Free Never Love a Stranger by Harold Robbins Page B

from the hospital in about three weeks. Keough’s was closed and my job was gone, but somehow that didn’t bother me. I put the money into another account, and as far as money went I didn’t worry about it. I had seen Julie a few times during the week and we said nothing about what had happened.
    One morning Brother Bernhard stuck his head in the dormitory door and said to me: “Francis, will ye step into my office and see me after breakfast?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    Later when I went down to his office I saw several people there: the Sister Superior who had charge of the lower grades of the school, Father Quinn, and a stranger. He looked like a cop.
    I was worried but tried not to show it. I walked over to Brother Bernhard and said to him: “You wanted me, sir?”
    “Yes, Francis,” he said. “This is Investigator Buchalter of the child welfare commission.” To Mr. Buchalter he said: “This is the boy we were talking about.”
    I waited for them to speak. For a few moments there was a strained silence in the room.
    Finally, the Sister Superior said: “Francis, you’ve been a good boy in school. I’ve known you and watched you since you were a baby. And now I have something to tell you. Something I don’t like to tell you but I must. Francis, have you ever thought of being anything else besides a good Catholic boy?”
    “No, ma’am,” I answered cautiously.
    Father Quinn smiled. “See?” he burst out, “just what I told you.” He fell silent again.
    The Sister Superior continued slowly: “If someone were to come and tell you that you were of another faith, how would you feel, Francis?”
    I let an audible sigh of relief escape my lips. This wasn’t about the shooting. “I wouldn’t believe it, ma’am,” I answered.
    There were smiles all around the room then—proud smiles, smiles saying better than words, “This is a good Catholic boy.”
    She continued, more at ease than before: “Francis, don’t you remember anything about your parents at all?”
    It seemed like a foolish question to me. She knew as well as I that I had been here ever since I could remember. I answered politely: “No, ma’am.”
    “Well,” she said, “Mr. Buchalter investigates the parents of all the children here. From time to time he reviews their history in an effort to learn more about them and help them. And he has something to tell you.” She looked at him.
    He looked very uncomfortable. “You see, Francis, it all started a little while ago. Your
    case came up for review again when you graduated from St. Thérèse.” His tone of voice was almost apologetic. “When a child enters high school, we again go over the child’s history—in this case, yours—to see if there are any more things we can learn before approval is granted—if any relatives can be found. Well, to make a long story short, we found a relative of yours still alive: an uncle, your mother’s brother. Some time ago he wrote us telling of his sister who had come to New York at the time you were born. She died at the time we found you. He identified her by a ring that she had worn and we had kept in the case files to give to you when you came of age. It wasn’t a valuable ring, but an unusual one. His description of the design matched with your mother’s ring. And now, legally, he wants you to come and live with him. We have determined that he is a good man and responsible man. He has two children of his own. He will give you a good home and take care of you.” Mr. Buchalter stopped.
    Father Quinn spoke quickly: “But, Francis, he’s different than we are. He does not believe as we do, Francis,” his voice was deadly quiet and serious, “he’s not of the faith.”
    I looked at Father Quinn questioningly. “Not of the faith?” I repeated after him, wondering just what that might mean.
    “Yes, Francis,” Father Quinn said heavily. “He’s not Catholic.” I didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about.
    “In all