I flinched at the mention of the Devil, dropping my pencil in the process.
“Is that why she hasn’t been to mass?” my mother asked. I reached down to retrieve the pencil, sliding off my chair and crawling under the table. “Augustus, sit still.”
I abandoned the pencil and climbed back onto the chair as the woman said, “That’s right. Embarrassed, no doubt. Horrified. I would be too. A daughter like that? It’s just not right! That poor child!”
“It’s awful,” my mother agreed, reaching to wipe the dribble off Auden’s chin, “we must protect our children and keep the Devil far, far away.”
I winced and shifted in my seat. For two women who claimed to worship God, they sure seemed to talk about the Devil more than Him.
Noticing my unease, the black-haired woman studied me for a long moment before suggesting, “Augustus, sweetie, why don’t you go play with some of the other children while Mummy and I talk?”
The suggestion was so mortifying that I deigned to respond. It was not that I did notlikethe other children. There were some I played with at school, joining a game of hide and seek or a round of handball. But, if given the option to approach strangers or sit alone drawing, I would always choose the latter. I preferred my own company—other people did not always act the way I wanted them to. It was easier to be alone rather than learn to contain them.
“It’s alright,” my mother said, fingers gently raking through my curls, “he likes to stick by me when there are lots of strangers around.”
“Ah, a little bit of a Mumma’s boy, is he?”
“A little bit, yes,” my mother mused.
I finished colouring while they chatted away, their conversation turning to other women in their circle, some whosehusbands were cheating on them, some who hadn’t attended a recent wedding, and some who they simply did not like.
Their voices became senseless muttering as my mind fixated on which colours to select for different sections of the drawing. I wanted the water to be blue, but I needed a darker shade in the deeper part of the river and a lighter one where John the Baptist stood with Jesus. Once satisfied, I held up the paper to my mother.
A small smile spread across her face as she examined it. You could never quite predict what reaction you would get, what mood she would be in, so it was a relief to receive her approval. She leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and told me to draw on the other side of the paper.
“How is the little one doing?” the woman asked, her gaze settling on Auden who watched me draw from our mother’s lap.
“Oh,” my mother’s smile faded, “I don’t know…it’s hard to tell. He’s a good boy, but…”
“But?”
“Well,” my mother lowered her voice, and I strained to hear her over the sound of chatter all around us, “he’s not really… meeting any of his milestones. He doesn’t respond to his name, won’t look me in the eye. He won’t evensmile. I’m worried. I don’t know if he’s comfortable, if he’s sick, if he even… if he even likes me.”
“Oh, sweetie, all children are different,” the woman said gently. “My second was a lot slower than my first.”
“I know. I just…I feel like he’sreallybehind.”
“If you’re really worried,” the woman said, placing a hand over my mother’s, “attend mass more regularly and pray for God’s guidance. Trust in Him. Only he can help you and your beautiful little boy.”
My mother did pray for God’s guidance, but it was the Devil who answered.
CHAPTER THREE
Church became our home every Sunday.
Rain drummed against the rooftop, flashes of lightning illuminating the stained-glass windows as Father Andrej addressed the morning congregation. I sat in between my parents, picking the lint off my charcoal trousers as candlelight flickered with every gust of wind sneaking in with a late parishioner.
“Psalms 9:17 warns thatthe wicked go down tothe realm of the dead. And in Matthew 25:46, the wicked are condemned to eternal punishment while the righteous go to eternal life with our Heavenly Father.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, struggling to fend off the yawn that had been lingering since the moment I sat down. The last thing I, at six years old, wanted to do was endure a lecture about Hell.
Auden had grown restless, too. He was nearing two years old, recently mastering the art of walking. A late walker, my mother said, but he’d gotten there in the end. Being trapped in mymother’s arms was torture when he had a new found skill to refine.
“Sin, no matter how small, is sin,” Father Andrej went on. “And without God’s guidance, even the smallest of sins condemn us toHell.”
A flash of lightning lit up the room, roaring thunder following close behind. The rain fell harder, and an altar boy handed the priest a microphone to prevent his voice from being drowned out.
“And so, Mark 9:13 saysif your hand causes youto stumble, cut it off.” Father Andrej’s voice was as dark and brooding as the clouds that rolled above us, shedding rain with unyielding force. “It is better for you to enter life maimed than with two hands into Hell.”
