listened. St. Clotilde, they explained, was the patron saint of disappointing children.
Jerome waved goodbye at the sound of his parents driving away. Father Guillermo’s hand lay steady on his shoulder. They stood on the steps until nothing but the rustling of leaves overhead could be heard.
“Well, Jerome, let’s meet some of the other boys, okay?” The voice was comfortably low as a candle flame yet held a rock edge of authority. He nodded. The priest steered him inside. They walked through long hallways, their footsteps ticking on the polished oak floors. The priest stopped, opened a door into a bright room where even Jerome saw a diffusion of solids and space.
“Here’s Mickey,” said the priest. “Mickey can’t talk because he has damaged his vocal chords. Swallowing watermelon seeds, I believe. Say hello to Jerome, Mickey.” Within the silence of Mickey’s greeting, the priest chuckled.
Father Guillermo took Jerome around the main rooms of the school, the classrooms, the chapel, the headmaster’s office, then upstairs to the second floor to a room he would be sharing with Mickey and two other boys; Jonathan, whose pranks with fireworks and frogs had left him with only three fingers and one thumb, and Kevin, who was missing his ears. “Running with scissors,” said the priest. He snickered and left.
“Can you hear okay?” asked Jerome.
“Huh?” said Kevin, “Oh, sure. I lipread too. Except with Mickey. Let me tell you, Guillermo’s a jerk,” he said. He listed the priests and the boys, noting bullies and crybabies and those who could be trusted and those who could not. “Stay away from Milton,” he warned. “He’s the oldest and nastiest kid here.”
“Why’s he here?”
“Super-glue,” said Kevin. “His finger is permanently stuck in his nose.”
Jerome learned the routine and the layout from his roommates. They called themselves the Four Musketeers. The boys were all bright and mischievous, despite their physical flaws which served as both reminder and an odd badge of pride. Mickey, voiceless and small, was their lookout.
Naturally, within months of their alliance they were planning escape. The woods surrounding the school were the passage. The night the time. Experience the impetus that would save them.
And they made it. Under cover and with a chain of cohesion that was woven from abilities and disabilities both. From Mickey, the silence. From Jonathan, the footsteps that acted as fingers to part their way through the forest. From Kevin, the lipreading of leaves and the flow of the wind. And from Jerome, the sense of the hunt.
And one more; Milton, the bully, who’d learned to be brave.
After they’d left and set off on their own new adventures, after he was convinced they were fine, Father Guillermo checked off their names as successful, and sighed, “My work here is done.”
