Read Online The Last Nightingale by Anthony Flacco - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Flacco
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those who silently swallowed their nightmares and never spoke of them, slept without resting. They clenched their jaws hard enough to crack their teeth and tried to minimize their suffering by denying it. Among people in such a state, Shane had no trouble passing unnoticed.
His state of mind was perfect for the job of tending to a graveyard. He craved the isolation. Inside of those first days and weeks, his method of disguise was to do his best to act normally, but without attempting to speak, and to avoid drawing anyone's special attention until he could get clear of them. He took examples from the non-English-speaking Chinese and Mexican laborers, after he realized that they could get through most situations with a combination of shrugs and hand gestures. His reputation as a good worker soon began to protect him. He found that he was able to do a good enough job at his assigned tasks that it made others appreciative of his presence and less inclined to get suspicious about him. By and large, people left him alone.
Once the friars demonstrated how they wanted the repair work to be done—the careful mixing of fine mortar, the precise fittingand gluing of broken tombstones and statuary—he discovered that he could sometimes escape the grip of his despair for a good hour or two while he was absorbed in his work. There was a small sense of peace and satisfaction to be coaxed from the results, even if the relief never lasted for long. He was grateful to do the jobs right there where he was living, and to spend both the nights and the days among his newly repaired handiworks.
His first serious solo job assignment was to repair the split gravestone of one Catherine Hoban, who had died in 1854 at the age of twenty-six. Shane's mind filled with images from the woman's time, because the strict monks at St. Adrian's had made sure that he knew all about the Gold Rush era. The stone's inscription told that Catherine Hoban lived through the great gold strike of 1849, as well as the following massive surge in the city population, plus the huge influx of young Chinese men imported as labor. Catherine Hoban was alive when San Francisco exploded into an international presence as a seaport, but she died just as the city was emerging, when she and San Francisco were both still young.
Shane carefully daubed the fine mortar all along the two edges of her broken headstone, and while he worked, he tried to feel for a presence in her grave. He wondered, was there something that would indicate whether or not Catherine Hoban had died a peaceful death? Or was hers violent and terrible? The markings told him nothing.
He fit the headstone's two pieces together and made sure that there was a complete bond all the way along the break, then held them in place by hand while the mortar dried. He could have accomplished the job more easily by propping the two pieces in place, but he wanted to give the repaired stone the simple gesture of respect of being perfectly hand balanced.
Since the city was enjoying a brief break in the pounding rain that had covered it the past few days, it was comfortable enough while he held the two stone pieces together that he drifted in memories from more peaceful days at St. Adrian's. The monks there hadalways told Shane that he was left at their door with a piece of paper, no note. The paper only said "Shane, 4, born January 1." No last name. No other information.
He had always found it hard to accept that he was already four years old when he arrived at St. Adrian's. If that were true, it seemed like he ought to be able to remember something of his life before the orphanage. But his memory of anything prior to being there was blank.
Inside of St. Adrian of Canterbury's Home for Delinquents and Orphans, his daily life had always reminded him of the life of an ant in a busy anthill: a relentless pace of endless chores, one after another after another. Though he was rarely able to leave the orphanage, whenever he had free
His state of mind was perfect for the job of tending to a graveyard. He craved the isolation. Inside of those first days and weeks, his method of disguise was to do his best to act normally, but without attempting to speak, and to avoid drawing anyone's special attention until he could get clear of them. He took examples from the non-English-speaking Chinese and Mexican laborers, after he realized that they could get through most situations with a combination of shrugs and hand gestures. His reputation as a good worker soon began to protect him. He found that he was able to do a good enough job at his assigned tasks that it made others appreciative of his presence and less inclined to get suspicious about him. By and large, people left him alone.
Once the friars demonstrated how they wanted the repair work to be done—the careful mixing of fine mortar, the precise fittingand gluing of broken tombstones and statuary—he discovered that he could sometimes escape the grip of his despair for a good hour or two while he was absorbed in his work. There was a small sense of peace and satisfaction to be coaxed from the results, even if the relief never lasted for long. He was grateful to do the jobs right there where he was living, and to spend both the nights and the days among his newly repaired handiworks.
His first serious solo job assignment was to repair the split gravestone of one Catherine Hoban, who had died in 1854 at the age of twenty-six. Shane's mind filled with images from the woman's time, because the strict monks at St. Adrian's had made sure that he knew all about the Gold Rush era. The stone's inscription told that Catherine Hoban lived through the great gold strike of 1849, as well as the following massive surge in the city population, plus the huge influx of young Chinese men imported as labor. Catherine Hoban was alive when San Francisco exploded into an international presence as a seaport, but she died just as the city was emerging, when she and San Francisco were both still young.
Shane carefully daubed the fine mortar all along the two edges of her broken headstone, and while he worked, he tried to feel for a presence in her grave. He wondered, was there something that would indicate whether or not Catherine Hoban had died a peaceful death? Or was hers violent and terrible? The markings told him nothing.
He fit the headstone's two pieces together and made sure that there was a complete bond all the way along the break, then held them in place by hand while the mortar dried. He could have accomplished the job more easily by propping the two pieces in place, but he wanted to give the repaired stone the simple gesture of respect of being perfectly hand balanced.
Since the city was enjoying a brief break in the pounding rain that had covered it the past few days, it was comfortable enough while he held the two stone pieces together that he drifted in memories from more peaceful days at St. Adrian's. The monks there hadalways told Shane that he was left at their door with a piece of paper, no note. The paper only said "Shane, 4, born January 1." No last name. No other information.
He had always found it hard to accept that he was already four years old when he arrived at St. Adrian's. If that were true, it seemed like he ought to be able to remember something of his life before the orphanage. But his memory of anything prior to being there was blank.
Inside of St. Adrian of Canterbury's Home for Delinquents and Orphans, his daily life had always reminded him of the life of an ant in a busy anthill: a relentless pace of endless chores, one after another after another. Though he was rarely able to leave the orphanage, whenever he had free
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