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

driven by the instinct of the ritual and the night to come: the voiding of bowels and bladders, the washing of face and brushing of teeth, the farewell to friends until morning, and the hurdle into cold, dank beds; the preparation of the priests’ meals in the refectory, the first bell for the Hours of the Holy Office, and, at last, solitude for divine reading and prayer prior to Vigil in the deep leagues of the night that descend upon the plains. Pretending to be industrious—Duncan scrapes the remains of his apple crisp into a slop bucket to give to the local farmer’s sow and her piglets while Julie makes a show of collecting a handful of cutlery—they slowly make their way into the Brothers’lounge, hide behind the couch, and wait for Brother Canice to arrive and turn the television to
The Movie of the Week
.
    Julie is drawing in her pad and Duncan is rereading Father Toibin’s dog-eared copy of
The Collected Works of Douglas Graham Purdy: Tales of Horror and the Macabre.
Dishes are clattering in the dining hall and from the chapel comes the sound of kneelers banging against the gouged and scarred pew backs. There is sound of glass shattering and sandaled feet running on carpet. A Brother hollers and Duncan hears more breaking glass. Listening, Julie is suddenly breathless, her body rigid. She grasps Duncan’s hand, pulls him to his feet.
    Quick, Duncan. It’s Billy.
    In Father Toibin’s office chairs lie overturned, and a decapitated bust of Brother Dianmianco rests, as if placed there, against the baseboard. A hole in the wall reveals the plaster lathes, pale as exposed ribs. Burly Brother Brennan and two male nurses have surrounded Billy, who is brandishing a wickedly gleaming candelabra. The candlesticks are scattered across the floor. Above one of the nurses’ brows a cut bleeds profusely.
    The room is cold. Through a smashed window the wind blows: white lace curtains flutter and flap loudly against the window frame.
    Fuckshit, mother fuck you! Billy shouts. I’m not going to St. Paul. I’m not going to fucking St. Paul!
    The Brother and the nurses circle Billy, and when they come too close, he swings the candelabra and hollers all the louder and Duncan imagines his voice echoing out into the night and carrying all the way to Stockholdt. Fuck you, Billy says and swings the candelabra at a nurse who steps toward him. Fuck you, Billy says, you ass-wipe. You pissing asswipe fuck SON OF A BITCH!
    The nurse with the cut over his brow is intent on getting Billy now, and the others seem tired and eager to have this over with. Duncan knows they no longer see a small, sick boy before them, and it is just a matter of time before they rush him. If they grab him, they’ll disconnect his shoulder, they’ll snap his collarbone, they’llfracture his arm, they’ll crack his ribs and shatter his spine; the bone shards will pierce his lungs and his heart: He’ll implode. They’ll break him.
    Duncan imagines all the small, fragile, tender bones of which Billy’s body is made, shattering into a thousand crystalline pieces and, in the reverse of the glass window, exploding out into the night and scattering upon the snow.
    Don’t touch him, Duncan screams. You’ll hurt him!
    Father Toibin holds Duncan tightly as the Brother and two nurses rush Billy. It’s all right, Duncan, Father Toibin says. It’s all right. They know to be gentle.
    Billy swings the candelabra and it slips from his hands and arcs, rotating through the air like a glittering guillotine, gleaming bronze, before striking the Brother, who utters a muffled grunt and wraps Billy up in his arms, and then all four tumble to the floor with such violence that the boards shudder with the impact.
    Standing in the shadows beyond Billy’s bed, in the Home’s hospice, Duncan listens to the furtive noises of the night all around him, the creaks and groans and abrupt muffled cracks as